Rain had stopped again, but the streets smelled of wet asphalt and something older, something forgotten. I hunched under the flicker of a failing neon sign, boots slick, coat clinging, eyes scanning every corner like the city was about to punch me in the gut.
Splash… drip… click…
The emblems, the marks, the scraps, they weren't random. Not anymore. Someone had a plan. And I was following it, whether I liked it or not.
Back in my apartment, I spread the emblems, maps, and old notes across the floor. Patterns jumped out at me: routes, intersections, abandoned buildings. And then, among the scraps of forgotten graffiti and dusty journals I'd lifted from the library archive, I saw it—names. Dates. Faces faded into blurry ink. The missing. The vanished.
All of them had been chosen. The emblems had marked them too. And I had followed their breadcrumbs.
Click… click…
A window rattled. Maybe the wind, maybe not. My pulse stuttered. This wasn't a coincidence. This was a path. Their path. And I was walking it.
I flipped through an old journal, fingers tracing the spidery handwriting. One entry jumped out: "The marks choose, the city obeys, and only the curious survive."
I muttered to myself, sarcasm thick, even though my stomach twisted: "Well, that's comforting. I love surviving by accident."
Footsteps echoed somewhere below the street, distant but deliberate. Someone was watching, or maybe it was just the city judging my life choices. I grabbed the nearest emblem, feeling the weight of the symbol in my pocket. Whoever left this, whoever marked the missing they knew I would see it. They knew me.
Splash… drip… hum…
I leaned back, scanning the chaotic map of the city laid across my floor. Routes, alleys, and abandoned warehouses all pointed somewhere. Somewhere dangerous. Somewhere, the city had forgotten to exist.
And now I understand. The game wasn't just about noticing anymore. The emblems weren't just puzzles. They were invitations. And I had accepted.
Rustle… scrape…
A shadow crossed the window. Heart hammering, I froze. Not imagination. Not a coincidence. Someone had been here recently. Watching. Measuring. Waiting.
I stuffed the journals back in my bag, pockets full of scraps and emblems, and muttered under my breath, sarcasm cracking slightly: "Lovely. I'm walking in the footsteps of the vanished. What could possibly go wrong?"
Click… drip…
Outside, the city hummed around me, patient and indifferent. But I knew one thing: the vanishings weren't random, the marks weren't random, and now I wasn't random either.
Splash… splash…
I was part of something bigger. Something deliberate. Something deadly. And the echoes of those who disappeared whispered from the shadows: keep walking, Dylan. Or join them.