The Coresaken

  Monday, 07:03 PM.

  The city sprawled beneath the balcony, bathed in the golden haze of lantern light. Brass leaned against the railing, watching his daughter twirl in the breeze, her laughter bright and weightless. A paper bird danced in her hand before she flung it into the air.

  "Watch this, Dad!” She called, eyes gleaming.

  Brass gave a soft chuckle. “That thing won't get far if you keep throwing it like that.”

  She grinned and tossed it again, this time with both hands. The wind caught it and carried it farther before it spiraled and dipped. She ran after it, giggling all the way.

  From behind, a voice called, gentle and familiar. “Dinner's almost ready! And get inside before it rains!”

  Brass turned. His wife stood in the doorway, smiling. "Also, there's a letter for you. I left it in your office."

  "Alright, alright," he muttered, patting his daughter's head. "Go help your mum. I'll be right there."

  She groaned playfully, then darted inside. Brass followed—but his path turned, not toward the dining room, but toward the office.

  On his desk waited a plain envelope and a small cylindrical container with a black base, faintly lit from within. The letter inside was short. Handwritten note.

  ---

  I need to personally thank you for your service, Mister Brass. But unfortunately, there is an issue—and it is coming for you.

  I am unforgivingly sorry. I couldn't let this slide, no matter how much they trusted or admired you. The cause was too much to bear.

  —The Mind

  ---

  Hiss—

  A faint release of gas, barely audible, as if the thing had been waiting for him.

  His throat tightened.

  A cough rattled from deep in his chest. Then another. His breath caught, seized by invisible hands. His knees nearly buckled.

  The world around him twisted.

  The edges of the room swam, lines bending in ways they shouldn't. Light flickered unnaturally, casting stretched shadows that crawled along the walls. The air grew thick. Wet. Heavy.

  Then came the whispers.

  They slithered into his thoughts like oil, slick and cold. He clamped his hands over his ears—but it was no use. They crept inward. Beneath the skin. Behind the eyes. Familiar voices fractured and played back in wrong tones—echoes of things he hadn't said yet.

  Brass’s breath quickened, his chest tight. His hands clutched the edge of the desk as if steadying himself against an unseen force. The whispers grew louder, the walls pulsing like they had eyes—eyes that saw him for the first time, and he wanted to look away, but couldn’t. His heart raced, and the room felt like it was closing in, crushing him under its weight.

  Just above the shelf, the glass shimmered faintly. Brass saw himself—or what remained of him. His reflection seemed distant, like a distorted version of himself, barely human. But behind him, something else stood, still and unwavering.

  A figure cloaked in ragged shadow. Its blackish coat hung limp and dripping, drenched in a darkness that seemed to consume the very light around it. A shard of dark crystal dangled from its neck, pulsing faintly, like a heartbeat in reverse—its rhythm out of sync with the world.

  The figure remained motionless, yet it didn’t need to move. It was watching him, and it had always been there, lurking beneath the surface of everything Brass thought he knew. Now, it was simply waiting.

  Brass couldn't move.

  The whispers rose.

  Louder.

  Louder—

  Louder—

  Until the world fell away.

  ______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

  Reed gave the order as his men packed up the field desk. The tunnel glowed with warm lighting, static from the company line humming softly in the background, blending with the steady downpour outside. He barely noticed the approaching footsteps.

  "Better go grab your contractor," Bishop said, phone clutched in hand.

  "What?"

  "Two pings from Red Light Street. Close together." Bishop glanced at his phone, adjusting his shades. "I checked—there was no task on Red Light Street except my unofficial request."

  "Why didn't I get a notification?"

  "Because I registered in the system the night I arrived," Bishop said. "Temporary manager overrides."

  He tapped the screen, showing it to Reed.

  "Don't worry; you still run things. Just under my name."

  "What about this mess?" Reed looked outside the tunnel, where the wrecked trailer and the body lay on the side of the road, now letting out an unpleasant smell.

  "I already told you—do it your way," Bishop said, turning to leave. "Contact the cleanup team or something."

  "I'll send you the location. Get him back to the facility. The container can wait. I'll handle the paperwork."

  As Bishop disappeared around the corner—into the mist once again—Reed called out to his men.

  "Oi, after this load's down at the facility—go find a guy in a black coat, company tie. Trench style. Pick him up."

  "Got it, boss," both men replied in sync, securing the desk and boxes of documents in the back of the pickup inside the tunnel.

  Reed stepped outside, covering his mouth with his hand. The rot was heavier now. It pierced through the thick shower, lingering. He finished his call with the cleanup team just as the truck's engine roared to life.

  No need to speak. He climbed into the back seat. The truck pulled away, vanishing into the night.

  Reed couldn't lean back—his head resting on his hand as he looked at the passing lampposts through the window, taking in slow, deep breaths.

  "Are you alright, boss?" One of the men in the front glanced back.

  "Yeah. Just… something's off about our higher guest.” Reed's gaze stayed on the window.

  "What do you mean?"

  Reed's eyes narrowed, watching the droplets race down the glass. "It's just strange. Why would the organization send someone like him to supervise a single package—through a forsaken site? And the task he gave one of my specialists... I have a feeling it's connected to the container, like he already knew it was going to be stolen."

  "Coincidence, maybe."

  Reed stared at the man, not pleased with the answer—but he sighed, letting the tension fall from his shoulders. "Yeah... coincidence. Maybe.”

  ______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

  Bishop, having left the site early, stood on the dimly lit pavement, phone pressed to his ear. Cold raindrops needled his skin, but he didn’t care to notice. His mind was elsewhere—on the task at hand, and the unsettling sense that things weren’t as simple as they seemed.

  The phone buzzed. The line crackled before a familiar female voice answered—gruff, clipped, slightly impatient.

  "Bishop, what is it?"

  He adjusted his teashades despite the dark clouds spilling above.

  "We've got a little problem," he said, tone almost too casual. "I just came back from the crash site. We found the wreck—shipments scattered, but the package is missing."

  "Mhmm, what news. You realize how important that shipment was? That gas was used to save the lives of our agents. Our people who deal with those—"

  A pause. Long. Measured. Then her voice returned, sharper.

  "What about the high-value rat you're trying to adopt?"

  "I wouldn't wish for the worst, but expecting it hurts less than facing it blind," Bishop replied, like a joke only he understood.

  "Oh, God," she muttered, exasperated.

  "I’ve sent a sector specialist on that job. I used what I could find." His eyes followed droplets sliding down his shades. "The organization didn’t give a damn. And the people who were supposed to help? They’re betting on me to fail. ‘All Operators occupied—not even one left.’ That’s what they said. You should know. I heard them cheering in the back."

  "I didn’t send you to the field to prove you’re righteous. You had a role in the backline. The important one. But you walked away from it—for your little adventure. Whatever."

  “You know what’s funny?” he said after a long pause, the irony curling his words as he flicked a pebble across the wet pavement. “This whole mess? I’m here ‘cause the Stakeholder and the Council told me to be.”

  Silence fell between them, thick and deliberate. Then she sighed.

  “Yeah… not buying that bullshit. The task report says requested to be there.” She shifted her weight. “Send me the paperwork. I’ll have another lot prepped—maybe next week. But this time? You’re not supervising.”

  "Aw." His disappointment sounded fake enough to be mocking.

  "Just get the fucking paperwork done."

  Her tone was all tired of jokes, but he caught the smile beneath it.

  "Of course," Bishop muttered, smiling to himself.

  He ended the call, drifting toward the edge of the pavement. Just past the bushes, a narrow white passage awaited—quiet, ancient, almost breathing. The concrete gave way to pale stone, worn and veined, as if the city’s skin had peeled back to unveil a long-forgotten tether to something higher.

  Bishop walked on—blinded by the night.

  No lampposts lit this overgrown road, and the moonlight lay trapped behind a thick curtain of black clouds.

  Only the dim glow of his phone's torch danced along the tangled leaves, tracing the path ahead like a thread through a dream too old to wake.

  It was an abandoned path—so forgotten, even the night insects stayed silent. Only the rain spoke, rapping gently against the pale stone like a memory trying to return.

  At the path's end stood the Coresaken—a temple long overlooked, even after its discovery by the organization.

  Bishop pulled a folder from beneath his coat, his eyes drifting over the document.

  Setting the folder aside, he carefully picked up the stone artifact and stepped toward the temple's center.

  There it was: a massive stone cube, roughly the size of a hatchback, half-sunken into the ground like an iceberg. Its surface bore intricate carvings in a language the world had long forgotten.

  “Here goes nothing,” Bishop murmured to himself, gently fitting the Zippo-sized artifact into a perfectly sculpted frame.

  —click.

  A silence mechanism whirled beneath the unknown.

  A pale glow pulsed from within—crawling outward, seeping through the ancient carvings. The light moved like spilled ink in water: slow, calm, deliberate. It threaded through every glyph, as though the stone were reliving its own remembrance.

  From those glowing etchings, faint particles began to lift—motes of pale light, no larger than dust, rising into the air like lost memories stirred from sleep. They drifted slowly, lazily, as if moved by a wind that didn’t exist. When they passed near Bishop’s face, they gave no warmth—only the faintest tingle of unfamiliarity.

  Then the stone began to dissolve, like dust shedding from a dream. Each fragment lifted skyward, fading before it ever touched the ground. And in its place, left untouched at the very center, was a smooth platform—no higher than his knee—flat and polished, as if time had never laid a hand on it.

  Resting on the platform lay a stone—glassy and pitch black, like frozen ink beneath moonlight. Wrapped around it seamlessly, a single thread of deep ebony traced its curve, delicate as a breath held too long. Wisps unfurled from the thread—pale and slow—drifting like fragments of an old dream exhaled by the stone, rising to the surface.When he brushed his fingers across the thread, it didn’t resist—it welcomed his touch, soft as a whisper in the dark. Not cloth, not wire... something more ethereal.

  “So the organization's myth is true.”

  The stone pulsed faintly as he raised it closer, the mark of a long-gone empire reflected in the lens of his shades. Bishop cradled it in his palm, turning back toward the entrance. As he moved, the layers of the temple responded—each step igniting a pale white glow beneath his boots, as though the ground itself recognized him. The light followed, tracing his path like memory reborn, fading slowly behind him as he passed.

  The stone's quiet luminance remained steady in his hand, its glow untouched by the rain that spilled from the heavens. With every step down the elegant staircase, the temple lit around him—soft, rippling light blooming across ancient sculptures and forgotten walls, as if the path itself bowed in silent reverence.

  As though he was not finding the stone, but fulfilling a vow etched into the marrow of the world.

  A lingering shimmer, like an answer to that vow, guiding him through the echo of something once divine.

  “Some ghosts stay quiet… until they know your name, and they had spoken mine,” Bishop murmured, the weight of the stone in his hand suddenly more real. The rain thickened, swallowing him into its mist, but the stone’s glow clung to him—a lone beacon in the dark.

  ______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

  The elevator hummed.

  A different kind of silence rose—metallic, pressurized.

  A man in a wet brown cloak tilted his head slightly as the numbers climbed.

  The violet glow of his eyes flickered in the steel door, watching his own blurred reflection—as if searching for something hidden behind the blur.

  Ding.

  A lifeless thud of two bodies greeted the opening.

  “What a great welcoming.”

  He stepped forward—rain-soaked, cuff-draped, unbothered.

  Silence reigned again—the kind that came with bulletproof glass, silk carpets, and the quiet authority of a man who owned too much to fear anything.

  The kind of money that washed everything clean... except his conscience.

  The suite didn’t speak loud.

  It whispered—through blood-signed deals behind double-locked doors, through smiles that never reached the eyes.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Rain still clung to him, dripping from the ends of his sleeves—those relic-bound cuffs resting loose on his wrists like forgotten chains.

  A gun cocked from across the room.

  Erevan didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

  Then came the man in the yellow-striped suit, with something burning behind his eyes.

  He adjusted the knot of his yellow tie, knuckles pale with pressure.

  Fingers dragged slowly across the fair-length beard covering his square jaw—restrained, but itching to move.

  His polished shoes struck marble with a rhythm that promised violence.

  Just a step in front of Erevan—

  Without a word, he stormed forward and grabbed him by the collar, slamming him against the glass wall hard enough to rattle it.

  The chill of the glass seeped through the soaked cloak.

  “You think this is a game? Making a deal and just killing off?”

  “What about it?” Erevan didn’t even blink.

  “I’ll show you what it's about.”

  A hand struck, snapping Erevan’s head to the side.

  Before he could straighten, his collar twisted—Bloke slammed him to the ground.

  Bloke stepped closer, undaunted by the man now lying beneath a crown of broken pride.

  “A man of business. An old friend—whom you just killed.”

  He paused, voice low with restrained heat.

  “He had the best life between us all, and you took it away. So tell me...”

  He leaned in.

  “What makes your life so valuable?”

  The man in the soaked coat slowly pushed himself up, showing no trace of frustration—like he didn’t feel the burn trailing down his cheek.

  “I didn’t kill him—”

  The words barely left his throat before another strike crashed into his stomach.

  He staggered—but before a breath could be caught, he straightened again, spine rigid.

  His face showed nothing. Barely a flicker.

  Like pain was beneath him.

  “A man from the company did. Same guy who killed your ‘Chinatown Brothers’.”

  “What... How did you—”

  “Long story short—the package stolen by your man was noticed. Now it’s been issued to the company. They’re after you... after your throne.”

  Silence crept in, thickened the air, as the man who believed in his absolute authority paused—and replied.

  “What company? And how do I even know it’s real?” His tone was full of frustration, almost mocking.

  Erevan looked up, catching Bloke’s eyes—unflinching, unbothered.

  “There’s something coming for both of us. You just haven’t seen it yet.”

  Bloke scoffed, pacing a step back.

  But Erevan kept talking, voice low like a whisper meant only for the walls.

  “I came for a deal. I need your men. In return, I’ll lead you to something old—something your enemies would burn cities to bury.”

  He tilted his head slightly, as if listening to something just behind his ear.

  “And if you think I don’t know who’s moving against you... ask your Chinatown brothers. Oh, wait. Dead people can’t speak.”

  Bloke halted, his reflection bending across the marble—sharp suit, firm stance, and a sliver of doubt he couldn’t quite shake.

  “What did you say?”

  Erevan smiled—not wide, not smug.

  Just enough to show he meant every word.

  “I said you’re not ready for the war that’s already begun.”

  Bloke stepped forward again, slower this time.

  The heat in his eyes didn’t burn—it calculated.

  “You’re bluffing.”

  “Then call it.” Erevan gestured faintly with his cuffed wrist, rain still dripping from the edge like a ticking clock.

  “Ignore the whispers. Bury the bodies. Pretend the walls aren’t listening.”

  His eyes sharpened.

  “But when your empire cracks—when the ground beneath your men folds like paper—you’ll remember this moment.”

  A beat passed. Then another.

  Erevan leaned in, voice just above a breath.

  “Now... do we talk business, or do you keep throwing punches while your enemies count your hours?”

  “What do you want?” Bloke asked, signaling his man to lower the pistol.

  Even a lion won’t survive the hunter... unless the mouse it once spared comes back to help.

  “A task force.”

  “How many?”

  “Four or five. Armed.”

  “Done,” Bloke answered, firm and final.

  He nodded toward his men.

  “Lead this man out of my facility.”

  Then, with a half-step back, his voice dropped low enough to linger—just before the elevator doors sealed shut:

  As the harshly invited guest left, a phone slipped into Bloke's hand.

  Flames spilled across the floorboards—sharp with the scent of chemicals, smoke, and incendiary oil—crawling up the walls.

  The wallpaper curled. The table cracked.

  One of Brass’s old coats caught fire on the hook, flaring like a flag before turning to ash.

  Within minutes, what had once been home to shadows and the loved one bloomed in orange and black—a pyre of unfinished business.

  The fire swelled.

  A window burst—shattering outward as if the house itself exhaled one last time.

  ______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

  Tuesday, 04:02 AM.

  A soft beep echoed—faint and rhythmic.

  Like a countdown that didn’t know what it was waiting for.

  Rowan opened his eyes to a ceiling washed in artificial white. Thin tubes taped to his arm, machines humming at a polite distance. The kind of silence that wasn’t peaceful—just careful.

  He blinked once. Twice. Then squinted at the shadow sitting by the doorway.

  No guards, no sirens—just a glass of water and a blinking red clock.

  04:02 AM.

  He tried to sit up—pain licked at his ribs, hot and patient.

  His breath caught halfway. Not from the pain.

  From the memory.

  Chinatown. The alley. The brothers. The crash. The thing that looked at him through the smoke.

  And something else—

  Things he couldn’t tell were real—or just made up by fear.

  The last clear memory: the black van, the rain, and him stumbling toward it like life itself depended on it.

  His eyes drifted to the IV drip. A slow, steady fall of liquid—mechanical, unbothered.

  The shadow by the door didn’t move. Maybe it wasn’t a person at all. Maybe just a coat on a hanger.

  He didn’t care enough to check.

  Nothing felt right. Not his body. Not the room. Not the sharp, chemical-lingered air.

  Not even the fact that someone must’ve saved him—and chose not to say a word.

  The shadow rose from the dark, adjusted its collar, and spoke in a lazy, drunken tone.

  “Finally awake? Goddamn… what time is it?”

  The figure shook its head and stretched like he'd just slept through a bad movie—not stood guard over a near-dead man.

  “You know,” he muttered, “some people wake up and cry.

  You? You sleep through an explosion and still look bored when you open your eyes.”

  The man stepped into the light—unbothered.

  His hair was a mess—short and spiked, like it never got the chance to stay neat. The face beneath it was sharp but tired, caught between focus and frustration. The kind of man who looked like he’d just gotten out of a mission or just woken up from a nap—maybe both.

  A tactical hood half-tucked over a plain tee, black joggers hanging low on his frame.

  His eyes were as black as ink—looking at Rowan like someone already mourning a death that hadn’t happened yet.

  “Your contractor’ll be happy to see you… alive,” he said, already halfway out the door before Rowan could ask a single thing.

  Then—silence.

  A few seconds passed, but they stretched like an hour. Long enough for thoughts to start breathing again.

  Questions he couldn’t even say out loud—just hold onto. Like wishes he wasn’t sure he deserved answers to.

  The door opened again.

  This time, a familiar voice greeted from afar.

  “Good morning, Mister Voss.”

  Bishop entered the room alone, a sleek tablet tucked beneath one arm.

  “We finally met... face-to-face.” He smiled and sat down on a chair, opposite Rowan. “Sorry for the inconvenience, but you need to answer some questions before we let you go, Mister Rowan.”

  Rowan raised his arm, but it was stuck—clung to the rail of the patient bed.

  “What happened in that place?” The question shot across the room like a bullet. “What did you see?” His tone was simple and casual… but it wasn't the same.

  Rowan’s eyes lingered in silence—lost in thought.

  A picture of the nightmare painted itself behind his eyes.

  He exhaled slowly through his nose.

  "Death," he said quietly. "A family. A woman and… a little girl."

  Bishop glanced down at the screen—eyes scanning on something. “Hmm. What about the father, why did you kill him?”

  "It was self-defense," Rowan said, staring down at the dried blood on his shirt.

  "He rushed in with a knife."

  He hesitated—"He wasn’t even fully conscious. I shot him in the leg, but he still crawled... that crippled leg dragging behind him... towards me.”

  Bishop didn’t blink. “Still, the task required you to establish contact with the subject. “So what justification do I list for the unauthorized neutralization?”

  He answered flatly, “Hallucination.”

  “And why do you think, Mister Rowan?”

  "I suspected some kind of toxic chemical hazard—" Rowan's voice faltered, not sure if he believed it himself.

  “Ok, that’s enough.” Bishop cut him off, uncuffed Rowan and sat back on the chair.

  The cuffs clicked open. He groaned as he tried to sit, the burn lodged beneath his ribs flaring up. He kneaded his numbed wrist—starved of blood.

  “Now tell me more,” Bishop leaned forward, resting his elbows on his laps. “What else did you find in that place?”

  "A veil," Rowan muttered, pressing a hand lightly against his chest, feeling the ache. He coughed once—dry, but sharp. "It had the organization's mark on it."

  Bishop looked at him, eyes filled with tension—his boot began tapping against a ceramic tile.

  "Ok, let’s talk about our contract," Bishop said, intentionally shifting the topic. "You will work for me for a total of 336 hours—approximately two weeks, or until the task’s done. I’ll deduct the three hours you spent on the unofficial task."

  Rowan’s voice was quiet. "And my freedom?"

  "Yes. I’ll grant you credits—an exclusive token for that," Bishop replied, eyes still fixed on the tablet. "You can request anything from the organization. Anything you wish for."

  He pushed the tablet toward Rowan. "That's the contract. Kindly check all the details before you consider signing it."

  Bishop smirked—a smirk with no warmth behind it.

  Was it a warning, or just a show of carelessness? Rowan couldn't tell.

  He reached out. As his fingers touched the tablet, the overhead light flickered.

  Both noticed. Neither said a word.

  Rowan skimmed the contract—barely caring, just another piece of paper—until a line of text made him pause, thumb hovering over the print scan.

  His thumb hovered above the screen—the words began to blur.

  Somewhere behind his eyes, a field stirred—a slow breeze across old grass. A face drifted through the light, half-turned in a memory he didn’t dare chase.

  Finally, Rowan pressed his thumb against the screen and handed the tablet back to Bishop.

  “Thank you," Bishop murmured. "The contract is now officially in the system. My apologies, but I have to head off now."

  He turned toward the door.

  “Wait," Rowan called after him. "What about the evidence? The veil?”

  Bishop paused at the door frame, glancing back over his shoulder.

  “It was in your coat, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah?”

  "We already took care of that. Don’t worry."

  He reached for the handle. “I’ll send the doctor in to check on you. Once you’re cleared, they’ll return your coat—and your tools.”

  The door clicked shut behind Bishop, leaving Rowan alone with the low hum of the machines.

  For a moment, he just sat there, the tablet’s cold glow still faint behind his eyes.

  The room felt larger now, somehow emptier, the silence stretching wide.

  Rowan shifted to the side of the bed, wincing as a slow ache rippled from his ribs.

  His fingers brushed the edge of the thin blanket — clean, stiff, too clinical.

  He let out a slow breath, feeling it catch slightly in his chest.

  It was done.

  Signed.

  Sealed.

  There was no undoing it now.

  Before the thought could settle deeper, the door swung open again.

  A woman in a crisp white coat stepped in, an X-ray copy in one hand. She barely glanced up as she spoke, her voice neutral, almost bored.

  "Vitals check. Shouldn’t take long. We already finished the important parts while you were unconscious."

  Rowan nodded stiffly, watching her move, detached — like he was watching someone else's life instead of his own.

  She checked his pulse, flashed a light in his eyes, asked the usual questions he barely processed.

  "Headache? Dizziness? Any memory gaps?"

  "No more than usual," he muttered, voice rough.

  She made a note without a smile.

  Her pen scratched across the clipboard, ticking boxes he couldn't see.

  "Minor bruising. Fluid in the lungs. Cracked ribs," she muttered, more to the chart than to him. "Nothing unexpected."

  Rowan let his gaze drift around the room.

  The shadows in every corner of the room seem wavering, growing bigger and shrinking smaller.

  He blamed it on hospital air, though a quiet part of him wondered if it was something else.

  He didn't say a word.

  "You'll be discharged in an hour. I recommend staying in the facility for a day or two," said the woman, flipping the file closed.

  "I’ll write a prescription for penicillin and painkillers. If you’re stubborn enough to get back into the field early, I can add a stronger analgesic stim to the list."

  "Thank you," Rowan said, plainly, automatically. Barely felt the IV being pulled free, just another thing to endure before getting out of here.

  Without a word, the doctor left the room. Another staffer entered, carrying a set of black clothing. He handed Rowan a case with his coat folded neatly on top. Rowan took it and set it down on the bed as the staffer quietly exited.

  He sat there for a long moment, staring at the coat folded on the bed.

  A sigh broke from him—quiet, reluctant—and he pushed himself upright, ribs tightening as if the weight of the brutes still hung from him like invisible chains.

  He picked up the coat, thumbed the worn fabric once, then pulled it on carefully.

  A jolt of pain stabbed through his shoulder; he flinched, stiffened, then shoved his arm through anyway, forcing the weight into place.

  Rowan turned to the grey case beside him. The lock clicked open—inside, a pistol lay nestled in black foam, two filled magazines lined up beside it, but no sign of his karambit.

  He picked it up slowly, inspecting the sight and slide with an absent mind. Inserted the mag.

  Racked the slide; the gun snapped a round into the chamber—and he grabbed a spare mag, slipping it into his pocket before holstering the gun under his coat.

  The soft scrape of his footsteps left the patient room behind, fading into the soulless corridor.

  The hall stretched in front of him, silent, forgotten.

  Rain blurred the window pane at the far end, city lights blinking faintly through the morning fog—a thousand lives outside, too distant to reach.

  He had been here before, but for how long... even he couldn’t tell anymore.

  He moved slowly through the hall, passing door after door.

  The patient rooms looked lifeless, emptied of air and memory—left behind, as if even time had forgotten them.

  Even the overhead lights were out, the hallway breathing in shadows.

  Only a dim glow waited at the end—the elevator, humming faintly, the only sound still alive.

  The number above it read: 34th floor.

  As he reached for the elevator button, Rowan felt it—a pulse, low and far away.

  A sound, or maybe just a memory of one. Metal on metal.

  Or a heartbeat — too slow, too deep to be his own.

  He glanced once down the empty hall behind him.

  Nothing. Just the old lights flickering, tired.

  Still, he hesitated—

  The elevator doors slid open with a hollow chime of silence, swallowing the moment whole.

  He stepped inside, pausing just long enough to glance back—not because he cared, not really.

  But somewhere, in a place even he had stopped reaching for, he still touched.

  For a moment he just stood there, the weight of old hours pressing against him, the emptiness reaching out like a hand.

  Then he stepped inside.

  The elevator doors slowly closed behind him.

  ______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

  Tuesday, 04:56 AM.

  On the other side of the facility — beneath the building — groups of people milled about: contractors, mercenaries, and general staff, each minding their own business.

  Engines hummed not far off, black vans parked in rows, men in full gear rested their rifles in the open backs.

  Nearby, a forklift grumbled past, hauling a heavy crate into the rear of a waiting trailer.

  Among them, a man from the higher-ups sat quietly, pulling on a pair of leather gloves, preparing to head outside.

  "How is he?" Reed asked, lounging nearby with his head resting on his fist, eyes flicking between Bishop and the phone in his other hand.

  "The doctor said he'll be fine," Bishop answered, adjusting his coat.

  "The paperwork?"

  "All done." Said Bishop, putting on his teashades.

  "Where are you headed, anyway?"

  "Just a confirmation procedure," Bishop said. "To check what trace he left during the task last night in the Red Light street. Maybe the cleanup team will find something useful."

  "Yeah, I could use some info too. Ink—drive him there."

  "What?" Ink, half-dozing in the corner, snapped awake at the sound of his name.

  Both Bishop and Reed looked at him—not harsh, but firm enough that Ink understood he didn’t really have a choice.

  One was a man several years younger but already commanding absolute authority. The other spoke calmer, lighter—but Ink still couldn't shake the feeling he was outmatched.

  "...Alright," Ink muttered, his voice slurring like he’d just crawled out of a bottle, dragging himself toward the elevator.

  Bishop followed, blinking like he was watching a man sleepwalk into traffic.

  In front of the city facade, a black SUV sat waiting for them, engine idling low.

  Ink touched the driver-side handle, unlocking the car. But before he opened it, Bishop called out from a few steps behind.

  "You sure you want to drive? You look dead on your feet."

  "The manager told me to drive you, so."

  "Oh, don’t worry about that. He just wanted you to help pick up intel, that's all."

  Ink's face stayed blank, unreadable, like he was weighing it in his head.

  "Catch."

  The keys flew. Bishop snatched the remote mid-air as Ink moved around to the passenger side without another word.

  The SUV stopped at the end of the Red Light Street; two other black vans were parked before them.

  Bishop got out of the car and walked towards the cut-through; ash flakes billowed—clinging to the wind—slowly falling down on the damp street.

  The man who had been watching over the patient overnight was still slumped in the car, the half-opened door hanging beside him—yawning, digging his fingers into his scalp, dragging them hard across his skin, trying to scrape the drunken sleeplessness out of himself.

  Finally, with half-sleep, half-awake perception, he followed Bishop quietly in the distance. His steps were heavy, dragging, his body still trying to adjust to the cold bite of the morning air.

  Bishop moved ahead without a glance, calm and steady, hands buried deep in his coat pockets. The ash from the wreckage seemed to have settled on everything—on his collar, his sleeve, on the edges of his clouded breath. Every movement punctuated by the chill of wet concrete pressing against his boots.

  On the otherside of the cut-through, at the far end of the alley, a cleanup crew was already at work, black-clad figures under harsh lights, their gloved hands moving with mechanical efficiency. One of them peeled off and began walking toward them, lifting a gloved hand in greeting.

  The air smelled like rain and decay, the kind of wet that clung to your bones, the damp that seeped into your skin and settled deep inside your chest.

  As they crossed into the deeper parts of the alley, the fog thickened. A soft wind carried the scent of the damp earth, mixing with the sharpness of tar and metal.

  Every step seemed heavier, as if the city itself was trying to pull them back into its grimy folds. The tarps ahead flapped in the wind, stretched over the remnants of last night’s flame. The cleanup crew was still moving efficiently, but it didn’t feel like they were erasing anything. The wreckage was alive in the damp morning light, as if it might bleed into the new day.

  Bishop nodded once, then glanced over his shoulder. His voice was sharp but soft enough not to carry too far.

  “Keeping up.”

  The man stumbled again, his vision flickering, and for a brief moment, the city felt like a distant echo, the outline of Bishop ahead of him becoming blurred as his mind wavered between sleep and waking. He could hear the hum of the generators, the faint shuffling of boots against the wet asphalt — but they sounded so far away. His head spun, and for a moment, he wondered if he was still inside the car, still drifting.

  It was only when Bishop’s voice sliced through the fog that he snapped back to reality, the sharpness of it grounding him once more.

  “You’re still with me, right?” Bishop didn’t turn, his words more an observation than a question. But it cut through the man’s haze, dragging him forward again, step by step.

  Bishop’s coat brushed against the charred door frame. Debris filled the corners of the room; the walls were blackened and peeling, scorched by the flames.

  The furniture had fallen, as if someone had dragged them—just a little deeper into the wreckage of what once was someone's cozy home. Three bodies lay across the floor, one separated from the others.

  The corpses were burned black and rotting, barely recognizable. A cleanup staff member was taking photos of them until he noticed Bishop by surprise.

  "Are you the higher-up they all talked about?"

  Adjusting his teashades, Bishop replied, "Yeah… do you mind telling me what you found and showing me around?"

  "Of course, sir," the staffer said, leading him forward.

  Bishop glanced over his shoulder again—Ink was still a few meters behind, barely near the entrance.

  "Alright. Show the way."

  The staff moved across the ruins and pointed to an open door.

  "This is the office, sir."

  Inside, two other men in black uniforms were at work: one searching for any evidence that had survived the fire, the other standing off to the side, overseeing the search.

  The office was no better than the rest of the house—reduced to black ash. A toppled office chair sat in the middle of the floor, its legs and wheels melted, the leather of its backrest split open, the cushions charred beyond saving.

  The wooden shelves had been licked by the flames, leaving behind cracked wood and half-melted handles, hardly able to open as one of the men struggled with them.

  The man who had been commanding finally noticed Bishop and greeted him with a crooked smile.

  “Oh, who else could it be? What else can I say—ashes to ashes, sir.”

  Bishop inhaled deeply, and something caught his attention, a faint smell of newspaper? Something was here, something he suspected might be the main reason for he’s heret in the first place.

  “Did you check for chemical levels?” Bishop asked, hands still deep in his pockets.

  “Uh, we didn’t run tests yet, but I don’t think there’s any need. Though, it looks like the place was torched with incendiaries from one of our own contractors.”

  Bishop paused, thinking for a moment, then answered shortly before leaving the room, “Just do it.”

  The staffer led him to the scorched wooden stairs by the entrance of the house. They both walked up to a small balcony, each step creaked and cracked softly against the weight.

  On the second floor, two rooms on the right were being cleared by other staffers of the team.

  Bishop glanced through the broken door frames, just enough to glimpse inside.

  At the end of the tight corridor, Ink leaned against the railing, his eyes drifting far beyond Chinatown. He glanced back at them with a faint, almost detached expression.

  “It’s still warm.”

  Bishop stepped forward with a slight, casual smile. "Made it here, finally." His gaze shifted down to the blackened floor, taking in the broken toys scattered beside the railing.

  He took a breath of the cold breeze and turned back to the staffer. "Just wrap this up, send me whatever you found useful. And you, Ink—follow me downstairs."

  Ink sighed, rubbing his eyes as he followed him with a slight frown.

  As they moved toward the kitchen, a staffer stood just behind the entrance

  A knife slammed into his throat.

  The figure behind him, cloaked in a tattered brown garment, was barely a blur, pulling the blade free in a swift motion, then vanishing into the shadows.

  Ink snapped awake, his sleepiness gone in an instant.

  “Hey!” A voice shouted from the office, but it was already too late.

  They tore through the kitchen, past the crumpled body, into the shattered guts of the house. The city opened up ahead—harsh concrete, cold air—and the alley's shadows stretched toward them like grasping hands.