I'd run this trail every Tuesday for the past two years, rain or shine, hangover or not. It was my ritual, my reset button, the one thing I could count on when work was a mess, or my bank account was gasping for air. The path was etched into my muscle memory: the curve of the asphalt where tree roots buckled it upward, the faded green mile marker with its chipped paint, the old man who always nodded at me from the same bench, like we were characters in each other's stories.
Today, the sun was a flat, white coin in the sky, the kind that bleaches the world into overexposure. My shoes slapped against the pavement in a steady rhythm, sweat already pricking at my temples despite the mild temperature. I liked this part—the burn in my calves, the way my breath hitched just slightly on the last uphill stretch. It felt like proof I was still alive, still moving forward.
Then my phone buzzed in my armband.
Bella's text glared at me:
"You forgot the avocados again, didn't you."
I didn't need to read the rest to hear my sisters voice in my head, that mix of fondness and exasperation she reserved for my most predictable failures. I could picture her leaning against our kitchen counter, one eyebrow arched, already scrolling through delivery apps to salvage dinner.
I slowed to a walk, swiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. The trail was busier than usual for a weekday. A mom pushed a double stroller with the weary determination of someone who hadn't slept in three years. A group of retirees in matching sun hats power-walked in formation, their sneakers squeaking in unison. A kid on a skateboard—maybe sixteen, all elbows and overconfidence, launched himself off the curb, ate pavement, and immediately popped back up like nothing happened. His friends howled, their laughter bouncing off the trees.
Normal. The kind of normal that feels invisible until it isn't.
I thumbed out a reply to Bella: "In my defense, the store was out."
Lie.
I'd been distracted by the energy drinks at checkouts, specifically, the new Monster Ultra flavor, its can a violent shade of electric blue. Bella called them my "liquid bad decisions," but I swore they helped me think faster. (She swore they just made me talk faster.)
My phone glitched.
The screen flickered—not like a dying battery, but like a TV losing signal. For half a second, Bella's name warped into jagged pixels, rearranging itself into:
[NULL ENTITY]
Then it snapped back.
I frowned. The phone was brand-new, a belated birthday gift to myself after my old one finally drowned in a toilet. No cracks, no water damage, no reason to malfunction.
A jogger sidled up beside me, her breath coming in sharp gasps. "Hot today, huh?"
"Yeah," I said automatically, but my skin prickled. The air wasn't warm, it was thick, like breathing through wet wool. The kind of air that sits heavy in your lungs, making every inhale feel like work.
Ahead, a couple argued in hissed whispers, their terrier straining at the leash between them.
Then the dog froze.
Not the usual I-saw-a-squirrel freeze. This was statue still, like someone had hit pause. A low whine crawled out of its throat, and it backed into its owner's legs, tail tucked tight.
"Toby, what's—?" The woman cut off mid-sentence.
Silence.
Not the quiet of an empty room or the hush of a library. This was absence. The skateboarders' laughter cut off mid-guffaw. Even the wind had died. No rustling leaves, no distant traffic hum, not even the scuff of my own shoes on the pavement.
My phone buzzed again.
Bella: "Liar. I checked the receipt. You bought Monster Ultra instead of food."
I didn't laugh this time.
The trail had gone statue-still.
The skateboard kid clutched his bleeding elbow, but his face wasn't twisted in pain—just blank confusion, like he'd forgotten how to react. His friend's Bluetooth speaker, still playing a hip-hop beat, suddenly gurgled static, the bassline dissolving into something that sounded like a voice speaking backward.
I turned in a slow circle.
Nothing moved.
No birds. No breeze. The oak leaves hung limp, as if the trees themselves were holding their breath.
Then—a thud.
A squirrel hit the pavement ten feet away. Not dead. Not alive.Frozen mid-leap, its claws splayed, eyes wide and unblinking. Its pupils were too large, swallowing the brown of its irises like black holes.
A pair of chihuahuas erupted into hysterical yips, their neon leashes tangling as they scrambled backward. Their owner yanked on the harnesses, but the dogs kept straining, as if the air itself had turned toxic.
Above us, the sky was still blue. The sun still shone. But the light felt wrong now—harsh, clinical, like the fluorescents in a hospital morgue.
The terrier's owner fumbled with her phone. It rang once, twice—then a mechanical clicking filled the air.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Her screen went black.
Some college kids bolted first, abandoning backpacks and water bottles as they sprinted for the parking lot.
I stood frozen.
The trail exit shimmered in the distance, the air above it warping like a mirage—except it was only 72 degrees.
Then the terrier let out a howl that raised the hair on my neck. His owner screamed as his collar dissolved. Not unclasped. Not torn. The red fabric *unraveled*, threads peeling apart like they'd never been woven.
"WHAT IS HAPPENING?!"
My phone buzzed again. I expected Bella.
Instead, a notification I'd never seen:
[SYSTEM INITIALIZING…]
Then—nothing.
No light. No sky. No trees. Just void.
And in the void, a voice. Not around me. Inside me.
It was low, grating, utterly indifferent.
"Integration in progress."
The words floating in my vision like the UI of a video game.
Pressure built behind my eyes, my bones vibrating like tuning forks.
"Scanning for Echo."
Something pulled, as if my ribs were harp strings being plucked.
"Scan complete."
A pause. A judgment.
"Echo not found."
The darkness shifted not light, but attention.
Its final word was a dismissal:
"Unworthy."
Then my vision went black, and consciousness slipped away like sand through fingers.