To the rest of the world, 1997 Queens is just a concrete grid. To me, it’s a cage.

I was supposed to be the perfect immigrant son—keep my head down at Bronx Science, work the counter at my family’s laundromat, and stay invisible. But invisibility is a luxury you lose the second you realize you have the power to physically fold spacetime.

Now, there’s a dark, corrupted voltage humming in my skull, a serial killer hunting the five boroughs, and a supernatural war bleeding into the streets. I’m not just trying to survive my dad's crushing expectations anymore. I'm trying to survive the night.