Morning light filtered weakly through Draekall's iron-scratched sky, casting brittle beams over campus cobblestones still damp from fog. Virehill Polytechnic stirred awake like a beast reluctant to rise. Bells chimed somewhere too far away to seem real. Most students trudged between buildings in half-conscious rhythm, muffled under scarves, headphones, and exhaustion.
Erian moved through them like a ghost.
His coat hung loose off his shoulders, threadbare at the cuffs. He walked with no particular urgency, head lowered, watching the cracks in the pavement instead of the people. Something about the cold seemed off today: not biting, but strangely hollow. Like air that forgot how to warm anything. He didn't know why he noticed it. He didn't know why it bothered him.
Behind him, students laughed and shoved each other around a bulletin board cluttered with flyers. Someone argued loudly about coffee. Another threw up a folded pamphlet for a guest lecture: "Memory as Structure Dr. Halden Mire." Erian glanced once, then looked away.
A siren cut the air.
Not a long one. Not a drill.
Sharp, quick pulses: three in a row.
It froze him in place.
At first, no one else reacted. Then came the ripple: students turned their heads, voices dropped, phones came out. It wasn't the emergency alarm used for monster incursions. It wasn't a fire evacuation either.
Then came the second round of sirens: longer, echoing off the buildings. This time, students started moving. Fast.
Erian stood still.
He turned slowly toward the main avenue, where a group had stopped just ahead. Between their shoulders, he saw them: MK-A units, two of them, stomping toward the lower gate. Lights pulsed from behind, bouncing against windows and hissing past cornered alleys.
Behind him, someone hissed, "That's East Platform. They're headed to East."
"East Platform?" Nina's voice.
Erian turned.
She stood with Rhett, both walking fast. Rhett looked tense, Nina looked furious, but not at him. At the noise. At the way people were already whispering.
"I thought it was just an equipment malfunction," Nina said, but the way she said it meant she didn't believe it.
Erian's eyes followed the MK-A units until they passed out of sight.
"It's not," he said quietly. "It's something else."
They stood in tense silence. More sirens passed in the distance, different pitches. Students murmured to one another, some pulling out phones, some already heading toward the gates.
"Someone said they found a body," Rhett muttered. "Overheard it from the security desk."
Nina snapped her head toward him. "What?"
"Body. Like dead. Apparently right near the alley behind East."
Erian's stomach turned. "Do you know who?"
"No."
Rhett shook his head.
Nina stared hard at the street, her eyes narrowing. "People die in this city. That's not new. But not here. Not on our doorstep."
Rhett shrugged, but tension clung to him like a second skin. "I mean, it was bound to happen. We're practically on the edge of the Chasm Line."
Erian didn't hear them after that. Not clearly. A thought bloomed, sharp and uninvited.
He saw the spiral scratched into steel weeks ago. The dream. The door that appeared and vanished. Mire's voice, echoing: "Imagine the inverse. A place that remembers you."
Something about this wasn't just violence. It was connected.
He stepped forward.
"Wait," Nina grabbed his arm. "You're not seriously going."
"I need to see."
"Erian, they'll arrest you if you get too close. MK-A doesn't play nice when they're doing crowd control."
"I'm not getting in the way," he muttered. "I just need to see."
"Why?" she demanded. "You're not a cop. You're not even a reporter. Why does this matter to you?"
He didn't answer.
Rhett, unusually quiet, looked between them. Then, reluctantly, he said, "Let him go. He's going either way."
Erian gave him a grateful glance.
Nina stepped back but crossed her arms. "Fine. But if they hit you with that electric baton thing, I'm filming it."
Rhett added, "And I'm selling the footage."
They trailed behind him as he walked toward the commotion.
The crowd thickened near East Platform. Yellow tape fluttered in the wind. MK-A sentries stood unmoving as students jostled to get closer. Someone held up a phone, trying to zoom in. Others whispered about blood. Some joked about monsters.
No one laughed with their eyes.
Erian moved closer. He wasn't sure how he got to the front of the tape. One of the officers barked at him to back up. MK-A units pulsed low warning sounds: almost subsonic. The noise made his teeth ache.
He stepped back. Only slightly.
Then he noticed a side alley: narrow, squeezed between two buildings. A fire exit. No one was guarding it. He looked over his shoulder.
Nina and Rhett were watching him. Rhett nodded once.
He slipped into the alley.
The metal door had no lock. It creaked open on old hinges, revealing a maintenance passage beneath the platform. He remembered these routes from an orientation tour. Most people forgot them. Erian never forgot the shape of a space.
Rhett and Nina caught up. Rhett muttered, "You're insane."
Nina just sighed. "Lead the way, detective."
The corridor smelled like wet brick and rusted pipes. Erian flicked on the flashlight from his phone. The air was humid, and every drip echoed like a gunshot. He moved fast but quiet, tracking the sound of voices above them.
A service ladder led up to a trapdoor.
He paused. "We go up, we might be seen."
"Then be quiet," Nina whispered.
Erian nodded and climbed.
The hatch creaked open. No one saw them.
They stepped out behind a derelict kiosk, half-covered in tarps and posters. The crime scene lay just ahead: tape, floodlights, and a knot of investigators.
Erian moved forward until he could see the body.
A young man. Face turned away. Blood pooled around the base of his neck, staining old concrete red. His limbs lay twisted, one hand clenched tight.
Erian crouched, heart pounding.
The hand gripped a torn scrap of paper. He looked around, then reached gently and pulled it free. Words, barely legible, scrawled across it:
You're seeing through the cracks.
He stared at the message. His mouth went dry.
Something scratched deep in his mind. The spiral from South Canal. The envelope. The voice in the tunnel.
He turned it over. A faint etching.
Another spiral.
Rough, sharp, exact.
This wasn't a random killing. This was a message.
And it was meant for him.
He pocketed the scrap.
A gust of wind whipped the tarp overhead. The floodlights flickered.
Rhett's voice whispered. "We need to go. Now."
Erian nodded.
They crept back toward the hatch and disappeared into shadow.
The tram's screech faded into the evening air as it pulled away from East Platform, leaving behind a swelling crowd of curious onlookers and sharp, impatient whispers. The platform itself was a fractured slice of the city's older heart: gray concrete cracked and pocked with years of neglect, metal beams overhead groaning softly under their own weight.
Erian stepped down from the tram, the coolness of the fading day sinking through the thin fabric of his coat. His eyes scanned the cordoned-off alley beside the platform, framed by yellow police tape fluttering in the breeze, snapping like a warning flag.
The scene felt wrong.
It wasn't just the presence of the MK-A patrol units, those towering mechanical enforcers standing stiff and unyielding with their cold lenses trained on every inch of the perimeter. It wasn't just the body half-hidden beneath a stained gray tarp, resting like a ghost reluctant to be forgotten.
It was the way the air seemed thicker here, heavier with tension and quiet dread, like the city itself was holding its breath.
Erian's gaze flicked to the officers milling about, their faces hard with professional detachment, voices clipped and businesslike over the crackle of radios. A detective barked orders to his team, the sharp cadence cutting through the low hum of murmurs from the crowd.
But Erian noticed something the others didn't.
Near the victim's feet, the concrete was scratched with curious markings: curved spirals and fractured lines etched deep, like the language of a madman or a secret code waiting to be deciphered. These were not random graffiti or the usual scrawls that dotted the city's worn surfaces. They were deliberate. Precise. And terrifyingly familiar.
His heart beat faster. The spirals: he'd seen them before, in dreams and half-remembered visions, in cryptic notes left anonymously in his bag. These signs were calling him deeper into something he could not yet understand.
The wind picked up, carrying with it the sharp scent of burnt rubber and the acrid tang of chemical sprays from the investigators' kits. Erian pulled his coat tighter around him, the weight of unease pressing down like a physical force.
From behind the tape, a cluster of bystanders leaned close, faces lit by a mixture of fascination and fear. Whispers wove through the crowd: talk of monsters, conspiracy, the curfew, and the strange disappearances that had become almost routine.
Erian's eyes caught a young woman clutching a frayed notebook, her fingers trembling as she scanned the scene. An old man muttered curses under his breath, shaking his head in disbelief.
He wanted to reach out, to say something, but the barrier of yellow tape felt like a wall: not just physical, but psychological.
He took a step forward, careful not to attract attention. His eyes fixed on the victim: a man, young, face pale beneath the tarp, features twisted in an expression of shock or horror. The faint outline of a hand emerged, clutching something tightly.
Curious, Erian crouched down slightly to get a better look, the rough concrete biting into his knees. He spotted the torn edge of a small piece of paper protruding from the victim's clenched fist.
Quickly, discreetly, he slipped it free and folded it into his pocket, careful to remain unseen by the officers nearby.
His pulse quickened. The symbols scribbled across the paper echoed the marks on the wall: the spirals, the broken lines, the faint loop that seemed to twist endlessly inward.
Erian knew he shouldn't get involved. The police had their job. The MK-A units were efficient, unyielding. He was just a student.
But something about this case pulled at him like a thread unraveling an ancient knot.
He lingered, watching as the forensic analysts methodically dusted the body for prints and collected samples. One of them, a tall woman with sharp eyes, caught his glance and gave a brief nod: a silent acknowledgment that there was more beneath the surface.
Nearby, a police officer barked into a radio, "All units, maintain perimeter. No unauthorized access."
A man in a long coat stepped into the flickering light of a streetlamp. His face was obscured by the shadow of a cap, but his gaze was sharp and assessing, moving quickly over the crowd before settling on the taped-off alley.
Erian felt a chill run down his spine as their eyes met briefly.
The man turned and melted back into the mist, vanishing as silently as he had appeared.
Erian swallowed hard and looked around. The city was alive with the buzz of emergency vehicles, the distant wail of sirens mingling with the low murmur of gossiping witnesses.
A young boy clutched his mother's hand, eyes wide as he stared at the flashing lights.
An old woman with a worn coat shuffled by, muttering prayers under her breath.
And somewhere, just out of sight, shadows stirred.
Erian's fingers brushed the folded paper in his pocket.
He was already too deep.
The alley had a smell like old secrets and forgotten sorrows. Dampness hung thick in the air, mixing with the faint tang of rusted metal and the sour bite of spilled chemicals long dried into the cracked concrete. Above, a single, flickering streetlamp struggled against the dusk, casting a weak, sickly amber glow that pooled in uneven patches over the scattered debris and shattered glass. Shadows clung to the crumbling brick walls like cobwebs, twisting and stretching as the occasional gust of wind slipped between narrow gaps.
Erian crouched at the edge of the yellow police tape, his breath coming out in soft clouds in the chill air. His eyes scanned the scene methodically, absorbing details that no official might pause to consider. The body lay half-covered by a pale blue tarp, weighed down with bricks and scraps of metal: an attempt at respect or just crude containment. The victim's pale, mottled hands peeked out beneath, frozen in a graceless spasm that betrayed the final moments of pain.
Nearby, the low murmur of police radios punctuated the steady hum of MK-A drones circling above like mechanical vultures. Uniformed officers moved with practiced detachment, setting up barricades, taking notes, speaking in clipped tones. To most, this was just another tragic event, another death to process. But to Erian, something deeper gnawed at the edges of his awareness: like a puzzle with missing pieces, waiting to be solved.
He adjusted his worn jacket collar against the damp chill and moved closer to the body, careful not to cross the tape. His fingers brushed against a patch of disturbed dirt near the victim's feet, and his eyes narrowed. The soil was broken unevenly, scuffed in hurried arcs, but some impressions appeared deliberate: small, narrow prints, almost human but oddly off-kilter.
He crouched lower, tracing the outlines with his gaze.
"These footprints: they're too light for an MK-A boot," he murmured to himself. "Someone was moving fast but not in a straight line."
Nina and Rhett joined him, their faces etched with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension.
"What do you see?" Nina asked softly, crouching beside him.
"Look here," Erian said, pointing to the prints. "See how they loop back, almost as if whoever made them was waiting, pacing? Someone was watching."
Rhett frowned. "Waiting for what? Or who?"
The alley seemed to tighten around them, the shadows deepening as if eavesdropping on the whispered speculation.
Erian's gaze drifted to the victim's clothing: torn in jagged strips across the chest and arms. The damage wasn't random. Bruises mottled the skin beneath in strange, symmetrical patterns, almost like some twisted ritualistic marking. He noticed subtle abrasions shaped like spirals and angular lines: odd enough to seem deliberate, but too faint to be noticed at first glance.
"Look at this," Erian said, brushing dirt from the victim's sleeve to reveal the marks. "These aren't from a fight. They look symbolic. Like someone was carving a message."
Nina's eyes widened. "Who would do that? And why?"
Erian shook his head, heart pounding as unease crept up his spine. "I don't know. But it's not random."
His gaze flicked to the tarp's edge, where a thin trickle of dark liquid oozed out, soaking into the cracked concrete beneath.
Blood.
He swallowed hard, then bent down, studying the victim's fingers protruding from beneath the tarp. Clenched tightly was a small scrap of torn paper, edges ragged, soaked in blood but still legible enough to reveal cryptic symbols: spirals, jagged lines, geometric shapes.
Erian's breath caught. These symbols stirred something deep inside: a whisper of memory from a notebook he'd found weeks ago in a forgotten subway tunnel. The spirals weren't random graffiti; they were a code, a language that haunted his dreams.
He carefully folded the paper and slipped it into his jacket pocket, stealing glances to ensure no one saw.
Nina crouched beside him. "Those symbols: they remind me of the ones in that weird graffiti near Carvel Row."
"Exactly," Erian said quietly. "They mean something. Someone left a message."
Rhett shook his head in disbelief. "Who writes a message like that on a murder victim? That's insane."
"Maybe it's a warning," Erian whispered, voice barely audible.
Just then, footsteps echoed sharply from behind. Detective Harrow appeared, tall and lean, his face drawn with lines of exhaustion and sharp intelligence. His eyes locked onto Erian and the scrap of paper before settling on the tarp-covered body.
"Still poking around, Martin?" Harrow said, voice low but firm. "You're not part of the official investigation."
Erian met Harrow's gaze steadily. "I see things others don't. These symbols: they're important."
Harrow's eyes flicked to the paper. "Be careful what you get yourself into. Some mysteries aren't meant to be solved."
Nina stepped forward, her tone clipped. "What do you mean? Aren't we all trying to find answers?"
The detective's expression darkened. "This city has layers most people don't see. Some shadows are alive."
Rhett glanced at Erian, uneasy. "Alive? Like monsters?"
Harrow gave a faint, sardonic smile. "Maybe. Or worse."
The words hung in the air like a cold draft.
Erian swallowed the chill and shifted his gaze back to the scene. He noticed the faint hum of MK-A drones circling above, their lights scanning, but their movements robotic, emotionless. He wondered how long they had been on patrol here and what they had missed.
A soft rustle from behind made Erian turn abruptly. A group of curious onlookers had gathered beyond the police tape: whispers of rumors and conspiracy drifting faintly through the cold night air.
"Monsters again," one muttered.
"Curfew's broken," another hissed.
Erian tuned them out, focusing on the victim and the strange code hidden in plain sight.
"Something's not right here," he murmured to Nina and Rhett. "And it's bigger than just this murder."
Nina's eyes met his. "What are you thinking?"
He hesitated, then said quietly, "That this is just the beginning."
The alley was choked with a low, gray fog that clung stubbornly to the uneven cobblestones. The sickly glow of street lamps struggled against the creeping daylight, casting long shadows that seemed to lean like watchers against the brick walls. Erian stepped closer, careful not to cross the bright yellow tape fluttering in the breeze.
Heavy footsteps approached: steady, deliberate. A man emerged from the cluster of uniformed officers, his dark trench coat hanging loosely over his broad shoulders. His face was weathered, marked by years spent wrestling with the city's darker corners. Eyes sharp but tired, they flicked over Erian with suspicion.
"You're not authorized here," the man said, voice rough like gravel but calm. "This is an active crime scene."
Erian lifted his hands, palms out in a peaceful gesture. "I'm not here to cause trouble. Just: I want to understand."
The detective studied him for a long moment, then took a step closer, narrowing his eyes. "You're a student, right? From Virehill?"
Erian nodded, his coat pulled tighter around him against the chill. "Second year. Architecture."
The detective's lips twitched into something almost like a smirk. "Architecture. Not the usual reason folks come snooping around alleys where bodies turn up."
"Yeah, I get that a lot," Erian said, meeting his gaze steadily. "But there's been things. Patterns. I thought maybe this case ties into something bigger."
The detective's gaze flicked back toward the body, half-hidden beneath a tarpaulin. He sighed, the sound weary and slow.
"Look," he said, voice low but steady. "I've been doing this job a long time. I see all kinds of patterns, some real, some imagined by folks desperate to make sense of chaos. You sure you're not one of those?"
Erian's eyes didn't waver. "Maybe. But I have to try."
The detective's face softened, just a bit. He looked at Erian like he was trying to decide if the kid was harmless or trouble. Finally, he spoke again.
"Alright, Martin. I can't have you wandering all over this place. Stay behind the tape, keep your distance. If you see something unusual, bring it to my attention. Understood?"
"Understood," Erian replied, feeling a flicker of cautious relief.
The detective gave a curt nod. "Good. Now keep your head down."
Erian stepped back but kept his eyes on the scene, a hundred questions swirling in his mind. The detective watched him for a moment longer, then turned away, pulling his coat tighter against the chill as he resumed his steady patrol of the cordon.
The damp chill in the alley seemed to deepen as shadows lengthened, the faint scent of rain lingering in the air. Erian stood near the edge of the yellow tape, still trying to make sense of everything he'd just heard from Detective Harrow.
Then footsteps echoed down the side street: brisk, familiar. Rhett's easy voice broke through the tension before he came into view.
"Oi, Erian! Heard there's a party and we weren't invited."
Nina followed closely behind, her eyes sharp and cautious as they scanned the scene. Her expression softened the moment she spotted Erian.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," she said quietly.
Erian managed a half-smile. "Feels like it."
Rhett leaned against the wall, arms crossed, smirking. "Well, you know us. Always ready to crash parties: official or otherwise."
Nina shot Rhett a warning glance but didn't bother telling him to keep it down. Instead, she turned to Erian, voice low.
"You sure you want to be here? This isn't some history lecture or a group project. This is real. Dangerous."
Erian glanced back at the covered body, then the gathered officers and MK-A patrols moving with mechanical precision. "I can't just walk away. Something's off."
"Yeah, well, don't get yourself arrested or worse," Rhett said, though the teasing edge in his voice softened with genuine concern.
Nina folded her arms and sighed. "You have a knack for sticking your neck out when it's not necessary."
"I know," Erian said, eyes fixed on the distant figure of Detective Harrow, now barking orders to uniformed officers.
"Just be careful," Nina said, her tone almost pleading.
Rhett nodded. "And if you need backup, you know where to find us."
Erian nodded gratefully, the tension easing slightly with their presence. Despite the dark, heavy air of the scene, the quiet camaraderie between the three felt like a small anchor in the growing storm.
The MK-A units stood like statues, their heavy frames gleaming faintly under the flickering streetlights. Their movements were precise and deliberate, almost too mechanical: as if they were executing a well-rehearsed routine rather than responding to a fresh murder scene.
Erian watched them closely. The officers moved with clinical efficiency, blocking off access points, setting up barriers, and checking the perimeter. Their faces were unreadable beneath their visors, eyes scanning, calculating.
One of the officers: a tall MK-A with a gauntlet tapping against a datapad: signaled for the perimeter to be reinforced. The air grew tighter, less breathable, like the scene was being locked down not just physically but mentally.
Erian noticed how the human police officers worked alongside the MK-A. The humans barked orders, their voices sharp but restrained, while the robotic units moved with eerie detachment. There was no empathy in their steps, no hesitation.
A uniformed officer approached, clipboard in hand, eyes cold but professional. He gave Erian a brief glance.
"Please remain outside the cordon. This is an active crime scene."
Erian nodded, but inside he bristled. The official distance grated at him, but he knew better than to push. Instead, he kept close enough to see everything, careful not to interfere.
From the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of the victim's body again, partially concealed beneath a tarpaulin. The place smelled faintly of wet concrete and burnt plastic. The stillness was unnerving: like the city had taken a breath and held it.
A low murmur rose among the bystanders gathered just beyond the tape, voices tinged with fear and curiosity. Erian's gaze flicked upward, catching the glint of cameras and phones, flashing sporadically as the crowd recorded the scene.
He wondered how much of what was happening here would be filtered through layers of rumor and misinformation by morning.
The crowd's restless murmurs felt distant to Erian as he leaned closer to the tape, eyes fixed on the faint glint of paper clenched tightly in the victim's hand. The tarpaulin fluttered slightly in the breeze, revealing just enough for a glimpse of pale fingers gripping something. His pulse quickened.
Slowly, as if driven by a silent urge, he stepped closer, crouching where he wouldn't be too obvious but close enough to see. The paper was torn at the edges, brittle with age or maybe deliberately weathered. Scribbled across it were symbols: sharp lines and swirling spirals: that made his skin prickle.
He had seen something like this before. Not in textbooks, but in the fragmented notes left in his own notebook. That strange spiral, the way it looped and twisted, felt like a key: something deliberately placed, a code meant to be found. His mind raced back to dreams and moments when the city felt like it whispered secrets he was only just beginning to hear.
The paper's ink was faint but still legible in the weak streetlight. A phrase caught his eye: "Where the spiral breaks, the truth lies beneath." No signature. No indication of who left it. Whoever had held this note had tried to leave a clue, maybe a warning.
Erian's heart pounded with a mix of dread and curiosity. Should he mention this to the police? Would they listen? More likely, they'd brush it off as nonsense, something irrelevant to the facts. But something about this felt bigger, tangled deeper than a simple murder.
He stuffed the note discreetly into his coat pocket, careful not to draw attention. His fingers trembled slightly. This was no longer just about the victim: this was about the shadows lurking just beyond what anyone dared to see.
Nearby, the forensic team moved with practiced efficiency, collecting samples, dusting for prints. Erian watched their methods, noting what they missed: no one seemed to notice the faint, almost imperceptible spiral etched into the damp concrete just beneath the victim's shoes, as if the killer wanted it to be found by someone sharp enough to notice.
A sharp sound broke his focus: a voice from behind.
"Careful where you lean, kid."
He turned sharply. A uniformed forensic analyst stood there, eyes narrowing beneath a dark cap. The man's voice was low, rough-edged, but not unkind.
"First time seeing a crime scene this up close?" the analyst asked, half-smiling.
Erian hesitated. "Something doesn't add up. There are symbols here. Strange marks. Like they're trying to tell us something."
The analyst's smile faded slightly. "You're seeing what most don't. Trouble is, sometimes the things you notice are better left alone."
Erian swallowed. "But if it's important..."
The analyst's gaze flicked over his shoulder toward the cordoned area. "This city has more secrets than you can imagine. Some things you chase only dig you deeper into the dark. Be careful, kid."
Before Erian could respond, the man turned away, melding into the crowd of workers.
Erian's fingers clenched around the note in his pocket. He knew now the case was no ordinary crime. It was a puzzle wrapped in shadow, and every piece might be a trap.
A low hum pulses through the alley, like static in the air before a storm.
Erian leans on the wrought-iron rail just beyond the cordon. The police tape flutters gently in the breeze, though the air itself feels still. Damp. Heavy. The kind of pressure that settles in your ears and ribs. Across the tape, the alley remains locked down: a crime scene sealed in amber, already beginning to look unreal beneath the city's flickering gaslight lamps and drone-lit overcast sky.
Students and strangers linger behind the barriers. The crowd is uneven, fragmented: clumps of murmuring voices and singular figures frozen in place, staring. Some people are just curious. Some are whispering rumors. Others look far too calm.
Erian tugs the collar of his coat tighter and steps to the side, easing into a thinner section of the gathered crowd. It's here, near the mouth of the alley, that conversation brews more boldly: half-whispered conspiracies disguised as casual banter. He stands still, listening.
"no, I'm telling you, it was clean. Like, ritualistic," someone murmurs. The speaker is a lanky boy with a bright-red beanie pulled down over his ears. He holds his phone out like he's trying to film, but the lens is dark. No signal.
His friend, taller and more serious, shakes his head. "MK-A units were here in under five minutes. That doesn't just happen. Someone pulled a string."
"Or the curfew units saw it happen in real time."
The taller one frowns. "Then why didn't they stop it?"
"Maybe they're not programmed to stop everything."
Erian tries not to visibly react. He notes the way these students: first-years, probably from general studies: say curfew units the way most people say "dogs" or "lifts" now. Like MK-As weren't eight tons of engineered armor and synthetic decision-making. Like they hadn't turned on civilians once before.
Further down the row, a woman with grey curls pulled into a tight bun murmurs to a companion. "They found it laid out perfectly. Arms folded, eyes closed. But no blood anywhere. Not a drop."
"Not a visible drop," her companion says. "What if it's one of those internal rupture types?"
"Then why the spiral? That's not protocol. That's something else."
Erian's heart shifts in his chest. He takes a few steps backward, positioning himself behind a lamppost where the crowd thins out and whispers start to distort into something softer. He presses a hand to the spiral sketch in his notebook, hidden in his coat pocket. His fingers trace its curve through the paper, even though he doesn't look down. He doesn't need to.
The spiral from the bench. The envelope. The dream.
And now on a wall, behind a body.
His brain itches at the connection, like trying to remember a face seen in a dream too long ago. Something aligns, just briefly, before slipping back out of reach.
"Hey."
Erian turns slightly. A girl in a heavy black scarf and oversized gloves stands beside him, her eyes on the scene but her voice directed toward him.
"You from here?"
Erian blinks. "Sort of."
She nods, not asking his name. "You hear the scream?"
"No," he says slowly. "Did you?"
She shakes her head. "Didn't need to. That kind of silence? That's louder than any scream. Whole block just stopped."
Erian looks at her properly now. Her face is tight. Alert. She doesn't seem scared: more like she's recording everything.
"You study here?" he asks.
She pauses. "Used to. Transferred. I come back sometimes." Her tone is evasive, but deliberate. "It's weirder than it looks."
"You mean the crowd?"
"No." She flicks her chin toward the alley. "The air. It feels like this place remembers things that didn't happen yet."
Erian tilts his head, but before he can reply, the sound of bootsteps cuts through the murmurs.
Three MK-A units round the corner. Not sprinting: marching. That rhythmic, even stride that vibrates through pavement. All matte grey plating and faint hydraulic hisses. Their presence pushes the crowd backward without a word.
One of the students near Erian mutters under his breath, "Dead person's not even cold and they bring out the tin gods."
"Better them than what else might come," someone else replies.
Erian's stomach knots. That someone sounded older. Maybe not even a student.
He angles his head, scanning the crowd. The woman is gone. So is the guy in the beanie. But one figure remains: across the barrier, half-shrouded by mist creeping down from the rooftops.
Tall. Still.
Watching.
Only when Erian blinks does he realize the figure is gone. Like it wasn't ever there. Or never wanted to be seen.
The MK-A units settle into position, scanning with quiet, lifeless precision. They don't look human. They don't act human. But somehow, they are the ones guarding the remnants of one.
Erian steps away from the crowd, slipping down a side path that leads toward the east wing of campus. The mist seems thicker here, curling around light posts and clinging to the ground. He doesn't look back. Not yet.
Instead, he lets the whispers cling to him: fragments of rumors, of spirals, of silence. Things no one will remember saying come morning.
But he will.
The alley fades behind him.
Erian walks without a clear destination, only a direction: away from the cordons, the hushed murmurs, the spirals scratched in steel. His coat flaps lightly with the breeze, and the soles of his boots click against old pavement. The city begins to blur around the edges, like a sketch half-finished. Streetlights pass above like halos. Somewhere, a tram groans along its line and slips away into fog.
He stops near a construction scaffold: an abandoned infrastructure upgrade, long since delayed after the Fall. Rust streaks down tarped steel. Plastic sheeting rustles faintly overhead. He presses his back to the temporary barrier, breathing through his nose.
His fingers still press against the spiral through his coat pocket. The paper edges have grown warm from his grip. His shoulders tighten.
"What the hell am I doing?" he murmurs.
No answer comes. Not from the city. Not from inside.
He lets his head fall back, thudding lightly against the post behind him. Cold seeps into his skin. It keeps him grounded.
This isn't like last time. This isn't just curiosity. Something here is off: wrong, even. The way the alley felt: the soundlessness, the pressure: it wasn't just grief or crime scene nerves. It felt designed. Like something made it feel that way.
And he felt it.
That realization sends a chill across his chest.
He closes his eyes and begins to review: out loud this time. Quietly. Like organizing thoughts in a mental grid.
"The spiral's appeared in three places," he mutters. "In my dream. On the East Platform beam. On the victim's wall. And then in the envelope." He lowers his voice. "And it's the same spiral. Not just in shape, but in proportion. Golden ratio adjacent. Same offset."
His mind drifts into technical structure: natural proportions, ratios found in ancient architecture, mathematical spirals mapped against city blocks. He remembers once reading about logarithmic growth curves during a cognitive psychology seminar: how memory can decay in non-linear ways. Spatial compression. Time distortion in recall.
But this isn't theory anymore.
It's real. It's happening. And somehow, it's following him.
His eyes open. Pale mist drifts just above the cracked tiles of the old road.
If he lets this go: if he walks away now: maybe it ends. Maybe it moves on. Maybe it waits for the next person who listens too closely to Dr. Mire. Or stares at the wrong corridor wall for too long.
He could step back. Rejoin the others. Make jokes with Rhett. Drink coffee and pretend spirals are just doodles on a wall. Let the authorities work.
But they won't see it.
They won't see the curves. The angles. The proportions too neat for chance.
They didn't notice the subtle burn ring beneath the body. The geometry of the chalk marks wasn't random. It was deliberate. Placed.
The body didn't just fall. It was arranged.
That's not something an ordinary killer does.
And then there's the note: "The first key is where the spiral breaks."
He hadn't figured out what that meant. Not yet. But it wasn't decorative. It was a message. Maybe a warning. Maybe a map.
He exhales.
"Dammit."
He pushes off the scaffold wall and starts walking again.
This wasn't about curiosity anymore.
It was his now.
But even as the resolve settles in his chest, another voice echoes faintly in the back of his mind: a warning wrapped in memory.
Curiosity is how you fall asleep in a place that forgets you.
It doesn't matter who said it. It feels like truth.
As he walks beneath another flickering streetlight, he glances up toward a blank, weathered wall: and for a split second, just before the light dies: he thinks he sees a spiral.
No scratch marks. No dust.
Just a pattern in the shadow.
When the light dies, it vanishes.
He doesn't run. He just walks faster.
Erian's phone buzzes sharply in his coat pocket, a sudden intrusion against the city's creeping quiet. He pauses on a cracked pavement slab, pulling the device out with careful fingers. The screen glows with an unfamiliar number but the message sender is saved as Dr. Mire.
Look closer at what you don't see.
Just four words, but they hang heavy in the cold air, curling around the back of his neck like the city's fog. Erian blinks, then rereads it. No emojis. No punctuation beyond that. The kind of brief text that feels loaded with unseen meaning.
His thumb hovers over the reply button, hesitating.
He remembers Mire's lecture. The slow way the professor had paced the room, his steady voice like a low current tugging at forgotten memories. The way his gaze had lingered too long on Erian: like a subtle probe beneath the surface.
You were listening, not just hearing. That is rare.
Erian slips the phone back into his pocket but can't shake the feeling of being watched: or tested.
Behind him, the city hums. A tram whistles in the distance. Somewhere a siren wails faintly.
He shifts his weight and pulls his coat tighter.
Looking closer at what you don't see.
What did that mean?
A door where a wall should be? A spiral scratched into metal? An envelope with a cryptic message? The burned ring beneath the victim's body?
Erian's mind spirals: connecting dots no one else seems to notice.
He glances around, almost expecting to see the professor standing just beyond a corner, waiting. But the streets are empty.
He runs a hand through his hair, brow furrowed.
His phone buzzes again.
This time it's a second message.
Tomorrow, after lecture. We talk.
No signature.
No sender name.
The pulse of the city feels sudden and urgent now.
He pockets the phone and starts walking toward the campus gates.
The shadows seem longer here.
More deliberate.
A faint rustle at the edge of his vision makes him glance up.
Nothing.
But in the back of his mind, the spiral twists tighter.
Erian knows something is unfolding.
Something he can't ignore.
The professor's message is both an invitation and a warning.
And this is only the beginning.
The city's night breathed in slow, uneven rhythms beneath a thickening sky. From the rooftop's edge, a cold wind whispered between the rusted vents and cracked concrete, carrying faint scents of rain-damp asphalt and burnt oil. Flickering streetlamps pooled weak light over the gathering chaos below: the flashing red and blue of police cruisers, the hum of MK-A units patrolling in rigid formation, and clusters of curious onlookers pressed behind flimsy barricades.
Leaning silently against the cold metal railing, the figure watched it all with the dispassionate gaze of someone who had long ceased to be surprised by the city's relentless unrest. He was tall, around six feet one, his broad shoulders wrapped in a dark coat that billowed faintly in the breeze. Salt-and-pepper hair, untidy but deliberate, caught the dim light, and sharp eyes scanned the scene like a predator sizing up prey.
His gaze settled on Erian Martin: young, tense, and unmistakably out of place amid the official investigators and crowd. The student moved with cautious purpose, eyes darting from one detail to another, fingers tightening around a notebook that seemed to hold a secret too heavy for its size. The observer's lips twitched: not a smile, but something that resembled approval, or perhaps mere curiosity.
A loose scrap of paper, snagged by the wind, fluttered near the edge of the rooftop. The man watched it dance and settle on a nearby vent, undisturbed by the commotion below. He knew the symbol etched faintly in the shadows of the alley: the spiral, repeated again and again in places both obvious and hidden. That spiral was no accident. It was a signature, a message layered beneath the city's grime and forgotten corners.
His thoughts drifted briefly to the deeper patterns, the unseen structures beneath the surface. The city itself was a puzzle: layers of time, memory, and silence folded into its streets and buildings. He had walked those layers for years, moving between shadows and light, bending reality to his will. But this night, this moment, something was different.
The student was not just another curious onlooker. There was something about him: a spark of insight, a lingering question that gnawed at the edges of the ordinary.
The man shifted slightly, retreating from the railing, his footsteps silent against cracked stone. The darkness embraced him like an old friend. He melted into the black folds of the rooftop, becoming part of the city's murmur rather than its spectacle.
Behind him, distant sirens pierced the night air. Somewhere, a tram rumbled across rusted rails, its hollow whistle carrying like a ghost's lament.
The observer's cold eyes narrowed as he watched the flickering lights below grow smaller. This game had only just begun, and he intended to see how far the pieces would fall.
For now, he waited. Patient. Calculating. Hidden.
The street lamps flickered uncertainly, casting long shadows over the cracked pavement as Erian stood just beyond the cordon, the murmurs of the crowd blending into a low hum. The cold air bit into his skin beneath his thin jacket, but the tension in his chest burned hotter than any chill. He glanced around, taking in the flickering lights of police vehicles and the restless, whispering crowd.
"Erian, you really need to think this through," Nina's voice cut through the noise, steady but laced with concern. She stepped up beside him, arms crossed tightly around herself, her eyes sharp in the dark. "This isn't just some campus prank or a lost cause. You're stepping into something dangerous."
He met her gaze, sensing the sincerity beneath her tough exterior. "I know," he said quietly. "But I can't just walk away. Not when I see something off, when I feel like there's more than what everyone else is willing to admit."
Rhett appeared behind Nina, juggling a coffee cup and a bag of takeaway food. "Dangerous mysteries? Erian, you're turning into one of those noir detectives from the old movies," he teased, but the smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "Just try not to get yourself arrested before the semester ends, okay?"
Nina shot Rhett a glare that could've frozen molten metal. "Focus, Rhett. This is serious."
Erian shifted, fingers tightening around the folded piece of paper in his pocket: the torn note with the spiral scribbled in hurried ink. "It's more than serious. The symbols, the way the body was left it's like someone's trying to send a message."
Nina stepped closer, lowering her voice. "Messages like that don't usually end well for the messenger. Or the receiver."
A siren wailed in the distance, dragging their attention back to the scene. The MK-A units were tightening the perimeter, their movements precise and almost mechanical. Erian's eyes flicked to the robotic figures: detached, unyielding, enforcing a silence that felt unnatural.
"Look, I get it," Nina said, voice softer now. "You want answers. We all do. But be careful who you trust, and don't let this consume you."
He nodded, grateful for her honesty. "Thanks, Nina. I'll be careful."
Rhett raised his coffee cup in a mock toast. "And remember, if things go sideways, I'm your getaway driver. Or at least your distraction."
They all chuckled, the tension easing just a little as the distant city sounds wrapped around them like a blanket.
For a moment, the chaos of the murder scene felt miles away.
But Erian knew better.
The game was far from over.
The crowd's whispers faded slightly as Erian's eyes scanned the periphery of the crime scene. The police and MK-A units had most of the area cordoned off, but a few stragglers: journalists, curious onlookers, university staff: hovered just outside the tape.
Erian's mind kept circling back to the torn note clenched tightly in his pocket. The spiral symbol seemed impossibly deliberate. He needed more perspective: someone who knew how to read the small, hidden details of a scene.
His gaze settled on a lone figure crouched near the victim, methodically bagging evidence. The forensic analyst was mid-thirties, wearing a well-worn lab coat speckled with dust and faint blood stains. Dark glasses shielded their eyes even in the dim light, and their hands moved with quiet, practiced precision.
Erian hesitated a moment before stepping forward.
"Excuse me," he said softly, careful not to interrupt the analyst's work.
They glanced up, their expression unreadable but not unfriendly. "Yes?"
"I noticed some unusual markings on the victim and nearby. Have you seen anything odd? Anything that doesn't quite fit?" Erian's voice was calm, but edged with urgency.
The analyst paused, considering. "Depends on what you mean by 'odd.' This case has some inconsistencies."
Erian nodded. "Like what?"
They lowered their voice, glancing over their shoulder as if the shadows might be listening. "The wounds don't match typical weapon patterns. Some cuts look too precise, almost surgical. Others are inconsistent, as if made by different tools."
"Anything about the symbols?" Erian asked, pulling the folded paper from his pocket and showing the faint spiral.
The analyst's eyes flicked briefly to it, then back to the body. "We found similar carvings near the crime scene: scratched into metal surfaces and walls. No one in the usual circles has identified them yet."
Erian's pulse quickened. "Do you think it's a message? Or a warning?"
"Possibly. But that kind of symbolism usually belongs to groups outside normal society: cultists, secret circles. Sometimes people use them to cover up crimes or distract investigations."
"Do you think the police will follow up?" Erian asked.
The analyst shook their head slowly. "Not likely. The higher-ups want this wrapped quickly, with minimal fuss. They're more interested in containment than uncovering the full truth."
Erian frowned. "So, what happens to the odd clues?"
"Buried, ignored, or reinterpreted to fit a narrative," the analyst said quietly. "If you're digging deeper, tread lightly. Some truths don't want to be found."
Erian swallowed hard. "Thanks. I appreciate you telling me this."
They nodded, standing and dusting off their gloves. "Just don't get in over your head."
Erian watched as the analyst moved back toward the police line, their silhouette melting into the shadows cast by the flickering streetlamps.
He folded the note carefully and slipped it back into his pocket.
The mystery was deeper than he imagined.
And now, he had an unexpected ally.
The murmur of the crowd grew quieter as night deepened. Erian lingered near the edge of the police cordon, the chill seeping into his bones. The torn spiral note felt heavy in his pocket: a secret key to something tangled and dangerous.
Suddenly, a voice called out from the shadows nearby.
"Quite the scene, isn't it?"
Erian turned sharply. Standing just beyond the yellow tape was Dr. Halden Mire. His tall figure cut a strange silhouette in the dim light, his heavy overcoat buttoned up despite the mild night. His silver-streaked hair glinted faintly under the street lamps, and those unsettling eyes locked onto Erian's.
"Professor Mire," Erian breathed, caught off guard. "What are you doing here?"
Mire smiled: a slow, calculated curve of his lips that never quite reached his eyes.
"I have my ways," Mire replied, voice smooth as silk. "Curiosity is a dangerous but necessary companion for those who seek truth."
Erian felt a sudden shiver. The professor's presence here was unexpected, yet somehow fitting.
"You shouldn't be near this," Erian said, glancing at the officers eyeing Mire suspiciously.
Mire waved a hand dismissively. "I'm no threat. I merely came to observe. There is much that official eyes overlook, especially when truth wears a mask."
Erian folded his arms, wary. "I'm trying to piece things together too. But it's not safe to dig too deep."
Mire's gaze sharpened, locking with Erian's.
"Safety is a luxury for those who accept ignorance. You, Mr. Martin, seem less willing to settle."
Erian swallowed. "What do you know about the symbols? The spiral?"
Mire's smile twisted, almost amused.
"Symbols speak in languages long forgotten by most. Spirals represent cycles: endings and beginnings intertwined. They are keys to memory, to the spaces between reality and something else."
Erian's heart quickened. "Something else?"
Mire nodded slowly. "There are layers to this world. Some are visible. Others lurk beneath perception's thin veil. You are beginning to see beyond the veil."
Before Erian could respond, a police officer approached, clearing his throat and signaling Mire to step back.
Mire inclined his head politely. "I will be attending the lecture tomorrow night. Perhaps we can discuss this further, away from prying eyes."
Erian nodded, feeling both intrigued and unnerved.
As Mire melted back into the shadows, Erian realized this murder was more than a crime. It was a doorway.
And someone was waiting for him to step through.
The night had settled fully now, and the cold pressed in, thick and sharp against Erian's skin. The cordon of police tape fluttered lightly in the breeze, a fragile barrier between order and chaos. Around him, murmurs had softened into uneasy silence.
Erian's eyes kept drifting to the far edge of the perimeter, where the street lamps barely pushed back the darkness. Something there didn't belong: or maybe it belonged too well. A shadow moved with deliberate care, slipping between pools of dim light as if dissolving into the mist itself.
He squinted, trying to focus, but the figure was just beyond clarity. The coat fluttered, catching the faint glow, revealing a tall silhouette, broad-shouldered and purposeful. The hair, slightly disheveled, glinted faintly in the streetlight.
Erian's heart clenched. He'd seen that outline before. The cold eyes, scanning the crowd without emotion, the calm in the middle of all the chaos.
Suddenly the figure paused, head turning sharply as if sensing his gaze. For a fleeting moment, their eyes met. There was no recognition: only a silent warning. Then the shadow vanished down a narrow alley, swallowed by darkness and silence.
The hairs on the back of Erian's neck rose. Something was wrong here. More than wrong: dangerous.
A low rumble vibrated through the street. The MK-A patrols shifted closer, their mechanical feet pounding steady and unyielding. But the danger was not out in the open. It was hidden in plain sight.
Erian pulled his coat tighter around him and took a careful step forward. The night whispered secrets, and he was no longer sure who was listening: or watching.
He swallowed the sudden dry lump in his throat. Whatever game was unfolding, he was in the middle of it now. And there was no turning back.