Cursed grocery store.

Kyle had been dreading this day.

Ever since the cyborg attack at the grocery store, he'd done everything in his power to avoid coming back. He and his mom had developed an unspoken rotation for errands, but after skipping his last two turns and faking a sore throat once, there was no more wriggling out. This morning, Nora Carter had simply tossed him the grocery list with a knowing glance.

"You're up," she said, without even looking at him. "And don't come back with just protein bars and energy drinks."

So here he was, walking slowly down the cracked sidewalk, his hoodie unzipped and flapping gently in the summer breeze. The sky above was a harsh, brilliant blue. Birds chirped like everything was normal.

But Kyle's nerves told him otherwise.

Every step closer to the store made his chest tighter. He scanned alleyways, rooftops, reflective windows—searching for anything out of place. Anything metallic. Anything that might hint at another inhuman ambush.

It was irrational, he told himself. The cyborg had been a freak event. The odds of lightning striking twice in the same spot—literally—had to be microscopic. Still, his mind spun with worst-case scenarios. Enhanced as it was now, his brain could simulate hundreds of scenarios per second. Most ended in blood.

He arrived at the grocery store and paused outside, his hand hovering above the door handle. The automatic glass doors reflected a tall boy with a slim, toned build and a mop of slightly disheveled brown hair. His white shirt clung to his chest, faintly tracing the lean muscle he'd carved through hours of secret martial arts training. His eyes—once a plain grayish-blue—now shimmered a few shades deeper. Almost unnatural.

He stepped inside.

The store was nearly empty. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sterile glow on the narrow aisles. The only other people inside were the same cashier—still wearing that wary expression and keeping his old shotgun just below the counter—and a girl.

But not just any girl.

She stood by the register with a small tote bag slung over one shoulder and a half-full shopping basket in hand. Her red hair spilled down her back in soft, fiery waves, a striking contrast to the neutral tones of the store. It wasn't dyed red—no. It had that rare natural sheen, like copper under sunlight. Her skin was pale, almost luminous, and her eyes—

Brown.

Warm, curious, and—wait—looking directly at him.

Kyle froze for half a second, startled not just by her beauty but by the fact that her attention had locked onto him so quickly. And then lingered.

There was a strange grace to the way she stood—effortlessly upright, chin slightly tilted. Something about her made her look… elevated, as though she'd been born into some distant, velvet-draped world of chandeliers and foreign dignitaries. She looked like she didn't belong in a dusty local grocery store.

For a moment, neither of them moved. She stood still with one item in hand, and he hadn't yet reached for a basket. Their eyes had tangled, and Kyle felt his mental process slow—not stop, but definitely hesitate. Like his subconscious was scanning her for threat, beauty, and meaning all at once.

He quickly looked away, almost scolding himself.

Focus, Kyle. You're here for groceries, not fairy tales.

He turned toward the produce aisle, trying to act natural, but part of his attention still hovered near her. He could feel her eyes flicker back to him every so often, just as his own kept drifting toward her reflection in the glass refrigerator doors. Maybe she was admiring him too. Maybe his lean form under the thin shirt caught her attention, or the deep blue of his eyes. Or maybe she thought he looked suspicious.

He could live with that.

Kyle was just turning toward the drinks section when something outside caught his eye.

It wasn't movement that alarmed him—it was the pattern of movement.

Six figures, clad in tactical black gear, crouched behind a delivery truck across the street. Their positions were tight, military-precise. They moved like a team. One peeked around the truck and gestured with a rapid flurry of hand signs.

Kyle understood every one of them.

"Two on flank. Three inside, clear left. Eyes on target."

His mind snapped into high alert. Every nerve ending burned awake. These weren't random thieves or rent-a-cops. They were professionals. Their gear wasn't standard police either—it was something in between military spec and black-ops tactical. Faces covered. Weapons compact. No visible insignias.

And they were heading for this store, was this DAMMED grocery store cursed?