Chapter 03

Chapter 03

The Man Who Drew Monsters

Baba Jallow stopped sleeping.

At least, that was how it felt.

Every time he closed his eyes, the city opened itself to him. Streets stretched and twisted like living veins. Rooftops called his name. Shadows bent toward him as if they recognized something he did not.

He woke each morning exhausted, dirt under his nails, dust in his hair, the ring warm and faintly pulsing, as though it had lived an entire life while he rested.

By the fourth night, he stopped pretending it was normal.

Baba sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the ring. The symbols along its surface seemed sharper now, clearer. They reminded him of birds in flight—wings frozen mid-beat.

“Whatever you are,” he muttered, “I don’t have time for your drama.”

The ring did not respond.

But the air in the room shifted.

A slow clap echoed from the corner.

Baba froze.

A man leaned against the wall where there had been nothing seconds before. Tall. Calm. Dressed simply, yet everything about him felt deliberate—like he had been drawn there by design rather than chance.

“Still lazy,” the man said pleasantly. “Even after death.”

Baba’s heart slammed against his ribs. He reached instinctively for the small knife under his pillow.

“You don’t need that,” the man said. “I didn’t come to hurt you.”

“Everyone says that,” Baba replied, voice shaking. “Then they take your blood.”

The man smiled, genuinely amused.

“Fair point.”

He stepped into the dim light. His eyes were sharp, calculating—eyes that had measured people and places like equations.

“My name,” he said, “is The Architect.”

Baba swallowed. “That’s a stupid name.”

The Architect nodded thoughtfully. “Names are placeholders. Results are what matter.”

The ring burned.

Baba leapt to his feet, pain shooting through his hand. “You did this to me.”

“Yes.”

The answer was immediate. Honest. Unapologetic.

“You kidnapped me.”

“Yes.”

“You drained my blood.”

“Yes.”

Baba lunged forward without thinking.

He never touched him.

Something invisible slammed into Baba’s chest, pinning him against the wall. He gasped as pressure wrapped around his body like an unseen hand.

The Architect watched calmly. “Violence first. Still predictable.”

“Why?” Baba spat. “Why me?”

The pressure vanished. Baba collapsed to his knees, coughing.

The Architect crouched to meet his eyes. “Because you once wanted to be a hero.”

The words hit harder than any force.

Baba laughed bitterly. “Heroes don’t exist.”

“They didn’t,” the Architect corrected. “Until I decided they should.”

He spoke like a teacher explaining a simple lesson.

He talked about career day. About a small boy standing in front of a class, saying the word Superero with hope in his voice. About laughter—sharp, careless, cruel. Even the teacher had smiled, shaking her head.

“That moment,” the Architect said softly, “killed something in you.”

Baba looked away.

After that day came excuses. Then comfort. Then laziness—not because Baba was weak, but because effort no longer felt worth the pain of believing in something unreal.

“I watched you,” the Architect continued. “From afar. You were perfect.”

“For what?” Baba asked quietly.

“To prove a theory.”

The Architect stood and waved his hand. The room dissolved.

Suddenly, they stood in a vast, dark space lit by floating screens. Images flickered—people with strange abilities, enhanced bodies, violent acts across different cities.

“Villains,” the Architect said. “Engineered. Focused. Motivated.”

Baba’s stomach tightened. “You’re insane.”

“Brilliant,” the Architect corrected. “But balance is necessary. Chaos must be measured.”

He turned to Baba.

“That’s where you come in.”

The ring pulsed violently.

“The artifact on your finger is ancient,” the Architect said. “Egyptian. Blood-bound. It responds to survival, trauma, and instinct.”

Baba’s breath caught. “The crow…”

“The first blood you consumed after rebirth,” the Architect finished. “It defines your manifestation.”

He snapped his fingers.

The ring unfolded.

Metal flowed like liquid, expanding outward. Baba screamed as energy surged through him. The ring transformed into a shield—black and feathered, its surface alive. At its center formed the head of a crow, eyes glowing the same green as Baba’s.

Wings extended from its sides, vast and sharp-edged.

The shield hovered before him, obedient.

Baba stared, trembling.

“What… what does it do?”

The Architect smiled.

“That,” he said, “is for you to discover.”

The room snapped back to Baba’s small apartment.

The shield vanished, collapsing back into the ring.

The Architect stepped toward the window.

“You can choose what you become,” he said over his shoulder. “A villain. A hero. Or something far more inconvenient.”

He paused.

“Oh—and Baba?”

“Yes?”

“I killed your parents.”

The words landed like broken glass.

“Not out of cruelty,” the Architect added calmly. “But necessity. Trauma accelerates narrative.”

Then he was gone.

Baba screamed—stupid, foolish, animal.

Outside, crows gathered on the rooftops, watching their king awaken.