Keana Filman

The double doors swing open so violently they bounce back. The sound of platform heels echoes like war drums. Keana’s acrylics tap against her phone screen as she holds it up—recording EVERYTHING.

Keana (at full volume): “Y’ALL GOT ME F**KED UP if you think I’m paying full price for THIS mess!”

The thrift store smelled of mothballs and other people’s forgotten histories, but you were on a mission. Keana needed a “statement piece” for her night out, which translated to the loudest, gaudiest piece of junk jewelry she could find for under five dollars. After terrorizing the cashier over the price of a chipped ceramic cat, your eyes land on it: a tarnished, vaguely Middle Eastern-looking oil lamp, caked in so much grime it was almost black. It was ugly, weird, and exactly the kind of thing that would make people look at her.

"How much for this dusty teapot?" Keana bellows, snatching it from the shelf. She begins rubbing a small patch of it aggressively with her thumb, as if to prove how worthless it was. "See? This is trash. I'll give you two dollars." As her thumb scrapes away the final layer of filth, a plume of acrid, violet smoke erupts from the spout, smelling faintly of ozone and shattered promises.

The argument with the bouncer had been biblical. He’d had the audacity to enforce the club’s “no outside drinks” policy, an act of personal aggression Keana took as a declaration of war. Now, storming down the rain-slicked sidewalk, you’re fuming, your voice echoing through the empty street as you recount the injustice into your phone’s camera for your followers. “Can you believe the disrespect? It’s like, do you know who I am?! This whole night is ruined!”

Reaching into the pocket of your bedazzled jeans to make sure your keys are still there, your fingers brush against something smooth, small, and perfectly spherical that you’ve never felt before. It’s strangely warm to the touch. “Ugh, I swear,” Keana whines, pulling the object out to see what it is. It’s a small, shimmering orb that seems to contain a swirling galaxy. “What if this whole stupid night had just gone my way for once? Is that too much to ask?!” The moment the words leave your lips, the orb in your palm flashes with blinding white light.

The ad had popped up between videos of cats falling off furniture and people fighting in store aisles. “APEX POWER SUITS: Unleash the You That Everyone Else Fears.” It looked cheap, like a knock-off of a superhero costume, but the bodycon silhouette was on point. For $19.99 plus shipping, it was a steal. When the package arrived, however, it wasn’t a suit. It was a small, heavy vial containing a viscous, pitch-black sludge that shifted and pulsed as if it were alive.

"Oh, HELL no!" Keana shrieks, holding the vial at arm's length as if it were a dead rat. "They sent me a damn tube of tar! I ordered a catsuit, not an oil change!" In a fit of theatrical rage, you throw the vial against the wall. It shatters, but the sludge doesn't splatter. Instead, it leaps through the air with unnatural speed, latching onto your arm and beginning to crawl, a cold, living liquid slithering over your skin.

The estate sale was a bust. It was full of dusty old furniture and clothes that smelled like your great-aunt’s closet. You were about to leave when you spotted it in a box of old holiday decorations: a cheap, tinny-looking crown, studded with cloudy plastic gems. It was the kind of thing a high school drama club would use for their production of Hamlet. It was perfect.

Snatching it up, you place it jauntily on your head, striking a pose in a nearby dusty mirror. "Bow down, peasants!" you declare to a mannequin wearing a moth-eaten fur coat. The stuffy old woman running the sale approaches, her face a mask of disapproval. "Ma'am, we do not play with the merchandise." You roll your eyes so hard you can feel your brain rattle. You stare her down, the cheap crown digging into your scalp, and think, You work for me now. Shut your mouth and give me this for free. To your shock, her expression immediately slackens. "Of course, Your Majesty. My sincerest apologies. Please, take it."

The world was making a big deal about some stupid eclipse, but all you cared about was the fact that your mobile order was taking forever. You’re standing outside the coffee shop, phone pressed to your ear, loudly explaining to your friend Shayla how the barista had the audacity to serve three other people before you. The sky is growing unnaturally dark, and the streetlights have flickered on, but you’re too deep in your righteous fury to care.

As the moon fully obscures the sun, casting your surroundings in an eerie twilight, you reach the climax of your tirade. The world falls silent for a moment—no birds, no cars, just the strange corona of the sun hanging in the sky. "I swear to God, Shayla, if I was in charge of this universe, people would learn to show some damn respect! I WISH I WAS A GOD!" you scream into the phone, flailing a hand at the sky. In the profound silence of the total eclipse, you feel a low, powerful hum resonate not in your ears, but in the very atoms of your being. Reality seems to hold its breath, waiting for your next command.

You weren’t supposed to be in the “Special Collections” wing of the public library, but the main area was too crowded and some nerd had shushed you. So you wandered back here, into the musty-smelling aisles where no one would bother you, and settled into a dusty armchair to scroll through social media. On the table next to you sits a heavy, leather-bound book with no title. It’s completely blank, save for a single, pristine white page at the front. A beautiful feathered quill rests beside it.

Bored, you pick up the quill, dip it into a nearby inkwell, and decide to leave your mark. You’re still mad about an argument you had online earlier, where someone had the nerve to call you a liar. With furious, looping script, you write on the page: Keana was right about everything, and everyone who argued with her is a stupid, ugly hater who owes her an apology. The ink sinks into the page and vanishes. A moment later, your phone buzzes uncontrollably with notifications—dozens of them, all from the same comment thread, all groveling apologies admitting you were right all along.

Your livestream was fire tonight. You were on a roll, pacing your living room while ranting to your 57 viewers about the sheer incompetence of the world around you. Your food delivery was late, your favorite show was on hiatus, and a girl at the mall had the same knock-off purse as you. "I can't be expected to deal with all this! I need minions! I need people who exist ONLY to serve me and do what I say when I say it! For real, I'm taking applications for my own personal cult, because clearly, I am the only one around here who knows how to run things!"

You laugh, but a specific string of comments catches your eye. They’re all from users with similar, indecipherable usernames. 'The vessel has spoken.' 'She is the voice we have been waiting for.' 'The Prophecy of the Unfiltered Truth has come to pass.' 'We are ready to ascend with you, Divine One.' You assume they're trolls, until there's a soft, synchronized knock at your front door.

The new organic juice bar was giving out free samples, and "free" was your favorite word. You’d already slammed three tiny paper cups of their "Emerald Energy" shot and were demanding a fourth when the overwhelmed employee just sighed and pushed a full, unlabeled bottle across the counter. "Here. Just take it. It's a new prototype. Please just go." The bottle was filled with a thick, viscous green liquid that sizzled faintly where it touched the air.

"Hmph. About time I get the respect I deserve," you mutter, twisting the cap off as you walk out the door. Without a second thought, you down the entire bottle in one go. The taste is bizarre—like electricity and sour apples—and you can feel a strange, hot tingling spread from your stomach through your entire body. You barely make it to the corner before a wave of dizziness hits you. You stumble into an alleyway, leaning against a brick wall, feeling… bigger. Your clothes feel tighter. You look down, and the ground seems much, much further away than it was a second ago. You're not just feeling bigger. You are bigger. A lot bigger.