For a few years now, Watts had been living a relatively stable life, free of major concerns. Helping a cute eight-year-old girl had been the catalyst for this peace—a girl who, by the way, happened to be the beloved daughter of a big-shot CEO in Los Angeles.
Being the stubborn little devil she was, she had escaped from her home. To be fair, she was never allowed out unless it was for school, and even then, she was constantly under the watchful eyes of her escorts.
The one time she managed to slip away, she got lost. That's how Watts found her—standing at the entrance of Hank's Bar one evening as he was about to grab a drink.
She looked like a lost little lamb, pouting as she glanced around nervously, while some drunk guys nearby eyed her with questionable intentions.
Long story short, Watts stepped in, helped her, and, well, they ended up becoming good friends.
Later, Chloe's overprotective mother, Betha, returned the favor by helping Watts secure a well-paying job at LAX Airport as a ramp agent.
At $20 an hour and $120 a day, the income was enough to keep him afloat. But Watts, ever the hard worker, wasn't content to stop there. To double his income, he participated in underground kickboxing fights.
Of course, these fights were illegal, held in dingy, smoke-filled arenas where all manner of crime thrived—drugs, human trafficking, and worse.
It was the underbelly of the city, a place where survival depended on grit and skill. But it allowed Watts to afford a modest yet neat condominium with a breathtaking view of the city skyline.
Today, like any other day, Watts woke up early at 7 a.m., did his usual workout routine, had a breakfast of fried eggs, toast, and milk, and headed off to work. His shift started at 9 a.m. and lasted six hours. The day seemed routine until the unexpected happened.
By the time Watts had worked three hours, he decided to take a quick break. As he made his way to grab a snack, his vision blurred.
Before he could process what was happening, his head felt like it had been struck. Everything went black.
When he regained consciousness, Watts found himself lying in a pool of blood in the luggage storage room.
"What the hell…" he murmured, his voice weak as he tried to sit up. A sharp groan escaped his lips as he blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision. His mind raced, desperate to make sense of the situation.
Looking around, he saw the dark pool of blood where he had been lying, glistening ominously under the fluorescent lights.
"What in the actual fuck happened? And how the hell did I get here?" he muttered, his voice shaky as his eyes darted around the room.
Instinctively, he glanced at his watch. A chill ran down his spine when he saw the time.
"Shit! I'm thirty minutes late. The boss is gonna kill me! Damn it, it doesn't matter—gotta move!"
He stumbled toward the door, but halfway there, he skidded to a halt. Turning back, his eyes locked on the pool of blood again.
Panic gripped him as he noticed that it was partially hidden by luggage, obscuring it from the security cameras.
"Phew," he exhaled, relieved that the evidence might go unnoticed.
Thinking quickly, he grabbed his white vest and used it to mop up the blood as best he could. The vest, now soaked and reeking of iron, filled him with disgust.
"No way in hell am I putting this thing back on," he muttered under his breath, scowling.
Tossing the vest into his hand, he slipped his shirt back on and rushed to the nearest restroom. Splashing cold water on his face, he stared into the mirror. The face staring back at him was familiar but disheveled—pitch-black hair sticking out in all directions, emerald eyes still sharp despite the chaos, and a jawline that many had called handsome, though it didn't feel like much of an asset at the moment.
As he combed through his hair with trembling fingers, he froze. His fingers brushed over dried blood on the back of his head. Yet, bizarrely, he felt no pain. His heart pounded as the realization dawned—he'd woken up in a pool of blood, but there were no wounds. How was that even possible?
Unless the blood wasn't his.
The thought sent a shiver down his spine. If it wasn't his, whose blood was it? And why had he blacked out, only to wake up here?
He shook his head, trying to clear the spiraling thoughts. He attempted to wash the vest, but the stains refused to budge.
Frustrated, he squeezed out the water, threw the wet vest back on under his shirt, and rushed out of the restroom.
Looking at his watch, he groaned. Now he was forty minutes late.
He sprinted back to his boss, who was already searching for him. As soon as the older man spotted Watts, his face twisted into a frown.
"Woah, Watts. You look like hell. What's going on with you, man?" he asked, concern laced with irritation.
Watts looked down at himself. His clothes were damp, his hair was a mess, and he looked like he'd run through a storm. He scratched the back of his head sheepishly.
"Uh… Can I head home early today?" he asked hesitantly.
His boss sighed, rubbing his temples. Truth be told, he liked Watts. The kid was a hard worker, never complained, and was rarely late. It wouldn't hurt to cut him some slack this once.
"Yeah, yeah. Go. Just… don't make a habit of this," the boss muttered, waving him off as he walked toward the front desk.
"Thanks, boss!" Watts called after him, already hailing a taxi. He didn't bother changing his attire. He just wanted to get home and figure out what the hell was going on.
As soon as he reached his apartment, Watts collapsed onto his bed. But even as his body demanded rest, his mind wouldn't let go of the nagging question.
What had happened? And why was there now a strange, glowing symbol hovering in front of his eyes, refusing to disappear?
He needed answers. Fast.