"Merry Christmas everyone, we were all busy spending time with families, collecting gifts and such, I hope everyone had a great Christmas. alright now let's get back to it" xD
Chapter 56 – The World That Kept Moving
Peterson's eyes opened slowly.
Not all at once—more like the world leaked back into him piece by piece.
First came the ceiling. Smooth wood beams, faintly lit by warm light that didn't belong to candles or the sun. Then the smell—herbs, water, something clean and ancient. His body felt heavy, like he'd been wrapped in thick blankets of time itself.
Then he felt warmth.
His arm tingled.
Peterson turned his head slightly.
Naëlle was sitting beside the bed.
She hadn't been sitting upright like someone waiting. She was slouched sideways in the chair, her head resting gently against the mattress near his arm, one hand loosely holding the edge of the sheet. Her breathing was slow and even. Peaceful. Exhausted.
For a second, Peterson forgot everything else.
His chest tightened.
She stayed.
His face grew warm before he even realized it. His heart started racing, not from fear, not from pain—but from something soft and overwhelming. Naëlle's face looked different like this. No tension. No worry lines. Just calm. Almost… angelic.
He swallowed.
Very carefully, like he was afraid of breaking the moment, Peterson lifted his hand and tapped her shoulder.
"Naëlle…"
She exploded into motion.
Naëlle jumped to her feet, spinning halfway around like someone who'd been startled out of a nightmare. Her eyes were wide, hands already raised like she was ready to fight or cast something.
"What—!?"
Then she looked down.
Peterson lifted his hand weakly and waved.
"Hey… Naëlle."
For half a second, her face didn't move.
Then her lips trembled.
Then her eyes filled.
"Oh—"
Tears poured down her cheeks so suddenly it startled him. She covered her mouth, breath hitching, like her body didn't know how to process relief after holding it in for too long.
"Peterson…" her voice broke. "I thought… I thought you'd never wake up."
She dropped to her knees beside the bed and laughed and cried at the same time, pressing her forehead against the mattress.
"Thank the heavens," she whispered. "Thank every crossroad, every gate… thank everything."
Peterson's heart nearly burst.
He shifted, wincing slightly, then opened his arms.
"It's… really good seeing you too, Naëlle."
That was all it took.
She leaned forward without hesitation and wrapped her arms around him carefully, like she was afraid he might vanish if she hugged too hard. Her head rested against his shoulder, and for a moment, the world outside the room didn't exist.
Peterson closed his eyes.
He didn't need power.
He didn't need answers.
Just that hug.
After a while, she pulled back, wiping her eyes and letting out a shaky laugh.
"Sorry," she sniffed. "I didn't mean to—"
"No," Peterson said quickly. "Don't apologize. I'm glad."
She smiled faintly, but something heavy lingered behind her eyes.
Peterson noticed.
"Naëlle…" he said softly. "Can you… can you fill me in on what happened? After the fight. With those two who came for the medallion."
Her smile faded.
She looked down at her hands.
Silence stretched.
"Naëlle?" Peterson asked again, concern creeping in. "What's wrong?"
She took a breath. Then another.
"…I don't know how to say this without hurting you," she admitted quietly.
Peterson's stomach dropped.
"Just tell me."
She looked up.
"You've been asleep," she said, voice steady but heavy, "for over a month."
The words hit him like a punch.
"…What?"
"A month," she repeated. "A full one."
Peterson's eyes widened.
"A month!?" His voice cracked. "That's not possible. I—I was just—"
"You weren't," Naëlle said gently. "You were unconscious. Your body was here. Alive. Breathing. But you didn't wake up."
He stared at the ceiling.
A month.
The world didn't stop.
It never does.
"And that's not all," she continued, quieter now.
Peterson swallowed. "Naëlle… what happened?"
She hesitated, then spoke.
"The medallion," she said. "It was used."
His heart sank.
"Used… how?"
"To create chaos," she answered. "Not just here. Not just Haiti. Everywhere."
Peterson slowly turned his head toward her.
"…Explain."
She nodded, bracing herself.
"Something happened while you were unconscious. Someone—or some people—found a way to exploit the medallion's function. Not just sealing souls… but distributing fragments of power."
Peterson's hands clenched into fists.
"The world changed," she said. "Most people woke up with abilities. Some small. Some terrifying."
"…You're saying everyone has powers now?" he asked.
"Not everyone," she replied. "But enough."
She took a breath.
"Gangs rose first. The strong always do."
Her voice sharpened slightly as she listed them.
"DED didn't disappear. They evolved. Most of them manifest flame-based abilities now. Fire control. Heat weapons. Explosive movement."
Peterson's jaw tightened.
"The Purple Lightning Gang," she continued. "Fast. Brutal. Electricity—but twisted. Violet arcs that burn and paralyze."
She paused.
"Ti Pwazon," she said next. "Poison. Gas. Venom-based abilities. Silent. Deadly."
Peterson felt sick.
"And there's a newer one," Naëlle added. "Jele Glase. Ice. Cold so intense it shatters stone."
She looked at him carefully.
"These are just the major ones. There are others. Smaller factions. Lone powered individuals. The world… isn't balanced anymore."
Peterson's mind raced.
"My family, my friends," he said suddenly. "My mom, my sisters, Jean-Daniel. Wilkens. Have you seen them?"
Naëlle's expression softened… and then darkened.
"I don't know," she admitted honestly. "I haven't seen them. Things are… scattered now. Communication is dangerous. Travel even more so."
Fear crept into his chest.
"We need to find them," he said immediately, trying to sit up.
Pain flared, and he hissed.
"Easy," Naëlle said, helping him lie back down. "You're not ready yet."
Before Peterson could argue—
The air shifted.
The room felt heavier.
Older.
Water rippled along the walls like reflections that didn't match the light.
A presence stepped forward.
Papa Legba stood near the doorway.
Hat tilted low. Long white beard flowing down his chest. Blue robe embroidered with moving water patterns, the designs shifting like living currents. His staff rested against the floor, taller than him, ancient and solid.
"Well," Papa Legba said calmly, eyes gleaming. "Looks like you're awake at last, Peterson Joseph."
Peterson stared.
"…So much to talk about," Papa Legba continued, tapping his staff once against the floor. "And not nearly enough time."
Naëlle stood.
Peterson swallowed hard.
"Then," he said quietly, "I guess we should start."
The crossroads had opened again.
And the world was no longer waiting.
End of Chapter 56