The Last Door's neon sign still bled its sickly red light across the wet pavement when Jonas burst out, boots splashing through shallow puddles. His breath hit the cold air in ragged bursts. Behind him, the door slammed shut—hard enough that the frame rattled—and the sound was eaten by the fog almost instantly.
It was thicker now. Denser. Not drifting lazily like mist, but moving with intent. It clung to the ground in low swirls before stretching upward like curious fingers. He could taste iron in the air, like breathing through a mouthful of pennies.
Jonas didn't look back.
The first scream—high, choked, short—came from somewhere behind the alley dumpster. The second came from inside the fog. That one was closer, wet and guttural, like someone's last breath getting chewed. His gut told him the screaming wasn't coming from survivors anymore.
He ran harder.
The street was empty, but the glow of the lamps felt wrong—pale circles in the fog, shrinking fast. Every time he passed one, it flickered. They're going out… one by one.
Something moved in the mist to his left. He caught it in the corner of his eye: a tall silhouette, too thin, too still. Then it jerked—once—and the head swiveled toward him. The way it pivoted was… wrong. The neck didn't bend so much as rotate smoothly, like a camera on a swivel mount.
Jonas gritted his teeth and pushed his legs harder.
The sound of the fog changed. It had sound now—like fabric tearing slowly. Then he realized it was following him, knitting itself together, forming edges where there shouldn't be any.
One tendril shot out—black, not white, dripping with something thick—and slapped against the brick wall near his face. It sizzled on impact. Jonas turned the corner and almost slammed into a second figure.
This one wasn't still.
It lunged.
He dropped low on instinct, the way he had back when fights in narrow alleys were over who kept their teeth. The creature overshot him and hit the wall. The smell was putrid—meat gone bad in the heat—and Jonas shoved himself past it. His shoulder caught a glimpse of its skin: not flesh, but something semi-translucent, veins spiderwebbing under the surface.
When it screeched, the fog around it shivered.
Jonas didn't think. He grabbed the fire escape ladder on the corner and hauled himself up. It groaned but held. One, two, three flights—his boots slipped once but he didn't stop until he reached the rooftop.
The fog wasn't far behind.
From up here, the city looked… wrong. Streets vanished into walls of grey. Lights stuttered like dying fireflies. And in the middle distance, where he knew Bell Square should be, a faint crimson glow pulsed—steady as a heartbeat.
"Keep moving," a voice said.
Jonas spun, knife out. The man—or something like a man—stood near the water tower, dressed in an old trench coat, hat brim hiding most of his face. The voice was low, deliberate, like someone measuring each word before letting it go.
"You're making too much noise," the stranger continued.
Jonas kept the knife up. "And you're… what? The welcoming committee?"
The man didn't answer. Instead, he tilted his head toward the streets below. "Look down there. Tell me what you see."
Jonas stepped to the edge.
The fog wasn't just crawling anymore—it was standing. Tall, twisted figures rose from it, some with too many limbs, others just stretched shadows of nothing. They moved in rhythm, slow and jerking, like marionettes pulled by an unsteady hand.
And then he heard it.
One… two… three…
It wasn't a voice. It was inside his skull, each number pounding against the inside of his ribs, making his chest tighten.
He grabbed the ledge to steady himself. "What the hell is that?"
"The Counting," the stranger said. "When it reaches the last number, the fog will take this block."
Jonas swallowed hard. "Take? As in kill?"
The man's mouth twitched in something not quite a smile. "Not kill. Collect."
Before Jonas could ask, a shriek tore the air. One of the tall fog-creatures below jerked its head up—straight toward them. In the next instant, it launched upward.
Jonas stumbled back. The creature's hands—long, jointed wrong—slammed against the rooftop edge, claws digging into concrete. The stranger moved faster than seemed possible, pulling something from his coat—a length of chain with symbols burned into the links—and lashed it across the creature's arm.
The fog screamed like boiling water.
"Go!" the stranger barked.
Jonas didn't need telling twice. He sprinted toward the far side of the roof, the sound of the chain striking over and over echoing behind him. He vaulted another fire escape and landed two rooftops over, rolling to absorb the impact. Pain shot through his shoulder, but he didn't stop.
The Counting was louder now. Five… six… Each number felt heavier, like something was pressing down on his lungs.
A flash hit his vision—blood on cobblestones, hands bound, a face he didn't know gasping for air. The memory was vivid… too vivid. It wasn't his.
He staggered, catching himself against a vent. "Get out of my head—"
"Can't," the fog whispered back. Except the fog didn't have a mouth.
The rooftops were ending ahead—only a gap to the next building, at least twelve feet across. Jonas backed up, ran, and jumped. For a heartbeat, he was flying. Then his hands caught the opposite ledge, fingers screaming under his weight, and he hauled himself up.
That's when he saw it.
The crimson glow from Bell Square was brighter now, and shapes moved inside it—dozens, maybe hundreds—turning slowly in unison. Every single one faced outward, toward the city, waiting.
And the Counting hit Nine.
The stranger landed beside him, chain coiled loosely in one hand, breathing heavy. Up close, Jonas could see his eyes now—grey, but not human. Too reflective, too deep.
"You want answers?" the man asked. "Survive to Twelve."
The fog surged behind them, pouring over the rooftop lip, tendrils thickening, darkening, reaching.
Ten…
Jonas pulled his knife tighter in his grip. "Then let's make it to Twelve."
The man smiled—this time for real, sharp and dangerous. "Stay close."
They ran toward the crimson light.