Chapter 38: Race against the bombs (III

The parking lot lights buzzed overhead, one of them flickering like it was seconds away from giving up. Derek paced near his bike, patting his jacket pockets, then his bag, then his chest again.

“No… no, no, no,” he muttered. “I literally had it five minutes ago.”

The bowtie.

Marcus had laughed about it earlier, joking that Derek looked like he was about to attend a funeral instead of a community fundraiser.

Don’t be dramatic, Marcus had said. It’s just a bowtie.

Derek crouched near a parked car, squinting at the ground. The music from the community hall drifted out through open doors—laughter, clinking glasses, someone telling a bad joke into a microphone. Normal. Too normal.

His phone buzzed.

Marcus: Relax. I’m still inside. Take your time.

Derek stared at the message longer than he should’ve.

A pressure settled in his chest. The kind he’d learned not to ignore.

“Something’s wrong,” he whispered.

Then—

A sound.

Not loud.

Not yet.

A sharp click.

Derek’s head snapped up.

“No,” he said quietly. “No, no, no—”

The world exploded.

The blast hit like a giant fist. Heat. Noise. Force. Derek was lifted off his feet and thrown backward, slamming into the asphalt. His ears rang so badly the screams came through as muffled echoes. Fire burst out of the community hall windows, followed by glass, wood, and screaming people.

Smoke swallowed everything.

Derek rolled onto his side, coughing, lungs burning. His vision blurred, but he forced himself up.

“Marcus!” he screamed. “MARCUS!”

The hall was gone. Not damaged—gone. Half of it collapsed inward, flames crawling across the roof. People ran in every direction. Some fell. Some didn’t get back up.

Derek ran toward the wreckage.

“Move!” he shouted, pushing past people. “Get back! Get back!”

He spotted a familiar jacket near the entrance. Black. Torn. Too still.

His heart dropped.

“No,” he said again, louder now. “No—no—no—”

Derek dropped to his knees beside Marcus Hale.

Marcus was on his back, eyes half-open, blood spreading across his shirt. His chest rose once. Barely.

“Marcus,” Derek said, hands shaking as he pressed down on the wound. “Hey. Hey, stay with me. Look at me.”

Marcus’s eyes focused slowly.

“…Derek,” he whispered.

“I’m here,” Derek said quickly. “You’re okay. Ambulances are coming. You’re gonna be fine. You hear me?”

Marcus gave a weak smile. “You always… lie when you’re scared.”

Derek laughed once, sharp and broken. “Shut up. Don’t talk. Save your strength.”

Marcus coughed. Blood stained his lips.

“Listen,” Marcus said. “You didn’t… do this.”

Derek shook his head violently. “I should’ve known. I should’ve pulled you out. I knew something was wrong.”

“You can’t save everyone,” Marcus said. His voice was fading. “Even you.”

Sirens wailed in the distance, but they sounded impossibly far away.

Marcus’s hand twitched. Derek grabbed it instantly.

“You gave me a home,” Derek said, tears finally spilling. “You chose me. You don’t get to leave.”

Marcus squeezed his hand weakly. “I’m proud of you. No matter what they say. No matter what you become.”

“Don’t say that,” Derek begged. “Please.”

Marcus’s eyes remembered him one last time.

Then they went still.

“No,” Derek whispered.

He shook Marcus’s shoulder. Once. Twice.

“No. No, wake up. Wake up.”

Nothing.

The sirens arrived too late.

Derek stayed there long after the fire was controlled. Long after bodies were covered. Long after the crowd thinned. He didn’t cry anymore. He didn’t move.

Just stared.

This wasn’t chaos.

This was design.

And as smoke rose into the night sky, Derek made a promise he would never say out loud.

Whoever planted the bombs…

Whoever set this in motion…

They would learn that there were, indeed, different kinds of pain.

And Derek would teach them all of them.