Lucian Pov
The city stretched out beneath me, a sea of flickering lights mocking the void
inside my chest. The skyline, once a sight that brought pride and calm, now felt
like a hollow monument to a life I couldn't touch anymore. I leaned back in the
worn leather chair on the balcony, the bite of the Scotch in my hand doing little
to drown the memories.
Lilith.
Her laughter had echoed through this very space not long ago. She would've
teased me for drinking alone, claiming it was a "party foul." God, I could almost
hear her now. I closed my eyes and let the sounds of the night swallow me, hoping
they could drown the voice in my head whispering that it was all my fault.
I took another sip, the ice clinking against the glass.
Why her?
The thought cut through me like broken glass. Why not me? What possible sense
did it make for her to be gone? She didn't deserve this, didn't deserve to die on
some random street in a senseless accident.
No, not an accident. I couldn't believe that.
"People like us don't get accidents," I muttered to myself, the words bitter on my
tongue.
My mind circled back to the crash. The twisted metal. The blood. The emptiness
in her eyes as they carried her body away. There was no forgetting it, no escaping
it. The memory clawed at me every time I closed my eyes.
And then, as if the thought summoned it, that nagging feeling returned. The one
I hadn't been able to shake. Something was wrong. Something didn't add up.
I set the glass down on the table, staring out at the city lights like they held the
answers.
"I need to know," I whispered.
The words hung in the air, fragile and resolute.
Lilith had been the center of my world, my anchor. And now she was gone, ripped
away in the blink of an eye. But accidents like that... they didn't just happen. Not
in a world where people wielded powers beyond imagination, where life and death
could be bought, sold, or stolen with the right connections.
I didn't know what I was searching for yet, but the thought of sitting here, doing
nothing, was unbearable. If there was even a sliver of a chance that her death
wasn't random, I had to find it.
By the time the sun rose, I had already made a few calls. Connections were
everything in this city, and I wasn't above calling in favors. One in particular stood
out—Marcus, a detective with a reputation for getting his hands dirty, but also
for getting things done.
"Marcus," I said as soon as he picked up, my voice carrying a weight I couldn't
shake. "I need access to some CCTV footage. The area around the crash site—
two hours before and after."
He groaned, the sound of reluctance thick through the line. "You realize how much
of a mess that is, don't you? Getting footage like that isn't exactly easy, even for
me."
"Cut the excuses," I snapped. "You owe me. Or have you forgotten who kept your
name off that little 'missing evidence' case?"
There was silence on his end, followed by a resigned sigh. "Fine. Give me a few
hours."
That was all I needed to hear. I ended the call and sank into the nearest chair,
exhaustion creeping in. But I couldn't stop—not yet. If there was any chance the
footage held answers, I had to see it.
By the time Marcus sent over the files, the city was wide awake, but I hadn't
slept a minute. I opened the first clip and braced myself.
The footage played on my laptop, and I leaned forward, every muscle in my body
tense. At first, it showed nothing but traffic. Cars coming and going, people
crossing the streets, the mundane flow of life. But then, the moment I dreaded
appeared.
There it was—the crash. The deafening screech of brakes and the horrifying
crunch of metal echoed in my memory. On screen, the truck barreled into the
intersection, smashing into her car with a force that made my stomach churn.
I froze, staring at the wreckage, watching as bystanders rushed toward the scene.
The footage was grainy, but I could see the chaos—people shouting, pulling out
their phones, running to help.
And then, in the corner of the frame, I spotted him.
At first, he didn't seem out of place. Just another onlooker, standing by the
wreckage. But as I rewound and replayed the footage, something about him felt...
off.
He wasn't moving. Everyone else was panicking, rushing to the car, calling for help,
but he just stood there. Watching. His hood covered most of his face, but his
stance, his stillness—it was unnatural.
I zoomed in, trying to get a clearer look, but the resolution only went so far.
I reached for my phone and dialed Marcus.
"Did you see it?" his voice came through, low and gruff.
"I saw enough," I replied, my voice sharp. "There's a guy in the footage—hooded,
just standing there like he's watching the whole thing play out. He doesn't move,
doesn't help."
"You think he's involved?" Marcus asked, skeptical.
"I don't know," I admitted, my frustration mounting. "But I need you to run a
facial recognition on him."
"Facial recognition?" Marcus sounded like I'd just asked him to split an atom. "You
realize how much time that takes, right? And the guy's wearing a hoodie—it's not
exactly going to be easy."
"Then take all the time you need," I snapped. "But find something. Anything. I
don't care how long it takes—just do it."
Marcus sighed. "You really think this guy has answers?"
"I don't think," I said, my jaw tightening. "I know. Just call me when you have
something."
I ended the call and leaned back in my chair, staring at the frozen image of the
hooded figure on my screen.
Who the hell are you?
I couldn't stop thinking about that hooded figure. Days had passed, but his image
haunted me like a ghost. Each time I closed my eyes, I saw him standing there,
calm, detached—out of place in the chaos.
Marcus hadn't called yet, and my patience had worn thin. So, I took matters into
my own hands.
Hours of scouring led me through countless dead ends—grainy footage from
nearby cameras, eyewitness accounts that were more guesswork than fact. The
deeper I dug, the more the city seemed to blur into a labyrinth of noise and
shadows.
And then, finally, I found him. A faint lead from an old camera near the slums—
an image of the same hoodie, the same stillness, stepping into a rundown building.
It wasn't much, but it was enough.
I was tired, drained, but I didn't care. All I knew was that I had to confront him.
I had to know.
Who was he? And why was he there?
The neighborhood reeked of decay—peeling walls, garbage-strewn streets, and
flickering streetlights that cast eerie shadows on the pavement. It was the kind
of place where hope came to die.
I stormed down the cracked sidewalk, my fists balled so tightly that my nails dug
into my palms. Grief and rage swirled in a toxic storm inside me, pushing me
forward, urging me to find him.
And then I saw him.
He was standing outside a run-down building, leaning against the wall as if he had
all the time in the world. The hoodie he wore did little to mask his face in the dim
light. It was him. The same man from the footage.
I didn't think. My feet moved before my mind caught up. Within seconds, I was in
front of him, my voice trembling as I shouted:
"You were there! You saw it! What were you doing? Did you cause it?"
He straightened, his calm demeanor cracking just slightly. For the first time, his
eyes locked onto mine, and I saw a flicker of something—confusion, maybe even
annoyance.
"What?" he said, his tone sharp but not hostile. "Cause it? Are you insane?"
His response only fanned the flames of my fury. I took a step closer, pointing a
shaking finger at him. "Don't lie to me!"
The man sighed and shook his head, his face darkening with something between
pity and frustration. "Listen," he began, his voice low and serious, "I was there
because I was dumbfounded. I've seen accidents before, but this... this wasn't
normal."
My breath hitched.
"I froze," he continued. "I didn't know what to do. Everything about it was wrong."
His words hung in the air, weighing heavy on my chest. But I couldn't let myself
believe him—not yet.
"Liar!" I spat, the word ripping out of me like a dagger. I lunged at him, every
ounce of my rage channeled into a single punch.
But he didn't even flinch.
Before my fist could make contact, a faint glow erupted from his palm. It wasn't
bright or flashy—just a subtle pulse of energy. But it was enough.
The force slammed into me like a freight train, sending me sprawling onto the
ground. My body hit the pavement hard, pain radiating through my back and
shoulders. I groaned, humiliated, as he stood over me, shaking his head.
"You're barking up the wrong tree," he said, his tone weary. "I don't know who you
lost, but this isn't the way."
I scrambled to my feet, ready to launch myself at him again, but he turned and
began walking away, his steps unhurried.
"Wait!" I shouted after him, my voice hoarse.
He didn't stop.
It was then that I noticed it—a mark on his forearm, barely visible in the dim
light. It glowed faintly, a strange symbol that I couldn't place but felt inexplicably
drawn to.
"What is that?" I called out, desperation creeping into my voice.
He slowed, glancing back over his shoulder.
"It's a mark," he said simply. "Usually given to awakeners by the gods."
The words hit me like a hammer. Gods? Awakeners? I stood frozen, trying to
process the weight of what he had just revealed.
But before I could ask more, he disappeared into the shadows, leaving me alone
with my questions—and my growing fury.
After my confrontation with the awakened man, the darkness feels heavier than
before. The rage inside me hasn't subsided. If anything, it's burning hotter, the
flames fed by the cold indifference I saw in the man's eyes. I can't shake the
feeling that there's something bigger at play here. I need to understand it. I need
answers.
The more I think about it, the more the sensation of power—the mark—lingers.
It's a constant weight, like it's pulling at me, urging me to explore what it means.
But there's only one place where I can clear my head, even though it's the last
place I should go. The slums.
I didn't want to come back here. It feels like I'm crawling backward into a past
I've long since left behind. But something in me craves the familiarity—the ghosts
of the past that still haunt these streets.
I turn off my phone and head toward the forgotten corners of the city, where
the shadows always seem a little darker.
I'm back in the slums.
The familiar stink of stale urine and decay clings to the air like a foul memory I
can never shake. It was here I grew up—an existence of hunger, violence, and
survival. It's a place where hope dies young. Now, as I walk through the narrow
alleys, each step is heavy with the weight of everything I've lost. Lilith's smile,
her warmth, it feels like a distant dream. I hate myself for being here. I hate
that nothing has changed.
I stop for a moment and look around. The faces of the people who are still stuck
here are the same ones I saw when I was younger. The hopelessness in their eyes,
the resignation in their bones, it's all too familiar. It's like a mirror to the way I
feel inside—empty, angry, and lost.
But it's more than that tonight. The air feels different. It's thick with something
darker, something suffocating. I clutch my chest as if the weight of the world is
pressing down on me, but it's not physical. It's something else. Something...
strange. The shadows feel deeper than usual, like they're pulling at me, trying to
swallow me whole.
I continue walking, though every step seems to drain me further. I try to focus,
but the weight in my chest won't go away. And then...
"Lucian..."
The whisper is faint, so quiet I almost dismiss it as my imagination. But it was
there. Clear as day. My head snaps around, searching for the source. Nothing.
Just the shadows, crawling across the ground like they have a life of their own.
I shake my head. "What the hell?"
But then it comes again, louder this time, and it sends a shiver through my spine.
"You are not weak..."
I freeze. My heart pounds in my chest, and every instinct screams at me to run.
But my feet are rooted to the spot. The voice... It's commanding, dripping with
something sinister. It echoes inside my mind, rattling me, shaking me to my core.
The darkness feels colder now. The shadows aren't just shadows—they're
reaching for me. I can feel them crawling up my legs, pulling me into the black
abyss. My breath catches in my throat as the voice continues, like a whisper from
the deepest pit of hell.
"You are more than this."
I blink, trying to clear my mind. What the hell is happening? Is this... is this real?
My fingers twitch, a cold sweat spreading across my skin. The weight on my chest
grows heavier, suffocating me. I try to call out, but my voice is strangled.
Something deep within me is urging me to listen, to embrace this voice, this...
power.
Then, as suddenly as it began, the voice grows quieter, almost teasing.
"You could have power."
I spin around, my heart hammering in my chest, searching the alley. There's
nothing. Nothing but shadows. Nothing but the darkness closing in around me.
I stagger back, my breath shallow, and a cold chill runs down my spine. The
shadows seem to be watching me, waiting for something. My fists clench as I try
to shake the feeling off, but it's no use. The voice... whatever it is... it's still in my
head.
And for the first time, I wonder if I should listen.
I don't know if I should listen to it... but the darkness is starting to feel like home.