CHAPTER 6: THE GATHOWLING

Bryan’s POV

The morning after Northstar’s dramatic arrival felt surreal. The base buzzed with a new kind of energy—a low, humming tension that had nothing to do with the machinery and everything to do with the newcomer who had teleported us into the main hall like dropped laundry.

We were in the common area, a bland lounge with uncomfortable couches and a massive screen usually tuned to surveillance feeds. Now it was off. The silence was louder.

Classy broke it first, muttering from the corner where he was flipping through a tablet Amy had lent him. “Hmm. Northstar sure is a strange one.”

I leaned back, propping my feet on the low table. “Strange is putting it lightly. Dude lives in a forest, talks to himself, and can open portals. That’s not strange—that’s a whole new flavor of weird.”

“He didn’t even tell us his name,” Mello pointed out, not looking up from the sketch he was shading. It was a detailed drawing of the scythe Willz had summoned. “Just ‘I’m the Shadowalker.’ Like that explains anything.”

“It explains he’s dramatic,” Willz said dryly, inspecting his own nails. “I can respect the aesthetic, but the mystery act is a bit much.”

Emma was curled in an armchair, knees to his chest. “He’s scary. Did you see his eyes when he made that barrier? They went completely black for a second. Not, like, metaphorically. Literally black.”

I shrugged, though I’d seen it too. “So he’s got demon-eyes. We’ve got a guy who can turn monsters into pebbles and a girl who can stop time when she has a panic attack. We’re all weird here.”

“That’s different,” Emma insisted. “Our weirdness is… human weirdness. His is… old weirdness.”

Classy looked up from his tablet. “She’s not wrong. According to the files Amy let me access—and I think she only let me see what she wanted me to see—the Shadowalker entity predates recorded history. References in Mesopotamian tablets, coded mentions in medieval grimoires. It’s not a person; it’s a concept given a body when it finds a suitable host.”

The room went quiet again. Mello stopped drawing. Willz put his hands down. Even Emma uncurled a little.

“So Northstar…” I started.

“Is a vessel,” Classy finished. “A container for something that can’t die. The question is, how much of ‘Northstar’ is still in there?”

That sat with us, heavy and cold. I thought of the guy’s empty eyes, the way he spoke—like every word was a stone dropped into a deep, dark well.

“Hey,” I said, suddenly needing to break the mood. “We just got introduced to him, and all he said was his demon title. Aren’t you curious? What does a semi-immortal demon-host do for fun? Play video games? Read manga?”

Emma giggled nervously. “Maybe he composes sad poetry.”

“Or tends to a haunted garden,” Willz offered, a rare smirk on his face.

Mello tapped his pencil. “We should ask him. Basic getting-to-know-you stuff. Hobbies. Favorite food. How he feels about pineapple on pizza.”

Classy shook his head. “I tried that. Indirectly. Asked Amy for a tablet to ‘research.’” He held it up. “She gave me this. It’s got a locked search history, but I bypassed it. There’s almost nothing on ‘Northstar William.’ Just a birth record, then a whole lot of nothing. No school records after age 14. No social media. No digital footprint at all. It’s like he stopped being a person and started being a ghost.”

“Or a host,” Emma whispered.

I stood up, stretching. “Well, sitting here theorizing is giving me a headache. I’m gonna go ask him.”

Four sets of eyes locked onto me with varying degrees of disbelief.

“You’re gonna what?” Mello asked.

“Go ask him. His room is down the west corridor, right? Elliot assigned him the one at the end. I’ll just… knock.”

“He’ll read your mind and turn you into a toad,” Emma said.

“He doesn’t turn people into toads,” I said, though I wasn’t sure. “He’s on our team. Supposedly. Might as well act like it.”

Classy watched me go, a curious look on his face. “Good luck. If you’re not back in ten minutes, we’ll assume you’ve been dimensionally misplaced.”

I flipped him off as I left the lounge.

The corridors of the base were all the same—smooth gray walls, soft overhead lighting, the faint hum of climate control. It felt more like a spaceship or a very clean prison than a home. I found the door at the end of the west wing. It looked like all the others, except no nameplate.

I knocked. No answer.

I knocked again. “Hey. Northstar? It’s Bryan.”

Silence.

I was about to turn away when the door slid open silently, revealing not a room, but pure darkness. Not just unlit—a thick, velvety black that seemed to swallow the light from the hallway.

A voice came from within, flat and disembodied. “Say what you’re here for and stop wasting my time.”

I blinked, trying to peer inside. “Can I, uh, come in? Or do you want to come out?”

“No.”

Alright then. “Fine. I just wanted to talk. We’re teammates. Figured we should know each other. I’m Bryan. I like fire, bad music, and eating. Your turn.”

A beat of silence. Then, from the darkness, “I’m the Shadowalker. I tolerate existence. Your turn is over.”

I snorted. “Wow, rude. And here I was, trying to apologize.”

The darkness in the doorway seemed to ripple. “Apologize?”

“Yeah. For yesterday. I was… skeptical. You know, with the whole kidnapping and the armed welcome. Might’ve come off a little hostile. I hope we can be on good terms.”

A shape materialized in the darkness, resolving into Northstar leaning against the doorframe. He was still in the same dark clothes, his stormy gray eyes evaluating me with detached amusement. “To think it was a girl’s opinion that made you apologize.”

I froze. “What?”

“Amy. You like her. Her disappointment weighs more on you than your own pride. Interesting.”

My face grew warm. “How did you—?”

“It isn’t déjà vu, fool.”

The words were in my head a second before he said them aloud. My eyes widened. “So you can read minds.”

“Of course I can. It’s less ‘reading’ and more… hearing the volume at which you all think.” He stepped fully into the light, and the darkness in the room behind him receded to normal shadows. The room was completely bare—no bed, no furniture, nothing. “Besides, don’t try anything funny with Amy. Arnold is infatuated with her.”

I recovered slightly, crossing my arms. “I knew that guy looked at her weird. Who is Arnold, anyway? Just security?”

Northstar’s lips twitched. “You’re about to find out. He considers her his territory. Your little spark won’t be appreciated.”

“My ‘spark’ is my business,” I shot back, then regrouped. “Wait, so you’re giving me dating advice? Mr. ‘I-Tolerate-Existence’?”

“I’m giving you a warning. Your emotional entanglements are a vulnerability. They make you predictable.” He said it without judgment, like he was stating the weather.

“Yeah, well, maybe being predictable is part of being human. Something you might’ve forgotten.”

For a fraction of a second, something flickered in his eyes. Not anger. Something older. Wearier. “Maybe.” He turned to go back into his empty room. “We’re done.”

“What about you?” I called before the door could close. “Any… entanglements? Hobbies? Favorite burger joint?”

He paused, half in shadow. “My hobby is maintaining the barrier between this reality and the things that want to eat it. My favorite food is the silent gratitude of people who will never know I exist. Goodbye, Bryan.”

The door slid shut, leaving me in the bright, silent hallway.

I stood there for a moment, then muttered to myself, “Okay, definitely a goth.”

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