The Five Realms

Chapter 2: Joey II

Chapter 2: The Stranger in the Pines

The forest thinned, and the world tilted back toward the real.

Joey emerged into scorched ruin.

Blackened grass. Ash drifting in the wind. The skeletal remains of what had been their home. Yellow caution tape fluttered like tattered wings across the driveway. Emergency lights pulsed quietly in the distance—more a warning than a comfort.

"JOSEF!"

Melodie collided with him in a blur of smoke-smudged curls and flannel sleeves. She gripped him hard, shaking with relief. "You vanished. We thought—God, we thought—"

"I'm fine," he said, even though his voice cracked.

Behind her, footsteps pounded. Steven, out of breath, Beanca close behind, and Fatina trailing like a silent shadow.

"We saw the smoke from two blocks over," Steven gasped. "Tried calling—nothing."

Fatina touched Joey's arm gently. "Your father...?"

Joey nodded once. Words failed.

A pause stretched long and heavy.

Then Chyna stepped from behind the paramedic tent, arms folded, eyes hollow. "He died saving Mom."

The words were flint. Striking silence.

Steven shifted, rubbing his neck. "I—I'm sorry, man. I don't even know what to—"

"Not really a 'Happy Birthday' mood, huh?" Joey muttered, voice dry.

Steven gave a half-laugh that broke halfway. "Guess not."

Chyna motioned toward the tent. "She's awake. She's asking for you."

She reached out—just a hand.

Joey took it.

Inside the canvas, Maria sat wrapped in a gray fire blanket. Her eyes were glassy, her posture rigid. Carly was asleep in her lap, curled tight like a cat, her thumb still tucked against her lip.

Joey knelt beside them. "Mom..."

Maria looked up.

"You're safe," she whispered.

Then she broke.

Her body folded into his, sobs torn from her like pieces. Joey held her, arms firm, jaw tight, the back of his throat burning. She clung to him like driftwood in a rising sea.

"I felt him," she gasped. "He was behind me—and then—he was just... gone."

Joey didn't reply.

There was nothing to say.

Only holding on.

The half-burnt garage sat like a gutted ribcage, blackened tools and warped bikes strewn inside. Smoke still curled faintly from a collapsed workbench. Joey found himself staring at what used to be his father's tools—each one in its place, always oiled, always clean.

Now, ash.

Steven stepped beside him, eyes scanning the ruin. "There goes my science project."

Joey blinked. "What?"

"My volcano," Steven said. "Three weeks of glue, baking soda, and soul. Gone."

Joey managed a dry laugh. It cracked something open in his chest.

"I was gonna make it erupt on New Year's," Steven added. "Y'know. Symbolism."

Beanca crouched by the scattered pieces. "You could rebuild it. A phoenix volcano."

Steven grinned. "Explodes, then rises dramatically? Yeah. That sounds about right."

Chyna sat on the garage steps, face tilted to the fading sun. Her shadow stretched long across the yard. She hadn't spoken since the tent.

Fatina held Carly's hand, guiding her gently along the edge of the property. The little girl clutched a melted snow globe in her arms, eyes wide and unfocused.

"I miss the lights," Carly whispered. "The tree."

"I know," Fatina said softly. "We all do."

Melodie stood beside Joey, arms crossed. "I almost came looking for you. I wanted to. But something told me to stay. With the others. I felt... I don't know. Pulled."

Joey looked at her. Her expression was unreadable, like she was trying not to ask the real questions yet.

He nodded. "Thanks. For staying."

"I'd do it again," she said. "Just... don't scare me like that."

A small silence fell.

They didn't need to say it.

Everything had changed.

And none of them were ready.

Twilight stained the horizon in bruised purples and rust.

The group lingered near the sidewalk, their silhouettes flickering in the last orange glint of day. Paramedics had packed up. Police tape sagged. The world was trying to move on.

But something had shifted—an invisible weight pressing behind their eyes.

Joey leaned on the hood of Steven's car, still gripping the scorched strip of leather. The heat had faded, but the smell—burned oil and ozone—clung to his skin.

Chyna stood beside him. "You're quiet."

He nodded once. "I saw someone."

Her eyes sharpened. "What kind of someone?"

"A man. In the woods. Black suit. Creepy as hell. One eye silver, the other green."

Her face didn't change—but something behind her expression pulled tight.

"What did he say?" she asked.

Joey hesitated, then repeated it: "Mr. Morzansson sends his regards."

Chyna flinched.

Not visibly. Not to anyone else.

But Joey knew her. He felt the recoil under her skin.

"Do you know that name?"

She didn't answer.

"Chyna."

She turned away, arms folding around herself. "We need to get Carly somewhere safe. Mom too."

"Chyna—"

She looked at him then—eyes bright, jaw locked. "That name hasn't been spoken in centuries. And if someone's saying it now... it means something ancient just woke up."

Joey's stomach dropped. "What is he?"

Chyna shook her head. "Nothing good. Nothing human."

A hush swept over them as wind rippled the trees.

In the distance—just past the edge of the property—a silhouette stood between the trees. Too tall. Too still. Watching.

Then it stepped back.

And vanished into the dusk.