Years ago, little Akeeth was in his room playing a game...
The marble floor was cold, even beneath the thick rug. Akeeth sat cross-legged, plastic chess pieces arrayed in battle, whispering moves to himself, voice hushed to avoid the echo that would draw the nannies.
"Knight to e5... Bishop takes...," he murmured, nudging the black bishop across the board. The air shimmered with the ghost of last night's arguments—his mother's voice sharp as broken glass, his father's replies brittle, tired, and final.
A knock, not gentle. "Akeeth, darling!" Imani's voice, crystalline, carried from the hallway. "Put on your suit. The guests will be here soon." The door cracked open; her perfume preceded her, jasmine-sweet and suffocating.
He didn't look up. "Just one more game?"
She stepped inside, her heels silent on the rug, and her silhouette was a slash of ice in the mirror. "Games are for children. You're not a baby anymore." Her eyes found the chessboard, then him, then flicked away. "The guests are waiting."
He gathered the pieces into their velvet bag. They clacked together, tiny bones rattling. She watched, fingers tight around her phone, a flick of irritation as if he were something sticky clinging to her designer dress.
"Smile tonight, Akeeth," she said as he passed. "No sulking. And for god's sake—don't show those teeth." She left before he could answer.
The penthouse's main hall glowed under cruel chandeliers, glass walls revealing the city's neon, blurred by winter rain. Servers floated between marble pillars, balancing silver trays and the exhaustion of long shifts. His father, Jelani, stood by the windows, voice deep, hands locked behind his back, not looking at Akeeth.
Socialites gathered in clusters, laughter sharp and glassy. Akeeth drifted among them, small and out of place, his suit collar itching at his throat. Their eyes found him like children find a strange dog—curious, wary, wanting to see it perform.
"There's our little shark!" Margot cooed, her voice bright as gin, her necklace a curtain of diamonds.
"He bit a silver dollar last month," Celeste bragged, nails lacquered black. "Imani, show them his smile."
Imani's hand pressed on Akeeth's shoulder, her smile tight. "Go on. Just like we practiced."
He opened his mouth, exposing fangs—long, sharp, too white. The room's attention pinched his skin. Margot dropped a folded bill at his feet. "Bite the apple, sweetheart. I'll double it if you make a mark."
Celeste produced a green apple, old and dappled. "This one's special. From my great-grandfather's orchard. Think you can crack it, Shark?"
Akeeth took the apple, its cold weight heavy in his palm. "If I do, can I return to my room?" he asked softly.
Celeste leaned in, her perfume a sickly sweetness. "If you do, I'll show you something fun, little monster." Her hand hovered over her blouse, the button slipping free. "Don't you want to see what grown-ups hide?"
He stared, throat tight. Around him, the women tittered, eyes sliding between him and her, enjoying the secret cruelty, the blurring of lines. His hand shook.
Imani's voice, slicing through: "Enough, Celeste. We're not animals."
Celeste only grinned, fingers ghosting her collar. "Oh, darling, you've never seen a real animal."
Akeeth brought the apple to his lips, feeling all their eyes prickling his skin, laughter warping into static. He bit down, fangs puncturing the flesh with a crack, juice dribbling. He forced himself not to gag as a strange note hummed in his ears—like a jazz saxophone, but wrong, twisting, echoing off glass and bone.
The adults cheered. "Again!" someone shouted. "Go deeper!"
"Wild little beast," Margot whispered, stroking his hair.
He bit deeper until the apple split. Its insides were laced with green veins, writhing faintly and pulsing with the city's distant neon.
Akeeth dropped it, chest heaving. The laughter was everywhere—hollow, distorted, swelling, and folding back on itself. Celeste knelt, eyes cold and hungry. She opened her blouse wider, showing pale lace and skin he didn't want to see.
"Good boy," she crooned, voice syrup-thick. "See what you get when you play with sharks?"
He backed away, vision swimming. The room bent and twisted, the jazz riff in his head rising to a shriek.
He ran.
Slipped past the butler, past the elevator, up the back stairwell—feet pounding, gasping for breath. The penthouse roof was a garden of dead plants and abandoned wine glasses. The wind lashed his face, Harlem's neon bleeding beneath him, a river of color out of reach.
Akeeth stumbled to the edge, clutching the bitten apple. His veins were glowing now in the night. He pressed his forehead to the cold glass, his heart pounding.
The door creaked. A shape melted from the shadows—a bent older man, face hidden under a battered hat, saxophone case at his feet. He watched Akeeth, silent, for a long time.
"You run fast, little shark," the man rasped. "But the city always catches up."
Akeeth didn't answer. He blinked tears away, scrubbing at his eyes. "They hate me," he muttered. "I'm just a...a thing to them."
The older man's smile was crooked. "Have you ever heard Harlem breathe at midnight?" He set the saxophone case down, cracking it open. "Jazz rides on pain, boy. That's how the city remembers itself."
Akeeth hugged his knees, trembling. "My teeth. They all want to see me bite. Even when it hurts."
The older man laughed softly, notes curling like smoke. "Some smiles bite back. Some bites cut deep."
He plucked the apple from Akeeth's hand and turned it into the city's neon. The green veins pulsed, keeping time with a hidden melody.
"Careful, little shark," the man said, eyes dark, kind, and infinitely sad. "The city listens at night. Some bites are deeper than they seem."
He pressed something into Akeeth's palm—a jade amulet, heavy, carved with spiral veins. Its warmth crept up his arm, sinking into his bones.
The wind howled. When Akeeth looked up, the man was gone—just empty air and the city's impossible music.
He clutched the amulet, watching the neon river until his fingers stopped shaking. The echo of laughter and jazz remained tangled in his blood.
Below, the party raged on. Above, Akeeth listened to the city breathe, his fangs aching, the shark's smile carved into the night.
He didn't return to the ballroom. The rooftop wind chilled his face, cut the taste of apple from his mouth, pressed the older man's words into his skull: Some bites are deeper than they seem—the jade amulet pulsed in his palm, a heartbeat not his own.
Eventually, he crept down to his bedroom, carefully avoiding the echo of laughter through the marble halls. The room—larger than most city apartments—felt like an aquarium, glassy and cold, the city's neon flickering against the far wall. He lay in bed, turning the amulet repeatedly in his hands.
He drifted, at last, into sleep.
He dreams.
Smoke curls around his feet, swallowing the silk sheets and the rug, the glass desk, the city's lights—all drowned in velvet darkness. A trumpet wails somewhere distant. He stands barefoot in a jazz club where the air hums with ghost music, the walls plastered with sheet music, each page scribbled over with the word "MONSTER."
On stage, masked dancers whirl in slow motion. Their masks are animal faces—wolves, hyenas, sharks with jagged teeth. The crowd is full of faceless adults dressed for a gala and holding champagne flutes. Their eyes are holes, deep and endless.
"Akeeth! Akeeth! Smile, little shark!" they chant, their voices stretching, bending, twisting into the shriek of horns.
Akeeth tries to hide, but the stage spins and the spotlights pin him in place. The jade amulet floats in front of him, glowing a sickly green. Its spiral veins twist and pulse with every word.
"Power to make them love you," it croons, a dozen voices at once, "or fear you. Choose your happiness, Shark. Which do you hunger for?"
The crowd splits open. Celeste stands there, her mask a viper's grin, her blouse open to her waist, pearls glinting. She holds out an apple, its skin black and moldy. "Bite," she whispers, and the word stretches, warps into a command.
Akeeth's mouth aches. He wants to run, to wake, but the amulet presses against his throat—hot, heavy, alive. "Choose," it sings, "or be nothing forever."
He bites the apple. The crowd erupts into laughter, the music rising to a scream.
He wakes to sunlight clawing at the windows, sweat cold on his neck.
His bedroom looks scrubbed new, every shadow erased by morning's glare. The walls are bare except for the abstract painting his mother hung last month—red and green lines that tangle, bleed, never meet. The chessboard is gone. The amulet lies on the nightstand, jade gleaming, silent now.
He hears voices from the hallway. New staff again—he recognizes none of them.
"Who cleans these windows?" a woman says, her tone clipped. "Last time I could see streaks."
"They said the boy bit one of the maids last night," someone else whispers, just out of sight. "He left a mark. Like a dog."
Akeeth dresses quickly, hiding the amulet under his shirt. The new nanny is already at the table in the kitchen, sorting bills. She looks up with the blank smile of someone forced to be cheerful.
"Good morning, Akeeth," she says. "Did you sleep well?"
He shrugs, staring at the bowl of hard rolls. "Can I go to school today?"
"In a little while. Eat first." She pushes the bowl closer.
He tears into a roll, jaw aching. The taste is cardboard and salt. For a moment, he glances at the open kitchen door—past it, two high school girls laugh over their phones, uniforms crisp, hair shining.
Akeeth can't look away. The way they lean into each other, the warmth of their voices—it isn't for him. Something hungry and sharp rises in his chest, ugly and twisting. Drool pools under his tongue. Why can't I have that? Why don't they look at me that way?
The nanny's hand touches his. "Careful, you're getting crumbs everywhere—"
Their skin meets. Something electric shoots up his arm. For a moment, the world narrows to a green pulse—the amulet, answering.
The nanny jerks back. Her face empties, her eyes glassy, and her kindness wiped away like chalk in rain. She stares through him.
He recoils, his heart thudding. The other staff notice, and a ripple of unease runs through the kitchen.
"What's wrong with Ms. Ray?" the cook asks quietly.
"She just... forgot what she was saying," the butler answers, but his gaze never meets Akeeth's again.
Akeeth stares at his hands. The world feels thin, brittle.
School is a cage. His classmates avoid him; their whispers are always just loud enough for him to hear.
"Did you see his teeth?"
"I heard he bit his mom—like a dog. Freak."
He keeps his head down, books clutched close. At recess, he sits alone on the cold concrete, listening to the others run and shout.
Today, a new game is being played: a group of boys blocks the hallway, snickering.
"Hey, shark!" the biggest one sneers, pressing a palm into Akeeth's chest. "Smile for us."
"Leave me alone."
"Or what? You'll bite me? Go on—do it! Or are you scared?"
Laughter explodes. The world shrinks to the locker's blue metal. The boy shoves him hard; his head cracks against the steel.
Akeeth tastes blood.
He thinks: I wish I had what you have. Just for a second. Courage. Anything. I wish I could stand tall—just once.
The amulet blazes under his shirt, burning hot. For a heartbeat, the world stutters.
The bully's sneer crumples. His eyes fill with tears. "Stop looking at me," he whispers, voice shaking. He sags to the floor, legs folding beneath him.
The others stare, confused, wary.
Akeeth stands up—no one blocks his path.
His heart pounds: power and shame, a strange, twisting thing. He doesn't look back.
That night, Harlem's neon pulses outside his window—green, fuchsia, sharp as the pain in his jaw. He sits on the edge of his bed, the amulet pressed to his lips, searching for warmth.
The city's music floats through the glass—a trumpet riff, laughter from a distant street, the rumble of subway tracks beneath it all.
In his dream, he thinks of the club, the dancers with animal faces, and the voice that promised him love or fear. His body aches with wanting—something more than this empty ache, this endless performance.
He remembers Celeste's apple, the taste of rot and power. The nanny's empty smile. The bully's tears.
He whispers to the city, to the night, to whatever old spirits might be listening:
"I'll never be weak again. Not for you. Not for anyone."
The amulet hums in answer. Far below, a jazz riff curls through Harlem's neon veins, promising a happiness that tastes like hunger, power, and something else—a future he can't name, but already aches for.
Akeeth bares his teeth at the night. The shark's lonely, bright, and hungry smile will not fade.