The Healer of Hollow Street

Chapter 2 — Viral Hands

Someone was pounding on the door. Not polite knocking, hammering. Rashford blinked at the ceiling.

Morning light leaked through thin curtains; his phone vibrated on the nightstand, buzzing like a trapped wasp. “Rash! You up?” his mother called from the kitchen.

“Trying to be,” he croaked. “What’s the noise?”

“Half of London!” Evelyn’s voice trembled. “You’d better see for yourself.”

He dragged on a hoodie and shuffled to the front window. The street below was crawling with cameras, vans, microphones.

A woman with red-rimmed glasses shouted, “We just want a statement, Mr Cole!” Another held up her phone.

Rashford muttered, “Brilliant. Fame before breakfast.”

He cracked open the door. Flashes exploded. “Rashford Cole?” a reporter barked. “The delivery man who healed a crash victim?”

“I didn’t heal anyone.”

“We have footage!”

“Then watch it again,  maybe you’ll see common sense.”

A second voice: “Is it true you’re a doctor without a license?”

Rashford laughed nervously. “Mate, I barely afford plasters.”

Cameras surged closer. His mother pushed through, shielding him with her apron. “Enough! My son’s done nothing wrong!”

“Mrs Cole, does he have special powers?”

Evelyn snapped the door shut and bolted it. Inside, the flat felt smaller, hotter. Rashford paced the narrow hallway. “Mum, I swear I didn’t mean”

“You used it, Rash.” Her hands trembled around a teacup. “After all these years hiding, you used it in front of everyone.”

“She would’ve died!”

“I know. But they’ll come. The same way they came for your father.”

Rashford froze. “You really think this is the same?”

“I think you’re on their radar now.”

He sat opposite her, rubbing his palms. “Maybe I can control it this time. Maybe I can do some good.”

“Good doesn’t matter to men who want to own what you have.”

Silence hung. The kettle whistled; neither moved. Down the street, reporters still shouted questions. Evelyn turned on the radio, every station played the same clip: “Miracle Healer on Hollow Street.”

Rashford groaned. “They even gave me a title. Fantastic.”

“Turn it off,” she said.

He did. But the buzz didn’t stop, his phone vibrated again: messages from coworkers, strangers, old schoolmates.

You really did it? Mate, are you some kind of angel? Teach me how, bruv!

He tossed the phone onto the couch. A gentle knock interrupted. Different rhythm this time, polite, uncertain. Evelyn frowned. “Don’t answer.”

“It’s probably a customer.”

“Rashford”

He opened the door an inch. A young woman stood there with a brown paper bag and a camera strap over her shoulder. “Delivery for Mr Cole,” she said brightly.

“I didn’t order anything.”

“Free promotion. New sandwich shop. Mind if I hand it to you personally?”

Her eyes flicked past him, scanning the cramped flat, a journalist’s eyes.

“Look, miss, I’m not giving interviews.”

“I’m not with them,” she said quickly. “Name’s Maya Thompson. The Daily Metro. Off record, I swear. I just want to understand what happened out there.”

Rashford hesitated. She didn’t look like the vultures outside, no microphone, just curiosity. “You saw the video?” he asked.

“Everyone did. You touched that woman’s leg, and it fixed itself.”

“It looked that way, yeah.”

“So what really happened?”

He exhaled. “What really happened is that I panicked and did what I knew. Maybe adrenaline. Maybe luck.”

Maya studied his face. “Luck doesn’t realign bone in ten seconds.”

“You sound convinced.”

“I’m convinced you’re scared.”

He almost smiled. “Smart guess.”

She passed him the sandwich bag. “Keep it anyway. I’ll find you again when you’re ready to talk.”

And she left, no questions shouted, no flash. Just a quiet promise. Evening crawled in. Reporters thinned out, replaced by streetlights and drizzle.

Rashford finally stepped outside, hoodie up, heading toward the corner shop. Two kids spotted him. “Hey, healer guy!” one shouted. “Do me next! Got a sprained wrist!”

“Go home,” Rashford said gently. “Eat your veggies. Works wonders.”

They laughed, running off. He smiled despite himself, then saw a figure leaning against a lamppost, watching.

Tall, black coat, phone in hand. The same car from the morning idled nearby, headlights off. Rashford’s pulse jumped.

He pretended not to notice, paid for milk and bread, walked back slowly. The car engine hummed to life behind him.

Inside, Evelyn was knitting by the window. “You were followed,” she said without looking up.

“You saw them too?”

“They never really stopped watching our family.”

Rashford set the milk down. “Mum, you’ve got to tell me what you know about Dad.”

“Not tonight.”

“Mum”

“Not yet.”

Her tone silenced him. Across town, in a glass-walled office, Dr Victor Halden stood before a projection screen replaying the crash footage. His assistant hovered nearby.

“Pause there,” Halden ordered. The frame froze on Rashford’s hands glowing faintly in reflected firelight.

The assistant swallowed. “It matches the records from Project Seraph, sir.”

“Name?”

“Rashford Cole. Twenty-seven. Father: Marcus Cole, deceased.”

Halden’s lips curved. “The prodigal gift returns.”

“Do we approach?”

“Not yet. Observe. See how long before he realizes what he truly is.”

He clicked off the screen, leaving the room in shadow. Back on Hollow Street, Rashford locked every bolt on the door. The night pressed against the window, thick and watchful.

He sat on his bed, flexing his hands. Tiny tremors of light rippled beneath the skin, faint as heartbeat sparks. He whispered, “What are you doing to me?”

Outside, tires hissed on wet pavement. The black car was back. Its engine idled, headlights off. A silhouette stepped out, slow and deliberate, coat brushing the rain.

Rashford stood, heart hammering. The stranger stopped under the streetlamp and looked up toward his window. Their eyes met through the drizzle.

The man lifted his phone, took a picture, and drove away without a word. Rashford stared after the disappearing taillights.

Somewhere deep inside, the hum in his palms flared again. stronger, sharper. He didn’t know whether it was warning him… or waking up.