The Cruel Horizon[Old]

The group falls silence. The distant city noises that once felt mundane now carry a slight edge of menace.

Darren shoves his hands deeper into his pockets, shoulders hunched. "So... what now?" His voice is uncharacteristically quiet.

Angel's breath falters. "They told us to wait. To not ask questions." His fingers curl into fists, knuckles whitening. "Like she's just... a lost fucking phone they'll find and return."

Obinai steps forward, gripping Angel's shoulder. The muscle beneath his palm is rigid, trembling. "They'll find her," he says, too firmly, like if he says it with enough conviction, it'll make it true.

Darren scoffs, kicking a pebble hard enough that it pings off a dumpster. "Yeah, these guys sound real trustworthy. 'Relocated' my ass." He scratches at the side of head through his curls, agitated. "Since when does anyone get 'relocated' without—"

"Stop." Angel manages. He shoves Obinai's hand off, turning away. His hoodie sleeve drags across his face—too quick, too rough—but not fast enough to hide the wet gleam in his eyes. "Just... stop."

The air reeks of stale weed and something sour—fear-sweat, maybe. A moth batters itself against the flickering streetlamp above them, wings tick-tick-ticking against the glass.

Darren exhales sharply. Then, with forced lightness: "Hey, remember when Jasmine decked me for spilling my juice on her shoes?" He mimes the impact, complete with a cartoonish "POW!" "Didn't even hesitate. Tiny little demon."

Angel's shoulders shake—once, twice—before a wet, broken laugh escapes him. "She hated you after that."

"Still does, probably," Darren grins. "Point is, girl's got claws. Wherever she is, she's pissed."

Angel lets out a small huff of laughter, though he doesn't turn around. "Yeah, she's probably somewhere chewing someone out right now. Telling them how they're doing everything wrong. 'Cause you know she'd do that."

Obinai chuckles softly. "He's not wrong, man. Your sister doesn't seem like the kind to take crap from anyone."

Angel shakes his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips despite himself. He finally turns back, his eyes a little red, but his expression steadier. "Yeah," he murmurs, voice stronger now. "Yeah, that sounds like her."

After a sniffle Angel begins to speak, when Obinai's phone buzzes loudly against the wooden bench.

"Shit—" Obinai fumbles for the device, fingers slipping on the case before he finally snags it. His mom's caller ID glows accusingly in the dark. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. He thumbs accept with a sense of impending doom.

"Hi, Mom," he chirps. His foot starts tapping a frantic rhythm against the pavement. Play it cool. You're at the library. You're—

The silence on the other end is loaded. Then:

"Come. Home. Now."

Click.

Obinai stares at the dead screen. Somewhere in his chest, his heart attempts to climb out through his esophagus.

Darren's the first to break. "PFFFFFFT—" His laughter explodes like a grenade, doubling him over. "'Hi, Mom'—OH MY GOD—" He wheezes, slapping his thigh. "You sounded like you got caught with a Playboy in church!"

Angel's trying—and failing—to keep it together. His shoulders shake as he mimes answering an imaginary phone in a squeaky falsetto: "'Um, yes, mother dearest, I am absolutely not smoking ditch weed in the park—'"

"You assholes," Obinai groans, but he's fighting a grin. The streetlight catches the way his cheeks heat.

Darren wipes imaginary tears. "Bro, you're cooked. She's gonna lock you in the basement with nothing but a 'Where's Waldo?' book."

Angel finally loses it, laughing so hard he snorts. "Stealth level: negative,"** he gasps, clutching his ribs.

Obinai stands, shoving his phone in his pocket with more force than necessary. "Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. Meanwhile, I'll be drafting my will." He turns to leave—

—then stops.

Angel's laughter dies abruptly. He's staring at his shoes again...

Obinai hesitates. The humor curdles in his gut.

"Hey." He waits until Angel looks up. "We will find her."

Angel's nod is mechanical. "Yeah." Flat. Empty.

Darren's grin fades. He steps closer, nudging Angel. "And when we do? First thing's first—gotta hear all about how she haunted those suit-wearing pricks."

A ghost of a smile touches Angel's lips. "She'd key their cars."

"Damn right," Obinai says. He holds Angel's gaze a beat longer—We're not letting this go—then turns toward home.

Behind him, Darren's voice carries: "Text us if your mom actually murders you!"

Obinai flips them off without looking back.

...
...

Obinai takes off like a shot, sneakers slapping pavement as he weaves through the park. The night air bites at his lungs—cold and thick with the stink of wet concrete and distant fried food. His pulse hammers in his throat, but it's not just from running.

Jasmine. The suits. The damn wall.

The thoughts chase him faster than his own shadow.

He vaults over a bench, barely avoiding a jogger in neon leggings who yells something obscene. A stray dog lunges for a burger wrapper, snarling as Obinai skids past—close enough to smell the rot on its breath.

Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

"They'll find her," he mutters between gasps. The words taste like a lie.

The city blurs around him. A diner spills warm yellow glow onto the sidewalk, drunk college kids stumbling out in a cloud of laughter. Someone's phone blasts tinny reggaeton as Obinai dodges them, his elbow clipping a guy's foam takeout container.

"Hey, watch it—!"

Obinai doesn't look back.

Under a flickering streetlamp, a silver-painted mime jerks in robotic motions, his speakers crackling out a warped pop song. The mime's eyes—streaked with black makeup—track Obinai as he passes. For half a second, their gazes lock.

Creepy as fuck.

Obinai speeds up.

A taxi screeches by, horn blaring. The driver leans out, screaming in a language Obinai doesn't know but whose meaning is universal: Move, idiot. He glares at the guy without breaking stride.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. Probably Darren sending some dumb meme to lighten the mood. Or worse—Mom sending a follow-up death threat.

Should've just told her I was at the library. Should've—

A shadow detaches itself from an alleyway.

Obinai's breath catches. He swerves left instinctively, shoulder checking a newspaper box hard enough to send pain shooting down his arm. The figure doesn't follow. Just another nightcrawler, probably.

Then he rounds the final corner, and the sight of his apartment building looms ahead. The structure is an old, weathered giant, its red brick facade stained with streaks of soot and grime from years of enduring the city's restless air. The fire escapes zigzag down its face like scars, their metal frames rusted and groaning faintly in the wind. The building's edges are softened by time, the mortar between the bricks cracked in places, yet it still stands.

Dim yellow lights from a handful of windows break through the darkness, their faint glow hinting at the lives within. Shadows flit behind the curtains—gestures, conversations, moments caught in silhouette. The soft hum of a distant television carries through the stillness. Despite its worn appearance, there's a warmth to the place...on a normal night.

Obinai slows his pace, his steps dragging as he approaches the apartment building, feeling a chill seep into his bones. His breath escapes in a sharp sigh, and he rubs the back of his neck, running through excuses in his head.

"I got caught up helping a friend." He shakes his head. Too vague. She'd ask which friend, and I'd blank.

"I was studying late at the library." He groans softly. Right, because I'm so studious Mom will believe that in a heartbeat._

"I got mugged?" His lips twist in a grimace. What am I, a bad soap opera character?

Obinai hits the lobby doors at a jog, skidding to a stop as the familiar scent of lemon polish and old newspapers hits his nose. There, standing sentry by the mailboxes, is Mr. Thompson—looking as crisp as always in his navy-blue uniform, not a single silver hair out of place despite the late hour. The old doorman's eyes gleam with amusement as he takes in Obinai's heaving chest, wild eyes, and the unmistakable scent clinging to his hoodie.

Shit. Busted before I even hit the elevator.

"Evening, Mr. Escape Artist," Thompson rumbles, the corners of his mustache twitching. He taps the face of his vintage wristwatch—the one he claims survived three wars and two divorces. "Three hours past curfew. You tryin' to give your mama more gray hairs than I got?"

Obinai swipes at his sweaty forehead, panting. "I can explain—"

"Uh-uh." Thompson holds up a gnarled hand, the other adjusting his cap just so. "Save your tall tales for the judge and jury upstairs." He sniffs the air pointedly. "Though might I suggest a detour to the laundry room first? Smell like you been indulging in this Reggie mess again."

"It's not—" Obinai starts, then catches Thompson's raised eyebrow. Damn. The man's got a bloodhound's nose. "Okay, maybe a little. But that's not why I'm late!"

Thompson chuckles, deep and raspy like an engine turning over. "Son, in my sixty-three years, I learned two truths—" He holds up fingers. "One, mama's always know. Two,"—he produces a tin of mints from his pocket with a magician's flourish—"always carry an alibi."

Obinai grabs the mints gratefully, popping three at once. The peppermint burns his tongue. "You're a lifesaver."

"Tell that to my ex-wives," Thompson mutters, straightening his tie. His eyes dart to the security monitor showing the elevator descending. "Speaking of judges... your chariot awaits."

The elevator dings ominously.

Obinai's stomach drops. "She's in there, isn't she?"

Thompson doesn't answer. Just smirks and hits the door release button. "Pro tip? When she asks where you been..." He leans in, whispering conspiratorially: "Church group."

"She'll never buy that!"

"Course not," Thompson agrees cheerfully as the doors slide open to thankfully reveal an empty box. "But the attempt'll be hilarious."

The elevator lurches into motion, and the small, mirrored walls feel like they're closing in. Obinai stares at his reflection, his hands shoved into his hoodie pockets. The excuses creep back in.

"Maybe I could say I stayed out late helping the stray cat? That's kind of believable, right?" He shakes his head, muttering under his breath. "Yeah, and when she asks where the cat is now, what do I say? 'Oh, it just ran off'?"

The soft ding marks another floor passing, and his heart rate ticks up with it. He leans his head back against the wall, closing his eyes for a moment.

"I tripped and fell, and I—no, that's just stupid." His reflection stares back at him, unimpressed. He groans softly.

The ding of the seventh floor pulls him out of his spiraling thoughts, and he straightens, steeling himself as the doors slide open. The long hallway stretches ahead, lit by small lights that do nothing to soothe the dread pooling in his stomach.

"Alright, just… less is more. Mr. Thompson's right. Just own up to it and hope for mercy."

With a deep breath, he steps out of the elevator, his footsteps echoing softly as he heads toward his family's apartment.

Reaching into his pocket, he fumbles for his keys, his hands trembling slightly from nerves. His fingers slip, and the keys fall to the floor with a metallic clatter that echoes far too loudly in the quiet hallway. He winces, crouching quickly to pick them up.

Before he can straighten, the sound of the doorknob turning makes him freeze. His breath catches, and he slowly looks up to see the door swing open.

The doorframe might as well be a guillotine with the way Maria Nobunaga stands there, arms crossed. Her bun's pulled so tight Obinai swears he can hear her scalp protesting. The faint scent of her lavender hand cream mixes dangerously with the sharp tang of disinfectant.

Oh...

Obinai's keys jingle like nervous laughter as he fumbles them. "H-hey Ma," he croaks, voice doing that embarrassing puberty crack thing he shouts to everyone he'd outgrown. His left foot starts tapping an erratic beat against the welcome mat—their welcome mat, the one that says Bless This Mess in cheerful cursive that feels like a sick joke right now.

Maria doesn't blink. "Mhmm." That's all. Just mhmm. Somehow worse than shouting.

"So uh..." Obi's eyes dart to the security camera in the hallway like it might save him. "Funny story—"

"Try true story," Maria cuts in, voice smooth as the wooden spoon she used to wield when he was six.

Obinai's mouth moves before his brain catches up. "I was helping Darren fix his bike!" Shit. Darren doesn't even own a bike.

Maria's eyebrow arches higher. "At eleven fifty-seven PM."

"It's a... night bike?" God, kill me now.

Behind him, the elevator dings. Mr. Thompson's muffled chuckle carries down the hall. Traitor.

Maria's nostrils flare as she sniffs the air. "And I suppose a certain aroma I'm smelling is part of this bicycle repair?"

I thought the mints would—

Obinai's shoulders hike up to his ears. "It's... an herbal remedy? For... bike grease?"

The spoon appears in Maria's hand like a magic trick. Not the spoon—that retired after the Great Macaroni Incident of 2030—but its spiritual successor, polished to a threatening gleam.

"Obinai Jelani Nobunaga." She taps the spoon against her palm. Thwap. Thwap. Thwap. "Your lies are weaker than your algebra grades."

The keys slip from Obinai's sweaty grip, clattering to the floor. "I can explain—"

"Inside." Maria steps aside just enough to let the word—and the impending doom it carries—sink in. "Now."

He nods quickly, stepping past her into the apartment, the door clicking shut behind him...