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parents. Galkin could still hear the cries, the high-pitched wail of his son which seemed to carry itself through infancy and into childhood. But it didn’t stop there; rather, it seemed to intensify, to careen its way through adolescence and then into adulthood.
    Many times he wished death upon his son, his own blood; but there were lines you could not cross.
    The son ultimately perished in the flames of his own creation and Galkin noted some kind of poetry in that. He could not articulate it, of course, and had no real desire to do so; but there was no doubt that dying in such an irreversible, public manner seemed to reflect the nature of his son.
    He sighed, and then pushed himself through the window; his fingers pressing into the suddenly malleable surface, peeling it back so he could step out and onto the impossibly narrow ledge outside. The night air was charged with the coming storm and as Galkin breathed out he thought he could feel the city’s undulating energy enter him.
    When his whole body passed through the window, it closed up behind him, perfect again – remade. It was a simple matter for him to spread the molecules, tease them apart to let him through. People often forgot that the Mad Russian was more than a simple parlor magician.
    There was real power in his blood.
    In fact, there was real power in all of his blood. His attention turned to the west, down into the metropolis where his grandson slaved away at a pathetic job, serving pathetic humans their pathetic and fleeting desires. It suddenly appeared prophetic the way Danya was lost to him in such a bleak, colorless world. And now, five years later he would bring his boy back into his rightful position.
    “Pain will transform you, bring you back to me.”
    Inside the office, Halo edged towards the door. The boy was familiar with Galkin’s power, but such unnatural actions like walking through walls, still managed to capture an audience, even a streetwise one. Galkin let him go without a word or even a glance. Halo was, after all, simply a mouse scurrying back to the streets. He was a good boy, really. Useful, resourceful, perhaps even a little like Galkin himself. But in the end he was not blood.
    And therefore he was ultimately expendable.

Chapter 5
    Dan
    B ack at his apartment, nestled in between a Chinese restaurant and a Skin and Beauty salon, Dan kicked off his trainers and folded himself into the sofa, swinging his legs across the arm rest to the chair beside him. From that angle he could clearly see the television as well as stretch himself out fully to unlock the kinks he’d collected on his pizza delivery run.
    Outside he heard the police and ambulance sirens. A helicopter swept low over the city and a car alarm was droning down in the basement car park across the street. But Dan was home, and out of what was turning into an impressive rain storm. His shoes were off, his phones were on silent, and he could breathe slowly again.
    He shared the second-storey place with Brian and Noah, both of them in their twenties and earning decent salaries. Dan had met them through Brian’s little brother, at a time when they were desperate to replace a recently absconded flatmate. Dan was still in high school but he was juggling enough part time jobs to pay thirds in the rent. And he was the only serious option in a series of unsuitable applicants.
    Less than a year later and even Dan was beginning to sense that having a teenager in the apartment was cramping their style. Brian was now on what he referred to as a fast track to management in human resources, and Noah had conjured up a premature mid-life crisis at twenty-four and discovered that he was an actor, even though his qualifications were in accounting. In fact it was Noah’s inability to match Brian’s income that allowed Dan to stay on for as long as he had, and even though he hated to admit it, Dan was only too aware of the situation.
    The apartment itself was what real estate agents called a