The city's night was restless, and so was Elian. He lay on his back in the diner's cramped storeroom, the three fragments wrapped in a rag beneath his head, the mark on his spine pulsing with a heat that made sleep impossible. Mina and Marcus slept nearby, their breathing deep and even, but Elian's mind churned with questions and the echo of that guttural growl from beneath the meatpacking district.
He couldn't shake the feeling that something had followed them up from the dark. Not a person, but a presence—something old, hungry, and patient. He pressed his palm to his back, feeling the raised mark through his shirt. It felt hotter than before, as if the fragments were waking something inside him.
He sat up, careful not to disturb the others. The city's noises filtered through the walls—sirens, laughter, the distant thump of music. He wondered if anyone out there knew what was happening beneath their feet, if they would care.
He doubted it. Hell's Kitchen was a place of secrets, and most people preferred not to know.
When dawn broke, Elian was still awake. He slipped out of the storeroom, the fragments tucked safely in his bag, and found Mrs. Rizzo in the kitchen, stirring a pot of oatmeal.
She glanced at him, her eyes sharp. "Couldn't sleep?"
He shook his head. "Too much on my mind."
She ladled oatmeal into a bowl, sliding it across the counter. "Eat. You'll need your strength."
He ate in silence, grateful for the warmth. Mrs. Rizzo watched him, her hands never still.
"You're in deeper than you think," she said quietly. "I've seen that look before. On boys who thought they could outrun the city."
Elian met her gaze. "I'm not running. Not anymore."
She nodded, respect in her eyes. "Good. Because whatever you're carrying, it's changing you."
He touched his spine, the mark burning. "I know."
She poured him coffee, her voice softer. "Be careful, Elian. The city takes what it wants."
Mina and Marcus joined him soon after, drawn by the smell of food. They ate quickly, their eyes bright with anticipation and fear.
Mina pulled the fragments from Elian's bag, arranging them on the table. "Three down. How many more?"
Elian shook his head. "I don't know. But the pattern's getting clearer."
Marcus leaned in, studying the symbols. "They're pointing somewhere new. Look—when you line them up, the spirals form a path."
Elian traced the line with his finger. It curved across the city map, ending near the waterfront—an old industrial zone, half-abandoned, rumored to be haunted.
Mina grinned, a spark of excitement in her eyes. "Haunted, huh? Sounds like our kind of place."
Elian smiled, but the mark on his spine pulsed harder, a warning he couldn't ignore.
They spent the morning gathering supplies—flashlights, rope, a crowbar borrowed from Mrs. Rizzo. Elian insisted on moving carefully, watching for any sign of the Hand. The city felt tense, as if holding its breath.
By midday, they reached the waterfront. The air was thick with the scent of salt and rust, the buildings looming like broken teeth. Elian led them to a warehouse at the end of the pier, its windows boarded up, the door chained shut.
Marcus grinned, hefting the crowbar. "My turn."
He pried the chain loose, and they slipped inside. The air was cold and damp, the floor slick with water. Elian felt the mark on his spine burn, guiding him to a trapdoor in the far corner.
Mina knelt, brushing away debris. "Another altar?"
Elian nodded. "It's beneath us."
They lifted the trapdoor, revealing a narrow staircase spiraling down into darkness.
The basement was colder than the catacombs, the air thick with the scent of mold and old secrets. At the center stood another altar, this one carved from black stone. The spiral symbol was etched deep into its surface.
Elian placed the three fragments in the depression at the altar's center. The mark on his spine blazed, and the altar slid aside, revealing a hidden chamber.
Inside, the air was warmer, almost alive. The walls were covered in carvings—stories of the Hand, of ancient wars, of sacrifices made in the name of power.
At the room's center was a fourth fragment, larger than the others, its spiral glowing faintly.
Elian reached for it, the mark on his spine screaming in protest. He hesitated, sweat beading on his brow.
Mina touched his arm. "We're here. Together."
He nodded, steeling himself. He grabbed the fragment, and the chamber shook, dust raining from the ceiling.
A voice echoed through the room—not words, but hunger. Elian staggered, clutching the fragment to his chest.
Marcus pulled him back. "We need to go. Now."
They scrambled up the stairs, the warehouse trembling around them. Outside, the city's light seemed brighter, the air cleaner.
Elian collapsed on the pier, the four fragments heavy in his lap.
Mina knelt beside him, worry in her eyes. "Are you okay?"
He nodded, breathless. "I'm fine. Just… hungry."
Marcus laughed, relief in his voice. "We'll get you a burger."
Elian smiled, but the hunger inside him was different—deeper, older, not just for food but for answers, for meaning.
He looked at the fragments, the spirals now forming a nearly complete pattern.
"We're close," he said softly. "I can feel it."
Mina squeezed his hand. "Then let's finish this."
They returned to the diner, the fragments hidden away. Mrs. Rizzo fed them burgers and fries, her eyes lingering on Elian.
As night fell, Elian sat by the window, watching the city. The mark on his spine was quiet now, but he knew it wouldn't last. The Hand was still out there, and the hunger—whatever it was—was waiting.
But he wasn't alone. Mina and Marcus were with him, and together, they were stronger than the city's shadows.
He closed his eyes, letting hope settle in his chest.
Tomorrow, they would hunt for the final piece.