For as long as he could remember, John loved sword fights. Well, he loved watching them on television from the safety of his home. There was a certain feel to them, something that got his heart pumping and him exhilarated. Duels were the climax of any movie, a showdown between the valiant hero and the dastardly villain, both combatants dancing around the stage, weaving in and out to score the finishing blow. Some fights had a deeper meaning, others were spectacles to watch. As great as they were, John was aware of how unrealistic movies were with their fight scenes. They were choreographed, purposefully drawn out for thrills, and only ended when the plot demanded it. No amount of foresight could have prepared him for what he was about to witness.

Blades clashed. Sparks flew. The world dissolved into a blur as the two combatants barrelled towards each other, each stroke of the blade flashing like lightning, faster than the last, followed by the cacophonous clang of metal on metal. Such a thing would've been beautiful to read from the words on a page, but watching it unfurl first-hand made John realise just how warped his perception was.

It wasn't poetic or beautiful.

It was messy and violent.

There was no grace in their footwork. They were unbalanced, stumbling more often than not, barely catching themselves from tipping over. Real battles were not fought for honour, nor for the entertainment of the masses. No, these were two men desperate to kill each other. And John was caught in the crossfire.

Perhaps it was a good thing he wasn't physically fighting; otherwise the nerves would have ended him on the spot. On one hand, there was something surreal about the body moving on autopilot. He was a whole different person, stronger, older, performing techniques he'd never had, never seen, yet they came to him naturally, burned into memory, like he'd practised them a thousand times before. His attacks were strict, conservative, the movements kept to a minimum, nothing like the telegraphed swings he had seen on television. It was to be expected. They weren't there to put on a show, but John couldn't help but stare in awe at the skill on display.

He was a spectator on the sidelines, watching from the fighter's perspective, experiencing everything they did, save the mental strain that came with exertion. That wasn't to say John didn't feel the effects of their duel. His muscles burned, numbing further under the stress of fending off the devastating blows. It hurt. A lot. But the body bore through the pain. On a side note, this could've been useful under different circumstances; extensive manual labour, for example. Then again, having no control over his actions made every attack aimed at his life all the more terrifying. Either the strike was parried in time, or it cleaved him in half. His odds of survival were left purely to chance.

Either fate favoured him, or the dice were rigged. There was no telling how long it had been since the fight started, but he remained relatively unscathed, avoiding the relentless onslaught by hook or crook. His opponent was aggressive, pushing with jabs too fast for the naked eye, but John countered with attacks of his own, only for them to be blocked in turn. It was a stalemate. Both combatants were evenly matched, and their efforts only served to exhaust one another. No blood was shed throughout the fight thus far, though John had a feeling that was about to change.

Something within the man snapped. A guttural growl escaped his throat, his features twisting into an ugly snarl. His eyes flashed dangerously, and he surged forth with renewed vigor. John was immediately forced on the defensive, the second wind catching his body off guard, having been too used to the previous tempo. The attacks came faster, raining down like an oncoming storm, threatening to crush him beneath its might. The man was finally giving it his all, putting all his reserves into a last, desperate attempt to break through. It left him with gaps in his defences, but John couldn't exploit the openings. His body was already in overdrive working to regain lost ground. Still, he was adapting to the change. He traded blows with his adversary, flurrying his weapon like a propeller blade to match. It kept his opponent at bay, but the reprieve wouldn't last.

John could feel his breath grow ragged. Simple movements sent reverberating pain up his arms, his muscles screaming under the stress, undoubtedly close to failure. It was only a matter of time before they gave out, and John prayed with all he had that they would last a little longer. He was suffering enough with his body on the verge of collapse; the pain of being run through was not something he wanted either. His opponent wasn't faring much better. The man was red-faced and drenched in sweat. He sagged like a deflated balloon, exhaustion finally taking its toll. Even so, he persevered, rushing in with his sword held high. He bought it down. John caught the blade with his own, staggering from the sheer strength behind it, but locking their swords in place. This fight would come down to the wire. The revelation didn't excite him like it normally would have, not with his life on the line. There would only be one victor—the loser—dead.

It happened so fast. The man pushed suddenly, sweeping his blade up to break the bind. John stumbled backwards, his arms flailing in an attempt to right himself. He regained his footing just in time to block a slash aimed for his head. That was the last straw. His arm gave way, nearly pulled from its socket, falling limp at his side, his weapon hung loosely between dead fingers. It lost all feeling, save the agonising burn of torn muscle, unresponsive to all his commands, not as if he'd ever been in control to begin with. John watched haplessly as his body swooned on its feet, too fatigued to continue, utterly spent from restless combat. It ached all over; everything hurt. His opponent didn't hesitate. He saw his chance, closing the distance in an instant, his sword levelled to pierce his chest. And this time, John couldn't stop it.


He woke up in a cold sweat, clutching the mattress for dear life, his knuckles whiter than the sheets themselves. His breaths were heavy and laboured, his heart pounding against its cage, threatening to burst. He was dying, wasn't he? The sword struck true; there was no way it could have missed. He was probably bleeding out by now, his life force slowly ebbing away, consciousness fading... except it wasn't. His eyes scanned the vicinity, recognising the familiar interior of his bedroom.

John let out a sigh of relief. He was back home, safe. No forest. No battle. No deranged psychopath trying to run him through. Even so, John couldn't help but be wary. His fingers gingerly traced the skin where the sword had slashed him, expecting pain to erupt at the slightest touch. But no, there was no wound, no scars to indicate what had happened. He let out a sigh. It was just a dream. He already knew that, but the sensations felt all too real. For a moment, John thought he was going to die. It was too graphic to believe otherwise, like he was genuinely there, fighting tooth and nail just to live a little longer.

His attention shifted to the open window, the curtains billowing as a cool breeze flooded into the room. Sunlight filtered through the slits, casting a golden glow that bathed him in its warmth. It was still early in the morning, around the time he normally got up and prepared for school. However, that left him running off three hours of sleep, which was not ideal for focusing in class. Hell, it'd be a miracle if he made it halfway down the road without passing out. John was drained of energy, and the bed beckoned him to stay. It was tempting to just lie there. He felt so comfortable, his body sinking deep into the mattress, threatening to give in to his drowsiness. He didn't want to leave, but alas, that was not for him to decide. Reluctantly, John pried himself off the bed, kissed the luxury goodbye, and fell back into his routine.

As was standard procedure, the first thing he did was make the bed. He folded the duvet and plumped the pillows, placing them symmetrically on either side of the mattress. Next, he changed into something more presentable. He kicked off his sneakers and replaced them with black brogues, his tracksuit given up in favour of jeans and a polo shirt. He even took the time to brush the knots from his unkempt hair, then tied it all back into a loose ponytail. The curtains were flung open; the window closed. After everything was said and done, he checked his reflection once again before leaving. Sunken features stared back. He felt no less tired than before, but he at least looked less like a zombie. Ah well, it would have to do.

He dragged his feet out of the bedroom, only to stop halfway across the landing to see an imposing figure guarding the bathroom entrance. They spoke loudly into a cell phone, and John couldn't help but be embarrassed when he didn't immediately recognise them. Lawrence Peterson had certainly seen better days. He wasn't the type to snap at a moment's notice, but given the situation, his loss of composure made sense. Everything from his torso up was soaked. His usually well-groomed hair was matted and plastered down his face, giving him the appearance of a certain someone from The Ring. His shirt clung heavily over his frame, water gathering where it sagged most and dripping sporadically onto the carpet. He paced back and forth, visibly frustrated, but he masked it remarkably well.

It would've been quicker to squeeze past him, but John knew better than to interrupt their conversation. He really wanted to wash, but it wasn't worth the risk of getting scolded over. Instead, he opted to stay put and awkwardly wait for the older man to finish. Apart from his father's curt responses, which rarely spanned beyond "Yes" or "Okay," he was unable to hear much of the exchange. Lawrence ended the call five minutes later, looking displeased as ever, and John chose now to make himself known.

"What happened?" he asked. His patience had worn thin, so one must forgive him for his tactless approach. "You're soaking wet."

Lawrence cast him a sidelong glance as he approached, and the boy shivered from the eye contact. John liked to think he'd gotten good at judging his father's moods, but even he couldn't place the odd expression on the older man's face. He didn't seem angry, nor was he particularly overjoyed at the sight of his son. If anything, John would say he looked surprised. Or suspicious. It was gone the next instant, his features fading into the collected calm they were more suited to. The man scrutinised him a little longer before replying.

"A pipe burst," he said. "I just called the plumber to fix it."

"How did that happen?"

Lawrence shrugged. "Perhaps a blockage of some sort? I wouldn't know. I'm not an expert."

"Ah, right."

John allowed himself to relax. Inwardly, he couldn't help but wonder whether the older man knew something he shouldn't have, but chose not to express it. "Can I still wash up?"

"You'll have to wait," his father said, wiping some residue from his lips. "I suppose you could do it at school. They have a restroom, don't they?"

John frowned. "That doesn't sound very sanitary."

"Well, that's a shame," Lawrence said indifferently. "We'll have to do without then."

He sighed melodramatically, not unkindly, though his tone suggested he couldn't care less. Suddenly, he added, "Say, are you busy later?"

"Why do you ask?"

"You'll be going to middle school soon," his father continued. "I was thinking we could get you some new clothes."

At that, John couldn't keep a straight face. Clothes shopping was the scourge of existence, an activity so mind-numbingly monotonous it made mathematics sound exciting. Every trip was the same; they went from store to store, his father stripping the clothes racks bare and forcing him to try everything on, after which he'd be sized up like a dress-up doll and given another uninteresting garment to wear. This would repeat for hours until his will to live was completely gone. He'd rather sit and watch paint dry.

"What's wrong with this?" John asked, tugging at the fabric of his shirt. "I'm sure this will suffice."

"You're a growing lad. It's not going to fit you forever," Lawrence stated. "We'll need to get you something bigger. Maybe some new shoes too."

John grimaced further. "And when will this be?"

"After school, I'll meet you at the gates."

God damn it.

"But must it be today?"

"I don't see why not," Lawrence said. John opened his mouth to protest, only for the half-formed excuse to die in his throat. It wasn't like he had anything productive planned for the afternoon. There was no genuine reason for him to avoid going, not without sounding extremely selfish. As he lamented his misfortune, his father suddenly remembered that he was still wet. "Now if you'll excuse me."

He gathered up his drooping hair and squeezed past his son, retreating into his bedroom. The door clicked shut behind him, and John was left alone on the landing. He stood like a doll in suspended animation, still digesting the information fed to him. School already took much of his valuable time; now it was reduced further. He should be spending his afternoon doing something he enjoyed, rather than wasting it on trivial matters. Well, he could seethe all he wanted; it wouldn't change the outcome. His father's decision was final. He'd just have to find a way to cope. After all, there was a whole night of research for him to look forward to.

It was a shame he had to wade through six hours' worth of work to reach that point. School would've been more bearable if he had the option of choosing his subjects, but no, they made him learn everything. Who in their right mind would willingly study maths? John swore it existed for no other reason than to inconvenience him and give students something to dread. Of course, the teachers would drone on about how it might benefit him in the future, in case he changed his mind, despite how adamant John was about what he wanted. Even then, the reward was not worth the struggle. Oh, you spent years destroying your mental health from studying calculus? How wonderful! Now here's a job to waste the rest of your life on! It was a lose-lose situation. He never understood how any adult was okay with such a fate.

And there he was, sat at the back of the classroom, his eyes flitting from the blackboard to the clock, willing it to strike the hour already. He tried to pay attention to his teacher's lectures; he really did, but his heart wasn't in it. The equations were too intimidating, looking closer to Mandarin than anything remotely comprehendible, not to mention he was distracted, but not by the monsters outside for once. His mind kept wandering back to last night, specifically the dream. It had no right to occupy his thoughts this much. He'd had realistic dreams in the past, most of which were oddly disturbing, but it was this one that bothered him the most. And that was all thanks to one detail.

From what he could recall of dream theory, it was supposedly impossible to come up with a completely original idea without using something similar as a starting point. Thus, if the subconscious cannot envision a person you've never met before, then who was the mysterious man in his dream? John knew of people with green eyes and black hair. It wasn't an uncommon trait to possess. His rational side would suggest that their physical features were taken as inspiration and used to create this character. All else that had been present were the by-products of movie scenes from television, meshed together to form the chimaera he'd witnessed.

His younger self would have accepted this as the truth without skipping a beat, but he knew better than to believe that now. There was not a single instance he was aware of where a dream invoked this much emotion within him, much less the bloodthirsty brute determined to hack him to pieces. John remembered the rising dread of bracing for each attack, anticipating the moment his blade would fail to parry in time. And the man's expression, unbefittingly pulled into one of pure hatred, radiating off him in waves, was too genuine to be anything but real. Frankly, the mere thought of him was unnerving.

The bell rang, and John all but sprinted out of the classroom. He was dead set on leaving as soon as possible, but was immediately met with resistance. The hallway was flooded with bodies, and he found himself wading through a sea of people, the smaller students trampled underfoot. He was fighting a raging current, and inevitably, he got swept away, forced to go along with the flow until an exit was found. The entrance doors burst open like a breached dam, and half the school poured into the open like fish out of a barrel. Even with so many people moving at once, John could still make out the vague shape of his father among the masses. Lawrence waited by the school gates, standing tall with the other parents, waving him over from across the parking lot. The passing cars were uncaring whether they flattened any children or not, and with John forced to evade one every ten feet, the fact he made it out alive was a miracle in its own right.

Alas, the tenacious task of shopping for clothes was yet to come. Desperate to get it over with, John set off towards town in post haste, quickening his steps until he was on the verge of running. His father easily kept pace with large strides of his own, keen to fill the silence with pointless queries about how his day had been. John would respond to each one accordingly, but only out of necessity. He detested the constant probing. Even if he had nothing to hide, it felt like an invasion of privacy. Well, there was the whole monster fiasco, but his father needn't know about that. Perhaps the older man just wanted to make small talk, but it was getting tiresome fast. He kept his answers brief, limiting them to the good old reliable "Yes" or "No." If Lawrence had even the slightest inkling of how to read the room, he'd understand his son's reluctance to speak and thus would stop forcing him to do so, hopefully for the rest of the trip. No such luck. His father refused to take the hint.

There was always the option to discard all courtesy and outright tell the old sot to shut up, but if John learned anything over the course of his short life, it was to never bite the hand that fed him. Not from personal experience, of course; he'd never directly acted hostile towards his father in the past. Hell, he couldn't remember an instance in which he was yelled at. Still, he preferred to keep it that way. It was better to stay in his good graces than test his temper.

When they finally reached the plaza, his father wasted no time in dragging him into every store the town had to offer. His terrible taste in fashion was on full display, and John bore the full brunt of it when various garbs were thrown his way. His attempts to convince Lawrence that pink and grey didn't go together were ignored, and as time dragged on, he began to get the impression that the older man secretly enjoyed his suffering.

There was no other explanation. Why else would he keep this up for so long? The constant trips to and from the locker room ate away at his resolve, as did the minutes spent waiting for his father's verdict. He was never satisfied. It didn't matter whether the clothes fit or not; he wouldn't stop until every pair was tried and thoroughly tested. His cruelty knew no bounds.

"How about this one?" Lawrence suggested, plucking a fluffy red jersey from the clothes rack. He turned to give it to his son, but he wasn't there. Within the span of a few seconds, John had managed to put a good twenty metre distance between himself and his father, not to mention he'd somehow scaled a series of shelves and clung to the highest one, hissing like a startled cat. "Uh, John?"

"No! No! No! I refuse to try that!" John barked, his eyes wide and wild as they fixated on the jersey. It was ugly. No, scratch that; it was an abomination: a cardinal sin given form. No sane man would willingly wear that and hope to keep his dignity, not when it looked like it was skinned from the hide of some terrible beast. Whoever thought this was a good idea should've been shot dead.

"Besides, it wouldn't fit me anyway," he quickly added.

Lawrence blinked slowly, staring stupidly at his child. He was still in the midst of processing what happened, yet miraculously, he shook off his stupor, adopting a stance that exuded some level of control over the situation. It was admirable, if a little brazen.

"That's the point," he said eventually. "You're meant to grow into it."

"I might not," John countered. "What if I stopped growing?"

"At ten years old? I have my doubts."

Damn. He got him there.

"Do I need to try it on though?" John whined. "We already have enough."

He gestured to the bags piled at his father's feet, each emblazoned with the logo of some off-brand fashion outlet. They were bulging, tearing where the fabric was weakest, ready to burst from the volume of things stuffed into them.

"Come on, just one more," Lawrence promised. "After that, we'll go right home, okay?"

His tone made it clear this was the best offer he was going to get, but John still wanted to argue. Was there really no other way out of this? He looked over at his father. Lawrence looked back expectantly. Oh dear. He was going to wear that thing whether he liked it or not. John hated the lack of alternatives, but the chance to go home sooner was too good to pass up. So, very reluctantly, against his better judgement, John dropped down from his safe haven and landed in a battle crouch. He crept forward, slowly inching toward the jersey, all the while maintaining eye contact with his father. He was mere feet away when, with the swiftness of a striking cobra, he snatched the article of clothing and pulled it on.

Within the few seconds it took him to pull the garment over his head, it became very apparent the jersey was way too big. It smothered him like a Christmas blanket, the loud and obnoxious red contrasting sharply with his attire. The hem sank far below his knees, and his hands vanished beneath its sleeves. He looked ridiculous, and it was much to his horror that his father agreed, as the older man couldn't quite suppress his amusement in time.

"Actually, that would probably fit me better!" Lawrence laughed, mirth dancing in his eyes at the absurdity of the scene. John knew it was meant in jest, but he couldn't control the emotions swirling inside him. He squirmed on the spot as his father mulled him over, his bashful expression only hidden by the large turtle neck concealing the lower half of his face. This wasn't a big deal; it shouldn't have bothered him so much, but even after all the things he'd seen, it still did. He was hot with embarrassment, his cheeks burning as bright as the jersey itself. It was only through great effort that he managed to keep his composure, though anyone who listened closely enough could hear his anguish. Thank goodness there were few people in the store to notice, otherwise he would've had a full-blown aneurism. John knew he was overreacting, but what else could be done when his own body acted against his will?

"You want to try it?" John scoffed.

"Oh, no, no. I was just saying," Lawrence replied, coughing into his fist. "What size is it?"

"Sixteen."

"So it's not that much bigger," he mused. "I'd say if we give it a few years..."

"I would never wear it."

"Why not?"

"It's an eyesore."

"Really? I think it looks good on you."

"Then why were you laughing earlier?" John snapped. The smile faded from his father's face, and he immediately regretted lashing out. The older man looked genuinely hurt, like the accusation had gotten under his skin, burrowing deeper like a worm, reaching his heart and tugging at its strings.

"I didn't mean anything by it," Lawrence said softly.

"I knew that," John breathed. He winced at his choice of words. It wasn't a lie, but that only made things worse. He'd been aware from the start that no harm was intended, yet his pettiness still got the better of him. He'd lashed out over nothing, and it was solid proof of his immaturity. "It's just..."

Why hadn't he stayed quiet? He should've had better control of his emotions by now, and this was the consequence of failing in that regard. He struggled to find the right words to justify his actions, but his father beat him to the punch.

"I know, maybe I was a little insensitive," Lawrence admitted. "I should've considered how you'd feel about it."

"No, it's fine," John said guiltily. "I was being awkward. It's my fault, really."

"What I did was out of order," his father said abruptly. "And for that, I'm sorry. I promise it won't happen again."

"Great," he mumbled. "Can we go now?"

"Hold on, I still have to buy these," Lawrence said, making a show of the clothes draped over his arm. John bit back the urge to groan, but his father seemed to sense his discontent anyway. "Don't worry, it won't take long. I suppose you're hungry after doing this for a while."

"Food does sound nice," John murmured.

"Yes, I'm feeling a bit peckish myself," Lawrence hummed in agreement. "I have a pizza in the freezer. We can have that if you want."

"I think I'd like that."

"Then it's settled," his father said, a smile gracing his lips once more. "Come on. The checkout's that way."

A wave of relief washed over him, and John all but tore off the ludicrous jersey, throwing it to the floor and stomping on it before joining his father in the queue. The line thinned quickly with fewer customers than usual, another reason for him to be happy, and they were soon exchanging pleasantries with the cashier at the counter. As tradition demanded, Lawrence greeted her with an award-winning smile, one she gladly reciprocated by baring her fangs and... wait.

John went rigid. His breath caught in his throat, the air growing miasmic as all pretence of safety vanished. How could he forget? He'd been so caught up in the moment, so absorbed in his own ravishment, that he'd forgotten the most obvious danger. The one thing he'd committed his time to; the reason for his research. He'd let his guard down at the most crucial point, and now his negligence was going to cost him. A fresh flood of acute terror racked his body. Adrenaline flushed through his veins. His knees knocked, weakening to the point where a conscious effort was needed just to stand. Something in his gut plummeted, almost dragging him down with it, and as his eyes travelled up to meet that of the cashier, it took all his willpower not to look away.

Her disguise was good, almost enough to give him pause. Had his senses not been screaming for him to run, John would have been completely oblivious to her true nature. That was, if she'd put in the effort to hide it in the first place. Her teeth were a dead giveaway. No human had such long canines, nor did their tongues flick in and out like a serpent thirsting for its next meal. Hell, for all he knew, the woman... no, the monster could have been doing just that. There was a certain feel to her; impatient, hungry, like a wolf in sheep's clothing, all the more eager to end this charade and reveal her true colours in a blaze of viscera and gore. Yet she kept up her farce, scanning each item with the proficiency of a woman who'd been doing it for years. The cashier acted like someone just doing their job, though that only spoke of her high experience. How many people had she baited, luring them in under the guise of normalcy, only to pounce at the first instance of weakness?

"That will be twenty dollarssss," the cashier said, flashing Lawrence a toothy grin, fangs and all. "Cash or card?"

John could have laughed. He could have cried. The monster was not subtle whatsoever in her attempts to blend in; her slurred speech was an obvious indicator of some abnormality, but the older man was as ignorant as ever. As Lawrence fished for his wallet, John found his eyes locking with the monster's. Reptilian pupils bore into him, knocking the glass of the window to his soul, scouring, searching, for all intents and purposes unknown, and their gaze held for some time, neither party willing to break away. Why that was, he didn't know, but it wasn't until his father exclaimed, "Ah, I've got it!" as he retrieved his credit card, that their attention split. Lawrence swiped it across the terminal. A beep confirmed his payment, and the cashier bagged the clothes and handed them back to him.

"Here issss your receipt," she said, placing the scrunched paper in his palm. "Have a good day, ssssir."

"Thank you," Lawrence replied without skipping a bit. "You too."

And so, without a care in the world, he spun on his heel and waltzed out of the store. John was quick to follow suit, his legs working at a pace beyond his comfort zone, and even with his back turned, he could sense the monster's eyes on him all the way to the exit. He spent more time looking behind than ahead on the journey home, his paranoia reaching new heights at the idea of being stalked. Thankfully, she hadn't followed them. This came as no comfort, however. In the shadow of his father's healthy complexion, John was chalk white. The colour was drained from his face, absolving the skin of its rosy hue. He staggered rather than walked. The adrenaline hadn't quite left his system, leaving him unsteady on his feet, almost falling over twice. It wasn't until he stepped inside the house that the hormone wore off, but it left him with little energy to spare.

He was in bed before six. John had never willingly retired that early before, so it was no surprise when his father came to check on him later. He had the perfect excuse ready, chalking it up to their trip having sapped him of his energy, and he was in dire need of rest as a result. After all, he could not perform well in school if he was running on fumes, especially with his future at stake, or whatever. Lawrence accepted his story, reluctantly, as John noticed. There had been a flash of doubt in the older man's expression, though it lasted less than a second, he saw nonetheless. His father's suspicions had been roused. This confused John greatly. His story was plausible enough. For what reason would his father not believe it? Surely he didn't suspect his son of hiding anything important from him. Lawrence stood at the foot of his bed, studying him with worrisome eyes, but chose not to probe further. He exited the room after a brief farewell and left his son alone to stew in his thoughts. And stew he did.

John thought back to the cashier, the way her eyes stared into his, filled with the same voracious hunger. She was a monster, a monster in human skin. They could disguise themselves. Not perfectly, but enough to fool the general populace. This was concerning, and the implications were many, none of which were good. What were the odds he'd passed by one without even noticing? What were the chances they'd infiltrated his school, disguising themselves as a student or even one of the teachers? Was there a monster among his classmates?

He waved the thought aside. This was not a good time to lose himself to self-made delusions, not with what was about to come. The sun was setting fast. His second night of research was approaching, and he was going to make the most of it. Thus, he pulled the rucksack from under his bed and began making preparations.


Author's Note:

Chapter 3 has come to an end. I know these last few chapters seem kind of long-winded and boring, but don't worry. The exciting stuff will start very soon, hopefully with the next chapter, depending on your definition of the word.

See you next time for Chapter 4!