Chapter 1- The flickering lights

  The sun bled its final, bruised rays into a starless sky, a slow surrender before the horizon’s dark clouds rose to claim the remains. It looked as if the sun itself was forsaking the world to the heavy clutches of an absolute night.

  In the pernicious expanse of this world, the streetlights spasmed in the distance, flickering. They were like erratic heartbeats of light, bleaching the tattered asphalt in a golden hue only to snap shut, and light again.

  In the midst of this stuttering glow, a cranky, aged voice shattered the stillness.

  "Hey, boy! Get out of this store right now! We're already past the curfew!"

  "But just give me a minute, sir, I just need to—", the young man wanted to try and explain himself, but the plea was cut short, followed by the harsh sound of a body hitting the pavement.

  The young man landed hard on the butt, heralding a swirl of dust that danced in the light of the shop’s entrance. Then, with a violent, metallic rattle, the shutter slammed shut.

  Lying there in the silence, he turned over, pressing one palm to the cold grit of the floor. With his other hand, he began a frantic sweep of the ground, searching for the one familiar accessory he had lost in the scuffle.

  "Cranky old man," he muttered, his voice a low rasp against the quiet. "You followed the rules and all, yet you dare abandon a boy to a freaking night."

  The boy continued to search the thing while stirring up more dust, his fingers finally met the cool frames of a pair of black sunglasses.

  It was unusual for people to wear it during the night time yet the moment he slid them into place, the panic in his chest receded. The glasses gave a faint, rhythmic buzz; a subtle glow traced the edges of the lenses before they settled into a steady hum.

  Suddenly, the lightless world before him instantly snapped into a sharp, artificial clarity, the abyssal darkness of his vision cleared giving a replacement to his once lost perfect sight.

  He let out a long, steadying breath.

  Straightening himself, he brushed the filth from his clothes and surveyed the hollow street. To his relief, he was the only soul left to witness the embarrassing scene.

  He folded his arms, his thumb finding the dial of his seemingly ordinary watch. With three rhythmic clicks, a ripple of light ran through the glass, and a holographic map shimmered into existence, floating like a ghost above his wrist.

  He marked the shop's location with a jagged red X.

  "Add this junkyard to the list, Polo. We'll deal with him later," he said, his voice barely a whisper carried off by the wind.

  The light of the map dissolved, and he stepped back into the shadows. As he walked, the streetlights stopped flickering altogether as each one sputtered and died in a sequence of mechanical gasps until the road was left to the faint, uncaring silver of the moon.

  The asphalt lay uneven and tattered, dark and still except for the echo of his own footsteps and the faint breeze.

  If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  All this stillness and the deserted feeling was because of the curfew.

  It was a time when only authorized personnel were permitted to pass, a rule enforced for the “safety” of the citizens. That was why people so rarely stepped out after nightfall.

  Shops, workshops, and markets stood closed and hollow. No one dared to wander beyond their doors, for fear seeped into every corner. What waited in the shadows could scar a mind forever, and those unfortunate enough to witness it rarely lived to tell the tale. Only death ever heard their stories.

  It all began a few decades ago. The world changed overnight, and no one could stop it. Governments fell, never to rise again. Continents vanished, swallowed whole and erased from maps. Since then, the inevitable cycle continued-blood, pain, hardship, and the slow crawl toward extinction.

  Pure destruction reigned for years until the Trios rose. No one knew who they truly were or how they claimed their power, but under their banner, the remnants of humanity fought back against the darkness.

  Cory paused by a jagged perimeter fence, his gloved fingers tracing the cold steel. "No claw marks on the barricades," he murmured, his voice low. "Not even a shriveled leaf. The local guilds are actually earning their keep for once, keeping the rot at bay."

  ?Static hissed in his ear before Polo’s voice crackled through the comm's. "Boss, you know you don't have to do the ground-pounding. That’s what we have grunts for. You literally just got back."

  ?"The North American cleanup was a mess, Polo. I needed the walk," Cory countered, starting his pace again. "Besides, I’m supposed to be heading back to assist my father anyway. This is my chance for some peace and quiet for a while."

  ?"Peace and quiet?" A metallic scoff drifted through the line. "Several Awakened and a dozen equipped squads handle that sector every day. Why bother playing tourist in the slums?"

  ?Cory’s gaze drifted, as he took in another sight. "You know why. I can’t exactly learn how the world actually breathes while fighting a war and then coming back and sitting in some comfortable fortress."

  ?"Comfortable? You just killed a Doom-ranked Tourres creature on the way back from the States. That’s a feat for the history books, Cory. You've earned a bed that isn't made of dirt."

  ?Cory’s expression darkened, the golden tint of his glasses reflecting the empty, tattered street.

  "Polo. Drop it."

  ?"Just saying..."

  ?"I need to walk among them," Cory said, his tone turning sharp. "Their problems... if I don't understand the small stuff, I have no business leading the big stuff. They aren't just statistics on a briefing glass."

  ?"Yeah, noble as hell," Polo shot back, his tone turning playful. "As if you didn't just get your ass kicked by a sixty-year-old shopkeeper two minutes ago. Real 'Doom-slayer' energy there."

  ?A genuine chuckle broke through Cory’s stoic mask. He shook his head, looking back at the dark silhouette of the shop. "Yeah, yeah... I walked into that one. The old man’s got a hell of a foot, it was fun in a way."

  ?"I'm logging it as your first defeat of the season," Polo laughed.

  ?"Log it and I’ll have your clearance revoked," Cory smirked. "Anyway, I’m circling back toward the town square, We’ll discuss the sector improvements when I get in. See you soon."

  ?"Sure thing, Young Master," Polo replied, the title dripping with sarcasm.

  ?Cory’s smirk widened. “Call me ‘Young Master’ one more time, and I’ll remind you why...”

  ?A final, crackling laugh echoed through the device. “Understood. Stay safe, Cory.”.

  The line went dead, leaving Cory alone with the silence of the dying streetlights. He continued to move with silent precision, every sense sharpened to a jagged edge. Even for a man who had stared down a Doom-tier horror in North America, he knew that a single breath of negligence could be his last. So he trod his every steps with caution.

  ?Then, a sound cut through the rhythm of his own heartbeat.

  It was—a wail, a fragile, broken echo that swallowed the silence in a lament. Soft sniffles followed, then the almost inaudible whimper of a woman. His grip tightened around the hilt of his dimly glowing dagger, the engraved runes humming against his skin as he moved toward the source.

  ?Rounding the corner of the abandoned street, Cory slowed, peering cautiously from the shadows. His eyes widened. It was neither a monster nor a siren luring prey; it was a lone woman huddled against a rusted light post.

  ?She looked less like a person and more like a ghost caught in the moonlight. Tears streaked across her porcelain skin, leaving shimmering trails that vanished into the dark shadows bruising her eyes. Most striking was her silhouette; her head was swathed in layer upon layer of coarse black linen, bound so tightly with faded ribbons that not a single strand of hair could escape its prison. It was a painful, claustrophobic constriction that threw her deathly pallor into sharp relief. Yet, even in the gloom, her eyes held a strange spell—irises laced with a bluish-green tinge like brilliant jewels.

  ?She wore a tattered Renaissance cloak, sun-scorched and battered, looking like a relic long past its prime. In her trembling hands, she clutched a diary and a faded photograph of her parents. She used her long sleeve to wipe away a fresh streak of tears, sniffling softly, unaware of the eyes watching her.

  ?Suddenly, the air thickened.

  ?Cory watched with deepening concern as the small sprouts of grass near her feet began to shrivel and dry, curling inward as if stripped of life. He felt his combat edge surge, the familiar instinct he'd honed slaying a hundred horrors.

  ?Taya felt it too—a tightening suffocation gnawing at her throat. Beneath the tight wrappings, a deep muscular ache began to throb, sharpening into a million needle-pricks of rebellion. The hair trapped under the linen twitched as if coming alive, straining against the bindings. Dizziness swayed her vision, but she forced herself to stay upright, bracing for the unknown.

  ?That was when Cory saw it. Ten feet above her, clinging to the ruins and drinking the very light from the air, a Tourres creature coiled. It pounced.

  ?"Get down!" Cory roared, bursting from his cover.

  ?Disoriented and overwhelmed by the chaos gripping her body, Taya failed to comply. She turned toward the voice just as a dagger etched with glowing runes flashed through the air, lightning-fast. The blade missed her cheek by mere centimeters, the cold wind of its passage biting her skin before it slammed into its true target with a sickening thud.