The city had always been a little dishonest about its light. Too many glass towers, too many neon signs humming like feverish cicadas, too many billboards plastered with faces that pretended to smile. But on the morning the sun refused to rise, the dishonesty became unbearable.
It wasn't dark, not exactly. The world seemed painted in a dim, eternal dusk—like a photograph left too long in chemical wash, the colors bleeding until nothing was certain. Street lamps flickered as if confused about their duties. Dogs barked at invisible intruders. The birds—those who had not already abandoned the city's poisoned air—circled without landing.
The Seeker stood on the balcony of a decrepit hostel, his coffee lukewarm in a chipped mug, watching the light drain out of the morning. His scar burned with a heat that was not entirely his own. He pressed his palm against it, as if he could will it into silence, but the glyphs beneath his skin pulsed faintly, unseen by anyone else.
Someone knocked—three sharp raps, the rhythm of a bureaucrat who had practiced authority.
"Don't bother pretending you're not here," said a flat voice. "The records may have been erased, but ghosts leave footprints."
Agent Nakamura stepped inside without invitation. She was dressed not in her official black suit but in a grey windbreaker, hair tied back in a knot that looked like it hurt. She set a folder on the dusty table between them. It was empty, save for a single photograph: a shrine collapsed in on itself, rubble scattered like children's blocks.
"This was your doing." She didn't phrase it as a question.
The Seeker didn't look at the photograph. "If I had the power to collapse shrines at will, do you think I'd still be living here? Hiding in places that smell of mold and old cigarettes?"
"Power isn't always willful," she said, with a glance at the scar glowing faintly through his shirt. "Sometimes it leaks."
He hated her eyes—professional, skeptical, but unwilling to dismiss the impossible. She represented the sort of person he once was, before the fire, before the scar, before knowledge curdled into obsession.
"Why are you here, Nakamura?" he asked.
"Because the city is burning," she said. "And in case you haven't noticed—" She gestured at the dim horizon. "The sun is gone."
He set the mug down. "Amaterasu."
She didn't flinch at the name, though most people would have. Instead she leaned closer. "People are already panicking. Riots. Looting. Calista's zealots claim it's proof of divine judgment. The Lantern Keepers are in full purge mode—they've declared you Class One Threat. I've risked my career stepping into this room. So tell me: what is happening?"
The Seeker almost laughed. What could he tell her? That the gods were pulling their old tricks like spoiled monarchs stamping their feet? That the sun withdrawing was less a punishment and more an experiment? That the scar on his chest burned in sympathy with every divine whim, as if he were some cosmic switchboard?
"Truth?" he said finally. "I don't know. But it's no accident she picked this city."
Outside, sirens screamed like mechanical banshees.
By noon, the riots had begun.
Sister Calista's followers—dressed in white robes, crucifixes glinting like weapons—marched through the avenues chanting half-coherent scripture. They claimed the eternal dusk was proof that humanity had been forsaken. Bottles smashed against armored riot shields. Smoke twisted into the sky, where it lingered as if even the wind was too afraid to move.
The Seeker and Nakamura threaded through alleyways, keeping low. He tugged the hood of his coat over his face. He had no name now, no legal record, no identity—erased by the Keepers so efficiently that even hotel ledgers dissolved around his presence. But being erased was not the same as being invisible.
Whispers followed him in the streets. Strangers' eyes snagged on him as if some part of them recognized the scar's glow, though they could not name it. He felt like a myth walking in plain clothes, despised and hunted.
"You shouldn't be here," Nakamura muttered, pressing him into the shadow of a collapsed scaffolding. "Every sect is hunting you, and you stand out like a flare."
"Not my fault the gods treat me like a message board," he said.
"Then stop glowing."
"If I could, I would."
They paused as a crowd surged past—Calista herself on a makeshift platform, her voice shrill, her eyes bloodshot with fervor. "This is the proof!" she cried, arms raised to the purple sky. "The Seeker is cursed! He brings the dusk with him!"
For a terrible moment, he thought her gaze landed directly on him. But then the crowd moved, and she was swallowed by her own followers.
He pressed his back to the wall, trembling. "She knows."
"Or she's guessing," Nakamura said. "Zealots always guess right eventually."
That night, the city burned in more places than the fire department could count.
The Seeker and Nakamura holed up in an abandoned subway station, the stale air reeking of rust and urine. They sat on opposite ends of the platform, a flashlight between them. The Seeker traced the glyphs on his scar absentmindedly, as if memorizing their cruel geometry.
"Why are you helping me?" he asked suddenly.
Nakamura didn't look up from her notes. "Because if the Lantern Keepers erase you, they'll erase the evidence that any of this ever happened. And I don't trust them with monopoly on truth."
"You sound like me."
"That's not a compliment."
He smirked despite himself.
Above them, footsteps echoed—too light for soldiers, too many for vagrants. He recognized the sound even before the laughter followed: soft, mocking, with an edge of teeth.
The Whisperer.
The trickster god leaned casually against the far wall, though he hadn't walked there. His coyote's grin gleamed in the dim light, eyes glimmering with desert fire.
"Funny little humans," the Whisperer drawled. "The sun blinks, and you riot like ants kicked from their hill. Imagine if the stars fell, eh?"
"Leave," Nakamura hissed, reaching for her gun.
"Guns don't frighten stories," the Whisperer said mildly. "And I am a story with very sharp claws." He tipped his head toward the Seeker. "Your mark burns brighter, scholar. She notices you."
"Amaterasu?"
"Not just her. Odin's ravens circle overhead, croaking like accountants. And Xiuhtecuhtli clings to every trash fire like a drunk begging for alms. You are popular, my boy. Dangerous thing, popularity."
The Seeker swallowed. "What do they want from me?"
The Whisperer's grin widened. "To claim you. To use you. To burn you until you become their banner. The question is—who will you let devour you first?"
Nakamura stepped forward, gun raised. "Enough riddles. Give us something useful."
The Whisperer's gaze sharpened, amused but cruel. "Useful? All right. The city will tear itself apart before dawn. At the heart of it, Sister Calista and her zealots will clash with the Lantern Keepers. When the lanterns fall, so will your chance to hide. And in that moment—" He pointed a claw at the Seeker. "—you will be forced to choose: step into the myth, or be crushed beneath it."
And then, as suddenly as he appeared, he was gone. Only a faint smell of dust and ash remained.
The prophecy unfolded with terrifying precision.
By midnight, the zealots and the Keepers clashed in the financial district. White-robed fanatics hurled bottles of burning oil; Keepers in black cloaks carried lanterns that burned without flame, their light unraveling banners and books alike. The clash was less a battle than a ritual of destruction, belief colliding with suppression.
The Seeker and Nakamura watched from the rooftops. His scar pulsed so violently it was difficult to breathe. Every beat of it seemed to synchronize with the chaos below, as if he were both witness and cause.
A raven landed on the railing beside him, feathers slick with shadow. It cocked its head, black eyes gleaming with far too much intelligence. Another circled overhead, croaking.
Odin was watching.
The Seeker's mouth went dry.
"Don't," Nakamura warned, though she could not possibly know what she was warning against.
The raven opened its beak—and from it spilled not sound, but a vision. He saw himself standing at a crossroads of fire and shadow, gods gathered like carrion birds, each demanding his allegiance. He saw his scar glowing like a lantern, its light tearing the sky apart.
He staggered back, gasping. The raven flapped away into the dusk.
"Are you all right?" Nakamura asked, but her voice sounded distant.
The scar burned like a brand. He clutched at it, teeth gritted, vision swimming. For a moment he thought he might dissolve entirely—become nothing but light and glyphs.
And then the city itself seemed to answer.
From the horizon, a wave of unnatural fire surged—streetlamps bursting, windows igniting without cause. In the flames he saw a shape, gaunt and desperate: Xiuhtecuhtli, the forgotten fire god, crawling into the modern world on his knees, clutching at every ember as if starving. His eyes locked on the Seeker.
"You," the fire whispered through crackling glass. "Remember me."
The Seeker fell to his knees, overwhelmed. Two gods in one night, clawing for his soul. And the Whisperer's words echoed: step into the myth, or be crushed beneath it.
He looked up at Nakamura, who for once had no words, her face lit red by fire.
Behind them, the city screamed.