The air inside the shack was thick with the stench of mildew, sweat, and something sharper—cheap liquor mixed with the acrid bite of burnt foil. Justin Reyes opened his eyes to the dim glow of morning, the wooden ceiling above him warped and cracked like an old wound. Cold air seeped through gaps in the walls, biting at his skin as he pushed off his tattered blanket and sat up.

"Morning, Grandma," he murmured, stretching his aching limbs.

A blur of movement—then pain.

The old shoe struck his face with a dull thump.

"You worthless little shit!" his grandmother slurred, her voice raw from years of chain-smoking. "You think waking up makes you a man? You ain't ever gonna make a living, boy! Just like your—" She cut herself off, cackling bitterly, eyes glazed with a high so deep she probably couldn't even remember his name.

Justin sighed, rubbing his cheek, but his lips curled into a small, knowing smile. "You're high again, aren't you?" He shook his head. "Alright, alright. Let's get you to bed."

He reached for her arm, but the moment his fingers brushed her skin, she lashed out.

A flash of silver. A sting of heat.

The blade sliced across his shoulder, shallow but deep enough to make him hiss through his teeth. Blood welled instantly, dripping onto the splintered floorboards.

Justin stepped back, jaw tightening. His grandmother stared at him, swaying slightly, the rusted knife still trembling in her grip. But there was no recognition in her eyes. Just rage.

Something inside him cracked. Not from the pain. Not from the wound. Just… something deeper.

Without a word, he turned and walked out the door.

---

The construction site was a wasteland of half-finished buildings, towering scaffolds, and the never-ending stench of wet cement. Justin's shoulder burned beneath his torn shirt, but he barely noticed. He was used to pain.

His boss, a thick-necked man with too much pride and too little decency, grinned as Justin approached. "You're late, Reyes."

Justin didn't bother arguing.

The man crossed his arms, eyes gleaming with something cruel. "You've got fifteen minutes to carry twenty-nine bags of cement across the site. That's thirty-four meters." His grin widened. "If you don't, no pay this month."

Justin clenched his fists.

The others snickered, already heading home. They all knew it was impossible. That was the point.

But Justin didn't argue. Didn't beg.

He just moved.

Bag after bag, crushing weight pressing against his back, dust clogging his lungs. His muscles screamed, his breath turned ragged, but he didn't stop.

Fourteen minutes and fifty-three seconds later, he dropped the last sack.

His boss scowled. "Stay late. More work."

Justin swallowed his exhaustion and nodded.

---

By 11:30, the site was abandoned, silent—except for the sound.

A melody. Soft at first, then swelling, rich and ethereal. It didn't belong here. It didn't belong anywhere.

Justin followed it.

Through unfinished halls and rusting beams, his feet moved without thought. The music grew clearer, haunting, beautiful—like the orchestras of heaven had descended to this wretched place.

And then he saw it.

A book, floating just above the ground, its worn cover pulsing with an eerie glow. It shouldn't be possible.

But nothing in Justin's life had ever been fair. Or normal.

His fingers trembled as he reached for it. The moment his skin met the cover, the glow intensified—spreading up his arms, wrapping around his body like invisible chains.

His feet left the ground.

Weightless, breathless, he hovered above the dirt as the book flipped open on its own. The pages rustled, whispering secrets only it understood.

Then, in bold ink, the first words revealed themselves:

"No matter where you lie, if you hold this book, you can tell the future or die."