The dying billionaire paid a mysterious street kid to take his terminal pain away… But he forgot that energy can only be transferred, and his arrogant son was standing right behind him.

I filmed everything from war zones to fashion weeks, but nothing prepared me for that night at the Plaza Hotel. I was working camera for a charity gala hosted by Richard Sterling, a tech mogul who was rotting from the inside out.

Everyone was waiting for Sterling to die. When he finally entered the ballroom, he didn’t walk; he shuffled, supported by a massive bodyguard and a cane. His face was a map of agony. He stopped in the center of the dance floor and ordered the music off.

Sterling pulled a duffel bag filled with cash from his bodyguard and kicked it. “There’s a million dollars in that bag,” he wheezed, addressing the stunned crowd of socialites. “Cold. Hard. Cash. I’m making an open offer. One million to the person in this room who can take this pain away for ten seconds. Just ten seconds! Do I hear a taker?”

The silence was suffocating. Then, a movement near the kitchen doors.

It was a boy, maybe twelve, wearing a faded grey hoodie. He walked straight up to the billionaire. “I can do it,” the boy said, his voice cutting through the room. “I can stop the pain. But the price is the money. All of it.”

Sterling sneered, but desperation won out. “Deal. But if this is a trick, I’ll destroy you.”

“I’m Elijah,” the boy said simply. He took a deep breath. “This is going to hurt. Not you. Me.”

Elijah placed his hand firmly on Sterling’s shoulder.

CRACK. It sounded like a dry branch snapping inside Sterling’s body. Sterling let out a primal, guttural shriek—the sound of something leaving him. Through my camera lens, I saw veins in Sterling’s neck turn necrotic black, pulsing violently. The blackness traveled down his shoulder and into Elijah’s hand.

The boy didn’t scream. He gritted his teeth, knees buckling, absorbing the sickness like a vacuum. Then, abruptly, Elijah gasped and snatched his hand back.

Sterling collapsed. For a moment, we thought he was dead. Then, he pushed himself up with a clean, strong push-up. He stood straight, the grey pallor replaced by healthy, pink skin. He took a deep, clear breath.

“My god,” Sterling whispered, his voice booming. “It’s gone.” He looked at Elijah with terrified awe. “What are you?”

Elijah zipped up the duffel bag. “I’m just the collector.”

“You cured me. You’re a miracle worker.”

Elijah shook his head, looking incredibly tired. “I didn’t cure you, Mr. Sterling. Energy cannot be created or destroyed. It can only be transferred.”

“Transferred to who?”

Elijah pointed toward the VIP table at the back of the room. We all turned.

Sterling’s twenty-five-year-old son, Jason—the healthy heir apparent—was slumped over the table, his skin gray, his body convulsing, his mouth open in a silent scream of agony.

The scream that finally tore from Jason’s throat wasn’t human. Richard Sterling stared at his newly rejuvenated hands, then at his writhing son. “No! Jason!” He scrambled toward him.

A doctor yelled, “Don’t touch him! His nerve endings are hypersensitive!”

The disease had jumped hosts. Sterling turned back to the center of the room, eyes wild. “He did this! That demon poisoned my son! Seal the doors! Don’t let him leave!”

But I had been filming Elijah. I saw him slip out the service entrance while everyone watched Jason die. I grabbed my camera and ran for the kitchen.

I found Elijah in the rainy alley behind the hotel, sitting on a dumpster, clutching the money bag. He was counting seconds.

“You swapped them,” I said, approaching slowly.

“It goes to the nearest blood,” Elijah said, his voice devoid of emotion. “That’s the law. If his son wasn’t there, it would have gone to his brother. If no family, it comes back to me, and I die. I checked the guest list.”

“Why?”

He opened the bag. On top of the cash was a Polaroid of a frail woman in a hospital bed, her skin translucent gray. “My mom. She has it too. The same fire.”

Elijah explained there was a doctor in Switzerland with a treatment, a stasis chamber that cost a million dollars just for the waiting list. Sterling had fired his mother years ago when she got sick, letting her rot. Elijah had just balanced the books.

“We have to go,” Elijah said, seeing flashing lights. “Drive me to the airfield upstate. If I get far enough away, across the ocean, the connection snaps. Jason lives. My mom lives.”

We fled in my news van, but Sterling had resources. “Cleaners”—corporate mercenaries in tactical gear—hunted us. After they disabled my van, Elijah used a terrifying burst of energy to jump-start a vintage Porsche in a parking garage. We tore north, dodging Sterling’s private security forces on the highway.

Elijah was fading fast. Every use of his ability drained him. We barely made it to the abandoned airfield where an old Cessna waited in a rusted hangar.

I dragged Elijah, now semi-conscious, to the plane. But as I fumbled with the controls, a sleek black helicopter descended, blocking the runway.

Richard Sterling stepped out, flanked by armed guards. He looked vibrant, healthy, and absolutely terrifying. He walked right up to the hangar.

“Fix it,” Sterling commanded, his voice amplified by a megaphone. “Take the pain back. My son is screaming his throat raw because of you.”

Elijah stumbled out of the plane, small and frail in the rain. “If I take it back, I die.”

“Everyone dies, kid. You die, my son lives. That’s the trade.” Sterling extended his hand. “Touch me. Pull the fire out of Jason and put it back where it belongs.”

Elijah took a step forward. I kept the camera rolling from the cockpit.

Elijah stopped arm’s length from Sterling. “You forgot the second law of thermodynamics, Mr. Sterling. Entropy. Things fall apart.”

“Just do it!” Sterling snapped, grabbing Elijah’s wrist.

The moment skin touched skin, the air in the hangar screamed.

A violet shockwave blasted outward, shattering the plane windows. Sterling tried to pull away, but they were fused.

“I’m taking the pain from Jason!” Elijah yelled over the roar of energy. “But I’m not keeping it! I’m closing the loop! You wanted to live forever?”

The veins in Sterling’s arm didn’t turn black; they turned bright, molten gold. His body began to stiffen, his skin turning a shiny, terrifying gray. Like stone.

“I’m giving you everything!” Elijah cried. “Jason’s pain! My mom’s sickness! All of it! And I’m locking the door!”

With a final crunch, Elijah ripped his hand away. Sterling didn’t fall. He froze. He was kneeling, face contorted in a mask of unspeakable terror, mouth open in a silent scream. He wasn’t dead; I could see the frantic pulse in his neck. He was paralyzed.

Elijah leaned against the plane, exhausted. “He’s hyper-sensitized,” he whispered. “I gave him all the nerve damage, every firing neuron, and froze his motor functions. The air feels like fire. His heartbeat feels like a hammer. And he can’t move. He just bought an eternity of hell.”

The mercenaries looked at their frozen boss, then at the boy. They lowered their guns and left in the helicopter.

Jason Sterling was cured instantly. Richard Sterling was found days later, still kneeling in the hangar. Doctors say he is experiencing more sensory pain than any human in history, unable to be sedated or moved. He is a living statue of agony.

I uploaded the footage. The world saw the truth. Elijah disappeared. He left the million dollars in my van, taking only enough for two plane tickets. He left a note: “Energy never dies.”