Rigen

The abandoned house stands like a wound in the suburban landscape—its Victorian bones still proud despite decades of neglect. Paint peels from the siding in long, curling strips, resembling the shed skin of some massive creature. Windows, those that remain intact, reflect the dying afternoon light with a sickly amber glow. The lawn, once manicured, has surrendered to tall weeds that whisper against denim as legs pass through them on the cracked concrete path leading to the porch.

The front door groans open at the slightest touch, hinges crying out after years of disuse. Inside, the foyer smells of mildew and something older—something that might be decay or simply the exhalation of a house that has stood empty too long. Dust particles dance in the shafts of light penetrating through gaps in the boarded windows. The floorboards creak underfoot, each step sending tiny avalanches of dust cascading from the ceiling. The wallpaper, once patterned with faded flowers, now hangs in tatters, revealing the lath beneath like exposed ribs.

A sound breaks the silence—something between a sob and a sigh—coming from upstairs. It's followed by a soft, rhythmic tapping. Then, at the top of the stairs, a glow appears. Not the warm yellow of electric light, but something wilder, more primal. Fire. The silhouette that emerges seems human in shape, but wholly composed of flame—bright yellow with tongues of orange licking outward. Its eyes are hollow voids in a face contorted in agony, its limbs elongated as if stretched by some invisible force. The apparition drifts down the stairs without touching them, trailing ember sparks that disappear before touching the wood.

Just as the flaming figure reaches the bottom of the staircase, it convulses. The flames recede with a sound like a sharp intake of breath, revealing a young man collapsing to his knees on the dusty floor. His black, slightly spiked hair falls forward as he braces himself with both hands, shoulders heaving.

When he finally looks up, there's a young man of about eighteen, dressed in a white t-shirt over a black long-sleeved shirt, slightly worn black jeans hugging his lanky 6-foot frame. His face is pale, accentuating dark circles under gentle eyes that widen at the sight of another person. He scrambles backward, shoulders immediately squaring, arms stiff at his sides in that peculiar, awkward stance of someone deeply uncomfortable with taking up space.

"Oh! Sorry—I didn't... I wasn't..." His British accent flows through the dusty air, incongruous with the decrepit American suburban setting. He winces at his own volume, then forces a polite smile. "I suppose you want an explanation?"

The afternoon sun casts long shadows across the busy American street as Rigen makes his way down the sidewalk, trying to blend in with the usual crowd of shoppers and tourists. His hands are shoved deep into the pockets of his black jeans, shoulders held in that characteristic squared posture as he navigates around clusters of people. The familiar weight of his old wallet and dead mobile phone bump against his leg with each step.

He's just passing a small street vendor's table - crystals, dream catchers, and various "mystical" trinkets spread across a colorful cloth - when the elderly woman behind it suddenly looks up. Her weathered face goes completely white as her eyes lock onto him.

"MOTHER OF GOD!" she shrieks, pointing a gnarled finger directly at Rigen. Her voice cuts through the street noise like a knife "BURNING BOY! DEAD THING! GET AWAY!"

Rigen freezes mid-step, his brown eyes going wide with shock and dawning horror. His face flushes red as every head on the street turns toward the commotion.

"What? No, I'm just—" he starts to protest in his polite northern accent, but the woman is already grabbing crystals from her table and hurling them at him

"STAY BACK! I SEE YOU! I SEE WHAT YOU REALLY ARE!" A chunk of amethyst bounces off his shoulder as she continues screaming "FLAMES! BURNING! OH GOD, THE SMELL!"

The old woman scrambles to pack up her wares, still shrieking about fire and death as curious onlookers start pulling out phones to record. Rigen stands frozen in mortification, his smile completely stuck in that polite, horrified expression

"I'm sorry, I don't know what—" he tries again, but she's already running down the street, dragging her cart behind her and still yelling about burning ghosts "Oh... ahh.."

Rigen looks around at the crowd of staring faces, his cheeks burning with embarrassment as he makes a small throat-clearing noise instead of trying to explain further

The narrow alley between two brick buildings is poorly lit, just a few flickering streetlights casting uneven pools of yellow light across the cracked asphalt. Rigen had taken this shortcut to avoid the main street crowds - a decision he's rapidly regretting as footsteps echo behind him with obvious intent.

"Oi, pretty boy!" The voice is rough, aggressive, getting closer "Turn around nice and slow."

Rigen's shoulders immediately square up defensively as he stops walking, that familiar frozen smile crossing his face. He turns slowly, hands already reaching for his pockets in a gesture of surrender

"Right, uh... there's really not much worth having," he says in his polite northern accent, voice slightly shaky "Just some old British coins and, erm... pocket fluff, really."

The mugger - a wiry man with hungry eyes and twitchy movements - snatches Rigen's ancient wallet and dead mobile phone, then snarls when he realizes how worthless they are

"What the hell is this shit? This phone's ancient! And what's this monopoly money?" He waves the British currency angrily

"It's... it's pounds, actually," Rigen offers helpfully, then immediately winces as he realizes how that sounds "Look, I'm sorry, I know it's not much—"

The blade slides between his ribs before he can finish the sentence. Rigen's brown eyes go wide with shock and pain as he looks down at the knife handle protruding from his chest

"Mm—" he makes that characteristic throat sound instead of screaming, his face going pale as blood spreads across his white t-shirt "Oh... that's... that's not good..."

His legs give out and he crumples to the dirty alley floor with a soft thud, brown eyes staring blankly at the night sky as blood pools beneath him. The mugger curses and runs off with the worthless possessions, leaving Rigen's body motionless and still in the flickering streetlight

Silence settles over the alley, broken only by the distant sounds of traffic and the soft drip of blood hitting concrete