BANG! BANG! BANG!
"Get out! Get out!"
Makun woke to Mr. Okoye's shouts.
The landlord sounded pissed. Beyond pissed.
It was eviction time. And Makun still hadn't paid rent.
Mr. Okoye was over it. Done waiting. He'd brought backup to drag Makun out if necessary.
Inside the apartment, Makun sighed. Scratched his eyes.
Friday had been exhausting.
He'd dived into something completely new. Readings. The presence. Particles. Night markets.
And then something had sucked all his energy while reading the book.
The book itself, probably.
He'd slept for twelve hours before Mr. Okoye's shouting woke him.
If not for that, he might still be sleeping.
9 PM.
Saturday night.
Reality hit Makun all at once.
He was jobless. Had a fine of four thousand dollars he had to pay Atlantic Records. Had to deal with eviction. Search for a new place. Find food.
With only twenty dollars in his bank account.
Now, with all the Mystic stuff added on top?
Makun wasn't really sure what to do.
That only showed him one thing.
Diving deep into Mysticism was his only way out of this.
He stood. Walked to the door.
Opened it.
Night time. The sun had already set. Streetlights cast orange pools on cracked pavement.
Mr. Okoye stood in the hallway. Two police officers flanked him. Both looked bored. Like this was routine.
Probably was.
"Are you moving out or what?" Mr. Okoye asked sarcastically.
He already knew the answer.
Makun wanted to discuss. Maybe convince him. Give him more time.
That was his nature. Always had been. Negotiate. Find angles. Try to talk his way through.
But he decided against it.
His neck still hurt from where Zack had grabbed him. The bruises were tender. If the police used force, a taser, anything against his throat...
It could make things worse.
Much worse.
"I'm moving out," Makun said quietly.
Mr. Okoye's eyebrows rose. Like he'd expected resistance.
"Good. You have thirty minutes to pack your things. Anything left after that gets thrown out."
He crossed his arms. The officers remained silent.
Makun turned back into the apartment.
Thirty minutes.
To gather twenty-three years of life.
He grabbed the small sports bag from his closet. The one he used to carry to the gym back when he could afford a membership.
What mattered?
Clothes. He stuffed in two shirts. One pair of jeans. Underwear. Socks.
His phone charger.
The pendant from the veiled lady. He held it for a moment, felt the weight of next week's debt, then dropped it in the bag.
The book.
He picked it up from the floor where it had fallen.
The Goal of a Mystic.
Looked at it deeply.
This was everything now. His only path forward. The only thing that mattered.
He placed it carefully in the bag. Made sure it was secure.
Toothbrush. Deodorant. The basics.
That was it.
Everything else—furniture he didn't own, posters on walls, the folding chair that served as a nightstand—none of it belonged to him anyway.
Twenty-three years.
Fit in a sports bag.
Makun zipped it closed. Slung it over his shoulder.
Walked out.
Mr. Okoye was still in the hallway. Checked his watch.
"Seventeen minutes. You're quick."
Makun said nothing.
He walked past the landlord. Past the officers. Down the stairs.
Out into the night.
The door to the building closed behind him with a final, heavy CLUNK.
He stood on the sidewalk.
Looked around.
Where could he go?
Should he change towns? If yes, were Night Markets still there in other places? Did they exist everywhere or just here?
He was confused.
He probably had to look for a homeless shelter first. Spend the night there. Then search for something more permanent in the morning.
That was the plan.
Such as it was.
Makun started walking. No particular direction. Just away.
His stomach grumbled.
He hadn't eaten yet. Not since... when? Yesterday afternoon before going to the market?
He was starving.
But food cost money. And he had twenty dollars. Maybe less.
He needed to make it last.
The streets were busier now. Saturday night. People heading to restaurants. Bars. Clubs. Living their lives like the world wasn't layered with invisible predators.
Makun walked past them all.
After twenty minutes, he changed his mind about the shelter.
He needed a moment. Just one moment to sit. To breathe. To think without moving.
A bar appeared ahead. Neon sign flickering. Joe's Place.
Generic. Probably cheap.
Makun pushed through the door.
Warm air hit him. Smell of beer and fried food. Music playing from speakers. Voices talking, laughing.
Normal people doing normal things.
He approached the bar. Found an empty stool.
The bartender looked at him. Middle-aged. Tired eyes.
"What'll it be?"
"Bottle of beer. Cheapest you got."
The bartender grabbed a bottle from the cooler. Popped the cap. Slid it across.
"Four dollars."
Makun handed over the money.
Sixteen left.
He took the bottle. Sat down at a small table in the corner.
Took a sip.
Cold. Bitter. Not great, but it was something.
Maybe this could help him distract himself. Just for a few minutes.
Just long enough to figure out his next move.
He took another sip.
Then voices rose.
Sharp. Angry.
Two men across the bar. Standing now. Faces red.
"You calling me a liar?"
"I'm calling you exactly what you are!"
Chairs scraped. Someone shoved someone.
The bartender shouted. "Hey! Take it outside!"
But they didn't listen.
One man swung.
CRACK.
Fist connected with jaw.
The other man stumbled back. Crashed into a table. Bottles shattered.
People screamed. Scrambled away.
The fight was breaking out.
Fast. Violent.
And Makun was sitting right in the middle of it.