BAMF - PT.2

The pulse of the city beats beneath my feet, a rhythmic thumping that tugs at the edges of my consciousness. I'm walking nowhere, just letting the asphalt guide me—one step, then another—when it catches my ear: music. Distant at first, like the haunting call of some mythological siren, it swells with every breath I take. There's no thought, only the pull, the need to find the source. My feet betray me, picking up pace, turning corners in a dance I don't remember starting.

It's reckless, this chase after a melody in the night. But caution has never been my song; impulse is the chorus that hums in my veins, and right now, it's singing at full volume.

Closer now, the music's no longer a whisper but a shout, a demand to be heard. The crowd comes into view like a living, breathing organism—a mass of bodies moving to a single heartbeat. I weave through them, my steps instinctual, responding to their rhythm as if it were my own.

This energy, it's electric, intoxicating. It buzzes along my skin, raising hairs, quickening my pulse. With each push forward, I feel the anticipation, not just mine but theirs, too. It's a collective craving for something extraordinary, something bigger than the sum of us, and right now, we're all reaching for it together.

The throb of the bass vibrates through the soles of my shoes, climbing up my legs, gripping my chest. I can barely hear my own thoughts over the cacophony, but who needs thoughts when you have this—the thrill of the unknown, the allure of the night? It's all here, in the heart of the city that never sleeps, where even the gods might hide behind the neon lights, watching, waiting.

The stage looms ahead, a monolith of light and sound encased in a shimmering forcefield that ripples like the surface of a celestial pond. Performers move across it like figures in a dream, their limbs languid one moment and electric the next. They are draped in fabrics that catch the beams from above, throwing splinters of color into the hungry eyes of the audience.

I press closer, skirting the fringe where shadows cling—a silent spectator in a sea of noise. The aura of the forcefield casts an otherworldly glow, painting the performers as if they were born from myth, not flesh and blood. Their song, alien and hypnotic, weaves through the crisp air, a siren's call that warps the space between reality and fantasy.

At the edge of the stage, I plant myself—a ghost on the periphery. It's a strategic choice; here in the dim, I am just another face, another pair of eyes reflecting the spectacle. The crowd's energy surges around me, a living thing with its own heartbeat, pulsating to the rhythm of the unearthly performance.

I let out a breath, slow and steady, and draw the anonymity around me like a cloak. In this chaos of excitement and motion, it's easy to disappear, to become part of the collective thrill. Every cell in my body vibrates with the bass that booms beneath us, yet I'm adrift, disconnected from the revelry by choice and necessity.

Here, I am nameless. Here, I am safe from all but the tempest inside.

The music crescendos, a climax that stirs the crowd into a frenzy, and then he steps onto the stage. Jinwoo. The sight of him is like a lightning strike to my chest; sudden and fierce. My heart hammers against my ribcage, each beat echoing through my bones, an insistent reminder of the past I've tried to outrun.

His very presence up there, tall and sculpted under the spotlight, sends a jolt of electricity down my spine. He moves with a grace that feels otherworldly, every step, every note pulling at something deep within me. It's as if the years peel away, and I'm back to a time when his smile was a promise rather than a memory tinged with regret.

Jinwoo's voice rises above the din, clear and captivating. The forcefield ripples around him, a luminescent barrier that sets him apart from us mere mortals. His performance is magnetic, drawing all eyes, all energies, toward him. It's impossible not to watch, not to get caught in the pull of his orbit.

Then, as if sensing a shift in the atmosphere, he pauses. A dancer in mid-leap, a note hanging in the air—Jinwoo's gaze sweeps across the sea of faces before him. There's a tension in his shoulders, a narrowing of his eyes. He's searching, hunting for something—or someone—in the tangle of bodies and shadows.

His eyes, dark and piercing, scan the throng, and for a moment, I fear they'll find me. I shrink further into the darkness, pressing back until the cool metal of the barricade digs into my skin. I can't afford to be seen, not by him, not now.

But it's too late. His gaze snags on mine, and in that instant, recognition sparks. A feral thrill of panic claws its way up my throat, and I can feel the weight of his stare, heavy with unanswered questions and words left unsaid. Jinwoo's lips part, the lyrics faltering as the man behind the idol surfaces—a man who knows me, who has touched the raw edges of my soul.

He takes a step forward, a subtle lean that bridges the distance between us, and the world tilts. I fight the urge to flee, to use the powers thrumming beneath my skin to escape this collision of past and present. But I'm frozen, caught in the gravitational pull of his undeniable presence on that stage.

In the throes of the concert's chaos, with the cacophony of fans screaming his name, we share a silent conversation. His body language shifts, the confidence of his movements now underscored with an urgency that speaks volumes. He needs to know why I'm here, what I want after all this time.

And I'm not sure I have the answers.

Terror grips me, a cold vise that squeezes until my bones ache with the pressure to disappear. I've always been a runner, skittering away from problems with a snap of magic in my veins. The power buzzes, eager for release, whispering promises of sanctuary far from Jinwoo's piercing gaze.

"Stay," I command myself, but it's like trying to hold onto smoke. My resolve dissolves as the crowd sways, pressing me closer to the stage, to him. To confrontation. My heart hammers against my ribs, a drumbeat in tune with the thrumming bass.

I can't do this. Not now. Not yet.

A decision snaps into place, propelled by fear more than thought. I squeeze my eyes shut, call upon the familiar pulse of my teleportation gift, and let go. Reality rips at the seams, and I'm sucked through the void, spat out into the cramped confines of a bathroom stall.

The sharp tang of antiseptic stings my nostrils, grounding me. I gulp air like I've been drowning, hands braced on either side of the cubicle, trembling. Tiles press cold and hard against my palms, a stark contrast to the crush of bodies I've fled.

"Idiot," I hiss to myself, voice echoing off the walls. Avoidance is my curse, the distance I put between myself and everything I care about. And Jinwoo... he's the eye of the storm I can never seem to escape.

"Get it together," I mutter, splashing water on my face from the sink outside the stalls. Droplets scatter like my thoughts, splintering reflections of a life fractured by impulse. Mirror-me looks just as haunted, hollowed out by the weight of emotions I can't afford to feel.

"Teleportation isn't running," I argue with my reflection, clinging to the lie. But who am I kidding? It's the ultimate escape.

My hands clutch the edge of the sink, knuckles white. I should face him, explain why I vanished from his life without a word. But every fiber of my being screams to stay hidden, to avoid the hurt that lingers in Jinwoo's eyes.

"Next time," I whisper, the promise tasting bitter on my tongue. There's always a next time, an excuse, another moment to pretend I'll be brave enough to confront my past.

But not today. Today, I've chosen the coward's path, teleporting to safety instead of facing the music. And I hate myself for it.

My heart hammers, a frantic drumline that drowns out reason. I can't stay here, can't linger on the precipice of my own panic. I need sanctuary, guidance—anything but this self-inflicted solitude.

"Mom," I gasp, the word a lifeline as I envision her stern, regal face. Before doubt can claw its way in, I seize the impulse and let it consume me.

BAMF!

The world folds, pressure builds, and I squeeze through the eye of a needle, reality's fabric tearing at my will.

I stumble out into the night, the cool air a slap to my flushed skin. My breaths come in jagged sips, and I steady myself against the cool marble of a building that looks like the Maison Carrée, its urban doppelgänger that houses a goddess.

Baset, mother, protector, towers above me, immortalized in stone. Her statue form is both beacon and warning, an anchor in the chaos of the city. She is majesty carved from the earth, a sentinel guarding the threshold between worlds. The intricate hieroglyphs etched into her base speak of power, of a legacy that courses through my veins—a legacy I'm running from.

Her eyes, though unseeing, seem to follow me, prying into the shadows I've gathered around my heart. Even like this, she commands the space, an awe-inspiring presence that dares me to shrink away or rise to meet her gaze.

"Help me," I whisper, but the words hang heavy in the silence, unanswered prayers to a deity in repose. I know what comes next—an awakening, a confrontation—but for now, she is stone, and I am still alone with my turmoil.

"Please," I add, a beggar before the divine. Baset, the fierce lioness, has always demanded strength, and yet, here I am, seeking refuge in her immutable shadow.

I close my eyes, willing her to understand, to see beyond my impulsive retreats. And somewhere, deep down, I brace for the force of her awakening, the tumultuous swell of divine disappointment and love that is my mother.

The air vibrates, a silent hum that ripples across my skin. My whispered plea hangs suspended, almost tangible in the charged atmosphere. Then she stirs—the great Baset, awakening from her marble slumber. It begins as a subtle shift, a shiver through the stone, and then with the grace of a symphony's crescendo, her form softens.

Stone bleeds away like sand caught in a relentless tide, revealing the warm bronze of her true skin. Her lioness mane cascades down her back, a waterfall of obsidian silk glinting with sparks of gold. Muscles roll beneath her flesh, each movement exuding controlled power. Eyes that were once dull granite flicker open, glowing with an otherworldly light that banishes shadows.

"Mother," I breathe, not out of reverence but reflex. Her gaze pins me, fierce and unyielding. The air grows heavy with the scent of jasmine and desert winds, the essence of her divine realm.

"Using your gifts to flee rather than face your fears," Baset says, her voice resonating with the timbre of ancient storms. "Is this what you have become, child? A runner?"

I flinch, the words a slap to my already raw emotions. Baset steps forward, her every motion a testament to celestial might. Her presence is overpowering, a reminder that she is protector and warrior both. And here I stand, daughter of divinity, yet so markedly human in my failings.

"Mother, I..." I start, but the words knot in my throat. She waits, expectant, the air thrumming with tension. My eyes dart to the side, looking for anything that might delay the inevitable confrontation.

"Speak," she commands, not unkindly, but with the weight of someone used to being obeyed.

"It's complicated," I finally manage, my voice small against her grandeur. She crosses her arms, a living statue once more, yet brimming with life that no sculptor could ever capture.

"Life is complicated," she retorts. "But running from it solves nothing."

I clench my jaw, feeling the familiar sting of her expectations pressing in on me. In her eyes, I see the reflection of what I could be—a hero, perhaps, a figure of myth and legend. But all I feel is the crushing doubt, the fear that I will never ascend beyond my impulsive mistakes.

"Easy for you to say," I snap, the words erupting from me like shards of ice. "You're a goddess. You don't—" My voice falters, and I swallow hard, trying to regain composure.

Baset's gaze softens for a moment, her eyes pools of ancient wisdom that have seen countless children stumble before finding their stride. "I do understand, more than you know." Her tone is a paradox—firm, yet lined with an undercurrent of empathy. "But understanding does not mean indulging every flight or fear."

"Every time I try to stand still, to be strong, something... someone gets hurt because of me." My hands tremble, and I hide them behind my back, ashamed of this telltale sign of my inner turmoil.

"Strength is not in the absence of vulnerability," Baset replies, her voice echoing around us, filling the space between the marble columns with its resonance. She moves closer, and I can feel the heat radiating from her skin. "It is in the courage to face it."

"Courage?" I scoff, the sound bitter. "What would you know about my courage?"

"More than you give yourself credit for." Her lips twitch into a knowing smirk, and I recognize the prelude to a challenge. It's a look I've come to dread and respect in equal measure.

"Prepare yourself, my child. The time has come for you to confront more than just your fleeting doubts." Baset's stance shifts, poised and ready—a lioness about to pounce. "I offer you a challenge—one that will test the very fibers of your being."

A pulse of adrenaline courses through me, my heart accelerating as if readying for battle. I'm torn between the urge to vanish into the ether and the gnawing need to rise to her bait.

My breath comes in quickened bursts, misting in the air, a visible testament to the chaos churning inside.

"Accept, and you may find the purpose you so desperately seek," she continues, her eyes never leaving mine. There's no mockery in her expression, only the fierceness of a mentor pushing her charge beyond perceived limits.

"Decline, and you remain stagnant, haunted by the 'what ifs' that echo in the silence of your retreats."

Her words hit home, a clarion call to the part of me that yearns to prove her wrong—to show her, and myself, that I am more than my impulsive escapes. That I can be the heroine she believes me to be, even if I'm still searching for that hero within.

The weight of her challenge hangs heavy in the air, pregnant with the promise of transformation—or the peril of failure. But somewhere, amidst the pounding of my heart and the rush of blood in my ears, I feel the stirrings of resolve. This could be the turning point, the moment I stop running and start facing the legacy that courses through my veins.

"Fine," I say through gritted teeth, my voice a whisper laced with defiance. "Challenge accepted."

Baset's challenge—a gauntlet thrown at my feet—sends a surge of adrenaline through my veins. The stakes are skyscraper-high, the kind that could leave me teetering on the edge of an abyss or standing atop a victorious peak. My mind races; this is no mere test of skill, it's a test of self. Can I transcend the BAMF who vanishes in a puff of smoke, fleeing from every sign of trouble?

"Daughter," she says, her voice a thunderclap in the tranquility of the night, "will you cower, or will you rise?"

I swallow hard, the sound deafening in my ears. Her presence looms over me like a monolith, ancient and unyielding. There's something terrifying about being under the scrutiny of a goddess, even more so when that deity is your mother—your mentor.

"Rise," I whisper to myself. The word feels foreign on my tongue, like a spell I've yet to master. But there's a spark within it, a flicker of hope that fuels the fire in my chest.

I blink away the sting of tears—tears of fear, frustration, of a thousand moments I wish I could rewrite. This is my crossroads; the path splits into a million threads of possibility, each one as daunting as the last.

"Good." Baset's smirk doesn't waver, but her eyes soften, just for a second. It's enough to remind me that beneath the stone and stern lies a heart that beats with pride for what I might become.

"Prepare yourself," she commands, striding toward the tented area that will serve as our battleground. The air crackles with anticipation, alive with the promise of what’s to come.

A gust of wind wraps around me, and I feel the power of my heritage stir—the same power that's always been a tempest within me. Now, it whispers of control, of shaping the elements, honing my abilities into something formidable.

"Survive this," Baset's voice echoes, "and you'll emerge not just as my progeny, but as a force in your own right."

My heart hammers against my ribcage, urging me toward a future where I am no longer defined by impulsive exits but by the strength of my resolve. The seriousness of her challenge sinks in, roots itself deep within me, and sprouts determination I never knew I had.

"Survive," I repeat, the word now a vow. A promise to myself, to her, to the pulsing life of the city that serves as both battleground and sanctuary.

Baset's challenge isn't just an invitation; it's a siren's call to the very core of who I am—and who I'm destined to be.

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Part 1