The Living Statue
This time, it didn’t look like a transfer. It looked like a storm.
A burst of light shot out from where their skin touched—not bright white, but a strange violet shimmer that rolled through the hangar. The Cleaners hit the ground. The windows of the Cessna shattered, spraying glass over my lap.
Holt tried to yank his hand away, but it wouldn’t move. His fingers looked glued to Malik’s arm.
“What are you doing?” Holt shouted, voice high with panic. “Take it from my son. Put it back inside me.”
“I am taking it from Logan,” Malik said, his voice layered, like more than one person was speaking. “I’m just not stopping there.”
“Then where is it going?” Holt gasped, dropping to his knees.
“I’m closing the loop,” Malik said. “You wanted freedom. You wanted a strong body. You wanted more time than anyone else. I’m giving you all of it at once.”
Lines of light crawled up Holt’s arm. Not dark this time, but bright, molten gold. They climbed his neck, his face, his chest.
“No,” Holt moaned. “Stop. I’ll pay you more. Ten million. A hundred.”
“Your money can’t touch this,” Malik whispered.
Holt’s skin began to harden—not the color of stone, but something glossy and unnatural, like polished metal. His mouth locked half open in a silent cry. His eyes stayed wide, pupils darting wildly.
He didn’t fall. He froze in place, kneeling on the wet ground, one hand reaching forward, his features carved into pure terror.
He was still breathing. I could see the rapid pulse in his neck.
“He’s… still in there?” I asked, stepping out of the plane on shaking legs.
“Yes,” Malik said, leaning against the landing gear to stay upright. “I gave him every signal. Every spark. All the Fire from Logan, all the pain from my mom, all the leftover pieces I’ve carried. Then I sealed his movement away.”
Malik turned to the Cleaners, who were scrambling to their feet, rifles half-raised, eyes wide.
“He can feel everything,” Malik said. “The rain on his face. The air on his skin. The beating of his own heart. All of it turned up beyond anything you can imagine. And he can’t move a muscle to escape it.”
The mercenaries looked from the boy to the kneeling statue that had once been their employer.
One of them slowly lowered his gun.
“We don’t get paid enough for this,” he muttered.
They backed away, climbed into the helicopter, and took off, leaving Holt alone in the mud.
The sound of the rotors faded into the rain.
I rushed to Malik. He was shivering, his lips pale.
“Is it over?” I asked.
“For Logan, yes,” Malik whispered. “The link is gone. Holt’s the one holding everything now.”
“And your mom?”
He managed a small, tired smile. “If I can reach her in time, she gets help. Real help. Not miracles. Science.”
I grabbed the duffel and helped him out of the hangar. The Porsche was useless. The plane was damaged.
“How do we get out?” Malik asked.
“We walk,” I said, lifting my camera. “And we upload.”
