Chapter 1: The Shatterpoint
The air smelled of rain and rust, a metallic tang that clung to the back of Lila's throat as she sprinted through the alley. Her sneakers slapped against the wet pavement, each step echoing like a heartbeat in the narrow corridor of brick and shadow. She was late-again. Mom would be furious, her voice sharp but trembling with that undercurrent of worry that never quite faded. Lila could already hear it: "You're sixteen, Lila, not invincible. This city chews up dreamers and spits out bones."
She didn't mean to worry her. Not really. But the city-its pulse, its secrets-called to her. Chicago at dusk was a labyrinth of neon and whispers, and Lila had always been drawn to its edges, the places where the world felt thin, like a membrane stretched tight enough to tear. Tonight, she'd chased one of those edges too far, following a strange hum she'd heard near the old warehouse district, a sound that wasn't quite music but wasn't machinery either. It had pulled her, magnetic and alive, until she'd found it: a shard of glass, no bigger than her palm, glowing faintly in the rubble of a condemned lot.
Lila slowed, her breath hitching as she pulled the shard from her jacket pocket. It wasn't glass, not exactly. It shimmered, edges fractaling into impossible geometries, colors shifting like oil on water. She'd found it wedged between cracked concrete, pulsing softly, as if it had been waiting for her. Her fingers tingled where they brushed its surface, a faint electric hum that made her heart race. She should've left it there. She knew that. But something about it felt... personal. Like it had her name written in its light.
"Lila!" The shout snapped her back. Her mother's voice, raw and urgent, cut through the alley's damp silence. Lila spun, shoving the shard back into her pocket. She hadn't realized how far she'd wandered. The alley opened into a deserted street, and there was Mom-Clara-standing under a flickering streetlamp, her coat pulled tight against the wind. Her dark hair was loose, strands whipping across her face, and her eyes were wide, searching.
"Mom, I'm fine!" Lila called, jogging toward her. But Clara's gaze wasn't on her daughter. It was fixed on something behind her, something in the dark. Lila turned, her pulse spiking. The alley was empty, but the air felt wrong-too heavy, too still. The hum from the shard in her pocket grew louder, vibrating against her hip.
"Lila, get away from there!" Clara's voice cracked, and she lunged forward, her boots splashing through puddles. Lila froze, confused, until she felt it: a pull, like gravity shifting under her feet. The shard burned against her thigh, and the air around her shimmered, rippling like heat off asphalt. She stumbled back, her sneakers catching on nothing, and then the world split.
It wasn't a sound or a sight but a feeling-a tear in reality, a wound opening wide. The alley dissolved into a kaleidoscope of colors, jagged and searing, and Lila was falling, her scream swallowed by a roar like a thousand voices chanting in unison. The shard in her pocket flared, white-hot, and then she was gone.
Clara hit the pavement where Lila had stood, her hands clawing at empty air. "Lila!" Her voice broke, raw and ragged, but the alley was silent. No daughter, no trace-just a faint shimmer in the air, like a mirage fading. Her chest heaved, her breath coming in sharp gasps. This wasn't possible. People didn't vanish. Not her Lila, her reckless, brilliant girl who chased mysteries like they were hers to unravel.
She scrambled to her feet, scanning the alley. The streetlamp flickered, casting jagged shadows, but there was nothing-no footprints, no sign. Just the cold, wet pavement and the echo of her own heartbeat. Clara's hands trembled as she reached into her coat pocket, pulling out her phone. She dialed 911, her fingers clumsy, but even as the operator's voice crackled through, she knew it was useless. This wasn't a kidnapping, not a runaway case. This was something else, something wrong.
"Ma'am, can you describe what happened?" the operator asked, calm and clinical.
"She's gone," Clara whispered, her voice barely audible. "She was right here, and then... she wasn't."
The operator asked for details-Lila's age, her appearance, what she was wearing-but Clara's mind was elsewhere, replaying the moment. That shimmer in the air. The way Lila's eyes had widened, not in fear but in wonder, just before she vanished. Clara's gaze fell to the ground, where something glinted in the dim light. She knelt, her breath catching. A tiny fragment, no bigger than a coin, lay in the puddle where Lila had stood. It glowed faintly, its edges sharp and unnatural, just like the shard Lila had been obsessed with lately, the one she'd mentioned finding near the warehouse.
Clara picked it up, wincing as it stung her fingers, electric and alive. Her heart pounded. This was no coincidence. Whatever had taken Lila was tied to this... thing. She closed her fist around it, ignoring the pain, and stood. The operator was still talking, but Clara ended the call. Police wouldn't help. Not with this.
She didn't know where Lila was or what had taken her, but she knew one thing with bone-deep certainty: she would find her daughter. No matter what it took, no matter where she had to go. The shard pulsed in her hand, and for a moment, she thought she heard it-a faint hum, like a voice calling her name.
Clara tightened her grip. "I'm coming, Lila," she whispered. "Hold on."