I pulled into the construction site at 5:45 AM, fifteen minutes before our shift officially started. The sky had lightened to a pale blue-gray, the air still cool enough that my breath fogged slightly as I cut the Mustang's engine. Two other trucks already occupied the gravel lot – Chuck's battered F-150 and Miguel's ancient Chevy with the peeling Raiders decal on the back window.
I grabbed my thermos of coffee and hard hat from the passenger seat, then headed toward the half-finished apartment complex that had been our project for the last three months. Scaffolding wrapped around the concrete skeleton, tarps flapping gently in the morning breeze.
Chuck stood by the equipment shed, clipboard in hand, checking inventory against yesterday's numbers. He nodded as I approached, the gesture making his salt-and-pepper mustache bounce.
"Valentine. Early as usual."
"Traffic's better before six," I said, signing my name on the attendance sheet he held out.
"Miguel's already up on three. Said something about needing to talk to you before the day starts." Chuck's eyes narrowed slightly. "Everything good?"
"Fine. Just Miguel being Miguel."
Chuck grunted, returning to his clipboard. "Drywall delivery coming at ten. I want you and Gonzalez handling that."
I headed for the temporary elevator, a rattling cage that groaned its way up the side of the building. When the doors slid open on the third floor, Miguel was waiting, practically vibrating despite the early hour. His dark hair stuck up at odd angles like he'd run his hands through it repeatedly, and he clutched a large coffee cup emblazoned with his sister's bakery logo.
"There he is!" Miguel's voice echoed in the empty space. "The man of the hour! The celebrity! The one who—"
"It's too early for this shit," I cut him off, stepping past him onto the concrete floor. Plastic sheeting covered the window openings, casting everything in a diffuse, milky light.
Miguel trailed after me like an excited puppy. "Too early? It's never too early to discuss how you blew the opportunity of a lifetime, my friend."
I set down my thermos and hard hat, then grabbed a utility knife from my tool belt. "I'm guessing you saw the videos."
"Videos, plural. As in dozens. As in you're all over the internet." Miguel spread his hands wide. "Xavier Valentine, mystery man who caught Mother Kafka's eye."
I sliced open a package of drywall screws, deliberately focusing on the task rather than Miguel's grinning face. "It wasn't like that."
"Not like that? She walked straight to you. Signed your arm. With a heart." Miguel clutched his chest dramatically. "Do you know how many men would kill to be in your position?"
"You, apparently."
"¡Absolutamente! If Kafka had approached me—" He kissed his fingertips. "I would have made the most of it."
I looked up at him finally. "And done what, exactly?"
Miguel leaned against an exposed beam, crossing his arms. "Asked her to dinner, for starters. Or drinks. Or coffee. Or a walk on the beach. Anything but standing there like a statue while the hottest, most powerful woman in Los Angeles gave you her personal attention."
"She's an S-rank hunter, not a Tinder match."
"She's both! That's the point!" Miguel threw his hands up. "She could snap both our necks without breaking a sweat, and she looks like that. It's the perfect combination."
I couldn't help the small laugh that escaped me. "Your taste in women is concerning."
"My taste in women is excellent. Unlike yours, which is nonexistent." Miguel picked up a level and pointed it at me. "When was the last time you went on a date? And don't say you don't have time. Everyone has time for that."
I grabbed the level from him and set it on the nearby workbench. "Some of us have responsibilities."
"Ah yes, the responsibility excuse." Miguel sighed dramatically. "Fine. But at least tell me what Kafka said to you. The videos didn't catch everything."
I measured a drywall sheet, marking it with a pencil. "She said my energy signature was unique."
Miguel froze mid-sip of his coffee. "She said what?"
"Energy signature. Unique. Her words."
"That's..." Miguel set down his cup, suddenly serious. "That's hunter talk. High-level hunter talk."
I shrugged, trying to appear more casual than I felt. "Probably just sizing me up. Making sure I wasn't a threat."
"Or recognizing something in you." Miguel's eyes narrowed. "Like recognizes like, man."
"I'm a D-rank. You know that."
"What I know is that you've never been properly tested." Miguel stepped closer, lowering his voice though we were alone. "Your parents were A-ranks. That kind of power runs in families."
I measured another sheet. "Drop it, Miguel."
"All I'm saying is—"
"I said drop it."
Miguel raised his hands in surrender. "Consider it dropped. For now." His serious expression melted back into a grin. "But you still wasted a golden opportunity with a baddie."
"A baddie?" I repeated, unable to keep the amusement from my voice.
"A total baddie. Did you see her legs? That figure?" Miguel kissed his fingertips again. "Perfection."
Other workers began to arrive then, the elevator bringing up groups of two and three. The space filled with morning greetings and the sounds of tools being unpacked. I turned back to the drywall, grateful for the interruption.
"Valentine! Gonzalez!" Chuck's voice boomed from the stairwell. "I need those north walls finished before the delivery!"
"On it, boss!" Miguel called back.
We fell into our usual rhythm after that, working side by side with the efficiency of long practice. Miguel kept up a steady stream of chatter – about women, about music, about his mother's tamales – while I focused on the work, responding just enough to keep him going.
It was comfortable. Normal. The kind of day I needed after the strangeness of yesterday and the dreams that followed.
By noon, we'd finished the north wall section and moved on to wiring conduits in the east corner. The summer heat had transformed the enclosed space into an oven, sweat soaking through our shirts and dripping down our faces.
"I'm telling you," Miguel said, stripping a wire, "my cousin's band is going to be huge. They've got a sound like... like if Rage Against the Machine had a baby with Bad Bunny."
"That's a terrifying mental image," I replied, feeding cable through the wall cavity.
"You laugh now, but when they're selling out arenas, you'll be begging me for tickets." Miguel connected the wire to the junction box. "You should come to their show Friday. The venue's a dive, but the beer is cheap."
I hesitated. "I don't know. Noel has—"
"Let me stop you right there." Miguel pointed his wire strippers at me. "Noel has what? Class? In the evening? A date? A girls' night out? Whatever it is, she doesn't need her brother standing guard."
I wiped sweat from my forehead with my forearm. "It's not that simple."
"It is exactly that simple. You're twenty years old, not forty. Act like it." Miguel's expression softened. "One night. Four hours max. The world won't end if Xavier Valentine has fun for once."
Before I could respond, Chuck's voice rang out across the floor. "Lunch break, people! Thirty minutes!"
The site emptied quickly, workers heading down to the food trucks that parked along the perimeter fence each day. Miguel and I joined the exodus, squinting in the bright sunlight after hours in the building's interior.
We grabbed burritos from Miguel's favorite truck – run by a cousin of a cousin of a cousin, naturally – and found a spot in the shade of a stack of lumber. The food was good, spicy enough to make my eyes water slightly.
"So," Miguel said between bites, "about Friday..."
"I'll think about it."
He grinned, salsa dripping down his chin. "That's progress. Usually you just say no."
The rest of the day passed in a blur of drywall, wiring, and Miguel's endless stories. By six, most of the crew had packed up, leaving just a handful of us finishing various tasks. Chuck made his rounds, checking progress against his eternal clipboard.
"Anyone want overtime?" he asked, stopping where Miguel and I were cleaning up our workspace. "Got that east section that needs to be prepped for tomorrow."
"I'm in," I said immediately, calculating the extra cash against next month's rent.
"Me too," Miguel added. "My mother's birthday is coming up. She deserves something nice."
Chuck nodded, making notes. "Two hours max. Lock up when you're done."
The site grew quieter as the remaining workers filtered out. Miguel and I moved to the east section, our footsteps echoing in the empty space. The setting sun cast long shadows through the plastic-covered windows, painting everything in amber and gold.
"So what's the real story with you and Kafka?" Miguel asked as we measured and marked the walls for tomorrow's drywall. "There has to be more than what you're telling me."
I sighed, knowing he wouldn't let it go. "There isn't. She came up to me, made that comment about my energy signature, signed my arm, and left. That's it."
"And you didn't feel anything? Any... I don't know, connection?"
"No," I lied. "Nothing."
Miguel shook his head in disappointment. "Wasted opportunity."
We worked steadily as the light faded, finishing the prep work just before nine. The building had taken on that peculiar emptiness of construction sites after hours – full of potential energy, waiting to be shaped into something permanent.
"That should do it," I said, packing up my tools. "Ready to call it a night?"
Miguel checked his watch. "Nine on the dot. Perfect timing."
The elevator doors opened with their usual metallic groan. We stepped inside, and Miguel punched the button for the ground floor.
As we descended, something caught my eye as we passed the second floor. A flash of purple light where there shouldn't have been any.
"Stop the elevator."
"What? Why?"
I hit the emergency stop button. The elevator jerked to a halt between floors.
"Hey!" Miguel protested. "What are you doing?"
I peered through the cage at the second floor. There – in the center – a vertical tear hung in the air. About three meters tall and two meters wide. Pulsing with violet light.
Not blue like normal gates. Purple.
My heart slammed against my ribs. The same purple as my dreams.
"Do you see that?" I asked, my voice sounding strange in my own ears.
Miguel followed my gaze. "See what?"
"That." I pointed directly at the gate. "The purple light. The tear."
Miguel squinted. "There's nothing there, man. Just shadows."
I stared at him, then back at the gate. It was clearly visible – glowing, pulsing, wrong.
Movement caught my eye. One of the electricians – Danny, with his perpetual headphones and hunched shoulders – walked across the second floor, head down, thumbing through his phone.
Heading straight for the gate.
"Danny!" I shouted. "Stop!"
He didn't react, headphones blocking out my voice. He kept walking, directly toward the pulsing tear.
"DANNY!" I screamed louder, rattling the elevator cage.
He passed through the gate as if it wasn't there. Continued walking. Reached the far wall. Turned and headed back, completely unaffected.
"What the hell?" I whispered.
Miguel gripped my shoulder. "Xavier, you're freaking me out. There's nothing there."
I blinked hard, looking again. Danny was gone. But the gate remained, pulsing violet in the dim light.
"You really don't see it?" I asked, my mouth dry.
"See what? There's nothing there." Miguel's face creased with concern. "Are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
I couldn't tear my eyes away from the gate. It was the same one from my dreams. Exactly the same. But how was that possible? And why could I see it when Miguel couldn't?
"Xavier?" Miguel's voice seemed to come from far away. "Talk to me, man. What's going on?"
The gate pulsed, the purple light intensifying for a moment. Beckoning. Calling. The same pull I felt in my dreams, but now, awake, in the real world.
"Nothing," I finally said, releasing the emergency stop. The elevator resumed its descent. "I thought I saw something. Must have been a trick of the light."
Miguel didn't look convinced, but he let it drop as we reached the ground floor. We walked to our cars in silence, his usual chatter replaced by concerned glances.
"You sure you're okay to drive?" he asked as we reached my Mustang.
"I'm fine." I forced a smile. "Just tired. Long day."
"If you say so." He hesitated. "Text me when you get home, alright?"
I nodded, sliding into the driver's seat. Miguel stood watching as I started the engine and pulled away, his silhouette growing smaller in my rearview mirror.
My hands trembled slightly on the steering wheel. The gate on the second floor. Purple, just like in my dreams. Visible only to me.
What the hell was happening to me?