Contemplation

Elias stood froozen, his brain feverishly attempting to reboot. His palms still tingled, with phantom warmth lingering where the golden glow had come to life.

A healing touch? A girl with electric eyes? And Leo's mysterious remarks about 'listening to the city?' What was he expected to do, rub his ear against a lamppost and pray for heavenly guidance?

He took a deep breath and looked around, half expecting the cosmos to send him another sign—perhaps a glowing owl or a celestial billboard reading WELCOME TO THE TWILIGHT ZONE, ELIAS.

Instead, the only thing moving was a rat dragging a whole slice of pizza into the darkness.

His legs weren't exactly cooperating, but at least the city had a sense of time. A yellow cab drove at him, its headlights piercing the night. He lifted his hand on autopilot, and with a screech of brakes—probably more dramatic than necessary—it came to a halt alongside him.

The driver peered at him through the window. "You getting in or just standing there like you saw a ghost?"

Elias blinked. Ghosts would be easier to explain at this point.

Elias climbed into the backseat, breathing as the cab's typical musty aroma enveloped him like an old, questionable blanket. It wasn't comfortable, but after tonight, it seemed weirdly comforting.

"West 70th, just off Amsterdam," he said, barely recognizing his own voice. It sounded distant, like it belonged to someone else. Someone still stuck in that alley, witnessing the unbelievable unfold.

The cab lurched into motion, weaving through the city's late-night chaos. Outside, New York flickered past in streaks of neon and shadow. Brearley's darkened windows loomed like hollow eyes, staring at him in silent judgment. You think you've seen everything? they seemed to whisper. Think again.

Then came the townhouses on East End Avenue, which were grand, manicured, and so immaculate that even their wrought-iron gates were haughty.

Elias has previously stitched up billionaires, men who could afford entire hospital wings but complained about the co-pay. Tonight, however, wealth was meaningless. No amount of money could justify what he had witnessed.

The cab turned onto Broadway, and the dazzling lights of the Beacon Theatre assaulted his retinas. Tourists stumbled out, tipsy and laughing, as if the world had not suddenly shifted on its axis.

Zabar's flew by next, its typical siren call of fresh bread and smoked salmon scarcely audible. Normally, the notion of a warm bagel caused his stomach to growl. Tonight, he could only taste the metallic tang of blood, both real and impossible.

He let his head rest on the seat, watching the city go by while his mind remained trapped in that alley. Leo's words hummed in his head like a song he couldn't stop hearing:

"Open your eyes, Elias. Open your mind. Listen to the city… Be open to every possibility, no matter how implausible they appear."

Elias sighed, running a hand down his face. Right. Sure. I'll get right on that—just as soon as I figure out how to un-see a miracle.

The driver looked at him through the rearview mirror. "Long night, son?"

"You have no idea."

The cab lurched to a stop in front of his five-story brownstone, which had once been grand but now appeared to have given up trying. Elias handed the driver some money and left a hefty tip—because, hey, at least one person deserved a good night.

He climbed the familiar steps to his third-floor flat, each creak beneath his feet usually providing a reassuring welcome home. Tonight, they simply sounded like his nerves—uneven and on edge.

He missed twice when jabbing his key at the lock before eventually opening the door. The apartment welcomed him with its usual orderly chaos—walls lined with overstuffed bookcases, a sofa that had seen better days, and a TV that only function was to collect dust. Cozy. Cramped. Home.

His keys clattered on the table, breaking the silence—just as a scent struck him in the face. Coppery. Thick. Wrong.

He looked down. Oh. His jacket and hands were coated in dried blood. Alex's blood.

"Fantastic," he muttered.

He sighs and trudges to the bathroom. The mirror reflected a man who appeared to have been in a horror film, but there had been no makeup crew involved.

He turned on the faucet and dipped his hands into the stream. The water ran cold, then warm, then… pink.

He scrubbed. And scrubbed. And scrubbed.

Soap and blood mixed into a foamy swirl that spiraled down the drain like something from a crime documentary. His skin ached from the exertion, yet the aroma clung stubbornly to him, like an uninvited houseguest.

And yet, no amount of scrubbing could remove the real problem—the image that kept repeating itself in his thoughts.

Elias sighed and met his own gaze in the mirror.

"Yeah. Totally normal night."

Elias took off his jacket, the cloth clinging to him like it had developed separation anxiety. It landed on the floor with a wet squish, causing his stomach to turn.

His shirt wasn't much better—crimson, greasy, and soiled. He jerked it over his head and dropped it next to the jacket.

He stepped under the shower. The water rushed over him, turning pink as it swirled down the drain. Blood. Sweat. City grime. New York really knew how to leave its mark.

He scrubbed till his skin tingled, but no amount of hot water could wash away the unease that lurked deep within his gut.

He put on an old pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt that was so faded it no longer had a personality, allowing the familiar, worn fabric to comfort him. It was a minor victory.

He felt fatigued and drained, but his mind wasn't getting the memo. Instead, it buzzed like a caffeinated intern, going over everything that had happened and probing at the impossible.

Elias slumped into his chair and opened his laptop, the screen's frigid illumination sending harsh shadows across his face. The flat was peaceful except for the low hum of the fridge, which mocked him with its normalcy.

He cracked his knuckles and got to work, typing in the first thing that came to mind: Weird violent incidents NYC.

The results came in like a flood of bad decisions. Headlines blared about escalating crime, gang conflicts, and random street brawls that made the city feel like a gladiator arena.

Another stabbing in the Bronx. A brawl in Harlem. Three tourists fought over a bagel in Brooklyn?

Okay, maybe that last one was just New York being New York.

Still, nothing pointed clearly to what had occurred in that alley—the impossible part. Men have red eyes. The golden glow. The wound sealed itself shut like a magic trick with terrifyingly high stakes.

He grimaced and dived into the internet's odder corners, where people disputed whether pigeons were government spies.

Conspiracy blogs. Fringe forums. Posts littered with words like unexplained phenomenon and miraculous healing. Most of it was nonsense, but every so often, a post stood out—a whisper about bizarre attacks in other cities, victims who should've died but didn't, wounds vanishing like they'd never been there.

Coincidence? Maybe.

"Great," he murmured. "Either I'm losing my mind, or I've stumbled into some X-Files nonsense."

Okay. Time for the big guns.

Elias leaned back in his chair, ran a hand through his damp hair, and hovered his fingers over the keyboard, as if about to commit a dreadful act. He exhaled. This is ridiculous. But after what he had seen tonight, he was beyond ridiculous. He was deep in what the actual hell territory.

However, nothing could have prepared him for the pure humiliation of what he was about to type.

Glowing hands healing.

He hit enter and immediately regretted every decision that had brought him to this point.

The search results were just as he had feared. Articles on reiki energy healing promising to "align his chakras" (whatever that meant), forums debating whether anime protagonists could actually heal with light, and—because the internet was a lawless place—several links to superhero fan fiction, one of which contained a disturbing glowing-handed romance between a mutant and a werewolf.

Elias groaned and rubbed his face. I have a medical degree. I should not be here.

Fine. New approach.

Golden eyes.

Enter.

...Vampires.

So many vampires. Some were somber, some were dazzling, and some appeared to have the ability to steal souls with a single glance. A heavy, sinking feeling settled in his gut.

"If Leo turns out to be a vampire," he said quietly, "I am done with this night."

One last shot.

Electric blue eyes.

The page was loaded with images of Siberian Huskies and strangely intelligent-looking white cats. Several linkages point to a hereditary condition that causes blue eyes to look extremely brilliant. Fascinating, yes, but not quite "man summons golden healing light" level of explanation.

He flopped back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. The fan creaked overhead, spinning in slow, taunting circles, as if condemning his entire life.

"This is my life now," he grumbled. "I'm a doctor, and I'm Googling supernatural eye colors at two in the morning."

He shut down his laptop, the sudden darkness of the room pushing in on him. He wasn't getting anywhere. Perhaps sleep might help. Or, at the very least, it would provide a brief respite from this chaos.

He decided to try to sleep and shut down his racing mind for a few hours. He slipped into bed, the familiar warmth of his mattress and blankets providing only minor relief.

Sleep, however, would not come easy. He tossed and twisted, his thoughts returning to the events of the night, each memory more vivid and unpleasant than the last.

Finally, exhaustion pinned him down, and he fell into a restless sleep.

And then he was standing at the edge of the cliff. That cliff.

Beneath him stretched the same ocean of colors, but it was not the tranquil kind that he had seen before. This sea churned.

The water clashed violently, as if a hurricane raged from below. Flickers of red pulsed in the depths, like warning lights on a sinking ship—or worse, like the eerie glow he'd seen in the attacker's glare.

Then came the giants.

The collosal figures from his last dream were no longer just looming shadows. They had shape and form—presence. And they weren't just there.

They were fighting.

The golden one, the same figure that had before reached for him, blazed like a sun, each movement precise and decisive, like a warrior who had done this dance a thousand times.

Across from him, the shadowy entity with blood-red eyes struck with deadly accuracy, twisting the universe around it.

It wasn't simply a fight. It was an event. A cosmic brawl so violent, Elias half expected an announcer to start hyping the next round.

Then, he saw her. The girl from the park.

She stood at the very edge of the precipice, her figure etched against the swirling mayhem below.

The wind ruffled her clothes, tossing her hair over her face, but she didn't move. Those blue eyes—bright, sharp, as if they could see straight through him—were fixed on the combat happening below.

Elias barely had time to grasp the odd scene when she turned, her gaze drawn to him. Elias sure that she had been expecting him all along.

She spoke with an unusual tone. It didn't only ring throughout the vast dreamscape; it echoed in his bones like an antique bell tolling.

Find the others. They will guide you. They are scattered, hidden among you. Find them before it's too late...

And just like that, the dream began to unravel—colors blending together, the ground shifting beneath him.

"Wait, what? What others? Who are they?!" Elias shouted, but it was too late. She was already fading, her figure disappearing like mist in the morning sun.

Elias bolted upright, breathing as if he had just completed a marathon in his sleep. His heart pounded against his ribs, his T-shirt clung to him like he'd been drenched in a pool, and his breathing came in short, rapid bursts.

Fantastic. Nothing like waking up feeling like you just escaped a horror movie.

The first slivers of dawn filtered through the slats, throwing pale stripes over his room—It seemed as though the universe was attempting to be artistic about his insomnia.

He exhaled after dragging a palm down his face. It was all a dream, he told himself. Classic stress-related, trauma-fueled, overactive-imagination crap. This happens to surgeons all the time, right?

Except… yeah. No.

Because his instinct told him differently. The dream was not fading like a typical nightmare. It sat there, heavy and relentless, like an unwanted visitor who refused to take a hint.

A warning.

A very strange, very cryptic, and very unwelcome call to action.

He flopped back onto his pillow and stared at the ceiling.

"Great. Love that for me."