SUP Chapter 18: That Year, That Night, That Meteor

A strange, eerie gust swept through.

Nothing happened.

Just a plain student ID vanished. But that was enough to send chills down the spine, especially for those who dealt with supernatural events daily. It was a thought that provoked dread.

"???"

Charles jumped, instinctively glancing around, but found nothing. He turned to Constantine, uncertain and alarmed. "What’s going on?"

Constantine stared at his empty hand, eyes flickering wildly. He rubbed his hand, as if savoring the sensation.

"This is..." He knew something had snatched the card from him.

Such speed!

Was it a special person? A demon from hell?

No, his defenses hadn’t triggered, so it likely wasn’t a malicious attack. Realizing something, he exclaimed, "No! That kid!"

Constantine bolted to the second-floor window, scanning the farm’s fields. Finding nothing, he looked up at the sky, puzzled.

He only meant to check the weather.

But luck struck.

The dark clouds, tied to the spirit’s binding, had dissipated.

In the golden sky, Constantine glimpsed a faint figure, high above, gazing in the direction the taxi had swerved off.

His face paled, pupils shrinking.

"Charles," Constantine said, swallowing hard, voice grave.

"What?" Charles, still clueless, searched the house for suspicious entities.

"You’re screwed."

Constantine glanced at his friend, then back at the sky. Feeling a warning gaze, he quickly ducked back into the house.

"What do you mean? My car’s gone for good?" Charles found Constantine baffling, having found no spirits or supernatural beings in the house.

"Forget your car. You’ve landed yourself in big trouble," Constantine said, wiping sweat from his brow, barely able to feign calm.

"Huh?" Charles was stunned.

"That kid’s got someone backing him. He’ll definitely rat you out," Constantine said, swallowing again, as if he’d figured out the eerie kid’s nature.

"He’s got angels watching him?" Charles let his imagination run wild.

"Far scarier than that."

Constantine hesitated at the window, wanting to confirm what he saw, but ultimately stayed inside.

"What are you talking about?" Charles thought Constantine sounded like a cryptic riddler needing a circumcision, but the words still alarmed him.

Scarier than angels? What kind of backing was that!

God Himself?

"No, why am I the one in trouble, not both of us?" Charles caught the key point, sensing Constantine’s shamelessness.

The guy was quick to distance himself!

Charles glared at his old friend, who continued his shameless act.

"I didn’t kidnap a minor. I’m just a passerby in Metropolis. Tomorrow—no, tonight—I’m leaving," Constantine said, packing up, forgetting the poor woman upstairs. Honestly, he was quick to bolt.

Slapping a talisman on a door, Constantine stepped through and vanished. Charles, still reeling, hadn’t recovered from the shock.

"My car..." He still mourned his most valuable possession.

Charles was used to Constantine’s “betrayals.” After dying a few times, he no longer felt much anger toward him.

The sun sank into the city’s skyline, painting the streets dark orange. Ian parked the taxi on the roadside, not because he’d reached his destination but because a traffic cop stopped him.

"Step out and show your driver’s license," the officer said, eyes professionally wary, especially stern seeing the absurdly young Ian in the driver’s seat.

No choice.

The taxi looked like it had just endured highway bullying, and Ian seemed too young to even qualify for a license.

"Right here," Ian said, shoving the warped door open and calmly pulling out a worn ID holder. He flashed it confidently before the cop, moving it quickly.

So fast it dazzled.

Then he slipped it back into his pocket.

"Hand it over. I didn’t see it clearly," the officer said, frowning suspiciously.

"Officer, you must skip your morning eye exercises," Ian quipped, pulling out the ID again and handing it over. The cop inspected it closely.

It was fake, of course.

But convincing enough to pass. Why? Not because Ian majored in forging IDs, but because he’d “picked up” a little something from Constantine before leaving the house.

A psychic card.

It made others see the right credentials, a handy magical trinket. Ian had noticed Constantine swipe his student ID but didn’t make a fuss. Instead, he honored the law of conservation of matter, boosting Lavoisier’s legacy by “transferring” some of Constantine’s possessions to himself.

"You’re nineteen?" The cop studied the ID for minutes, finding no flaws. Still, he doubted Ian, who looked no older than fifteen or sixteen.

"Yeah, they say I’ve got a baby face," Ian lied without blinking.

"Hm?" The cop, noncommittal, shifted his gaze between the ID and Ian’s face, finally returning it with a strange expression.

"What’s with this car?" he asked, eyeing the taxi’s mangled front.

"Well..." Ian was still thinking up an excuse when the parked car began sliding forward, faster and faster, then crashed into a fire hydrant with a bang.

"Yeah, that’s how it got wrecked," Ian said, thinking the heavens had handed him an excuse.

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