Rain slid down the windshield in shimmering streaks. Elijah blinked hard, his mind refusing to stitch together what had just happened. The world still hummed with that unnatural quiet—the kind that filled the gaps between heartbeats.
He could feel the pulse in his throat, thick and uneven. His hands clung to the steering wheel as if it might anchor him to something real.
How… how did I get here?
His breath fogged the glass. The headlights were still dimmed, the wipers dragging slowly across the glass in rhythmic sweeps. Through that watery haze, the image before him didn't change—
a body lying motionless on the wet asphalt.
Elijah swallowed, the taste of iron thick in his mouth. His heart thudded painfully.
That voice…
The Warden has given you an invitation… and you have already accepted it.
The phrase crawled through his skull like a cold whisper. He rubbed his forehead hard, his palm trembling.
"What… what invitation?" he muttered under his breath. "Who's watching me? Is that thing—the Azaqor—was that the Warden?"
His voice cracked slightly, his breath steaming in the chill. His fingers twitched. He unbuckled his seat belt with a shaky click. The belt recoiled with a soft hiss as he sat still for a second longer, trying to convince himself he could just drive away.
But he couldn't. His eyes kept dragging back to the body.
He stepped out into the drizzle. The night was quiet except for the distant buzz of power lines. Every drop that hit his coat felt too loud. He looked around—the road stretched empty in both directions. No headlights. No sound. No one.
The realization made his chest tighten.
He crouched down slightly, peering at the still figure ahead. His hand hovered in the air, uncertain whether to reach out or retreat.
Do I leave it? Or… or move it?
If someone sees—
He stopped thinking. Fear came first, logic later. His breath shook as he took one hesitant step closer. Then another.
When he reached the body, the streetlight above flickered faintly.
The man's face caught the dim glow.
Elijah's breath hitched.
It was Dalton Wielder—the head of Crestwood County Council. A man whose face was on every billboard, every news clip, every community event poster in the city.
Elijah's mind blanked.
"What the—" He crouched beside him, staring. His voice was a whisper. "Wielder? No… no, this isn't real."
His pulse thundered in his ears. He pressed a trembling hand to his temple.
How… how is this possible?
How did Wielder end up here? How did I end up here?
I was in my apartment. Then—
He remembered the cracking walls. The voice. The grin. The burning pain in his bones.
No. He shook his head violently, droplets of rain flying from his hair. This can't be real. It can't.
But the body didn't vanish.
Elijah's fingers curled and uncurled at his side, betraying his fear. He pressed the heel of his hand to his mouth, breathing through it. His entire body trembled.
Something wasn't right. Not just the scene before him—everything. The air itself felt misaligned. The rain seemed to fall too slowly, the wind to hum too quietly.
Then—headlights.
A faint glow appeared on the far horizon, small but growing. A car was coming.
Panic surged through him.
"Shit," he hissed.
He grabbed the body under the arms, his fingers slipping against soaked fabric. The dead weight was heavier than he expected, dragging like wet sand. He stumbled, boots skidding on the slick ground. Somehow, through shaking effort, he managed to haul the corpse to the other side of the road, behind the shallow slope leading toward the ditch line.
He crouched low, chest heaving, the smell of rain and asphalt thick around him.
The approaching headlights grew brighter until the shape of the vehicle took form—a white sedan, early 2000s, boxy edges gleaming faintly. The engine hummed smoothly as it slowed down near his G-Wagon.
Elijah straightened instinctively, wiping his face with the back of his hand.
The car stopped beside him, the window rolling down with a soft buzz.
Inside sat a woman—late thirties, maybe early forties. Her hair was tied back, her face kind but cautious beneath the passing shadows.
She leaned slightly toward him. "Hey—everything alright?"
Elijah blinked, momentarily frozen.
Her tone softened. "Your car broke down or something? You look… lost."
For a brief moment, he considered telling her everything—that he'd just woken up to a dead man, that something unnatural had dragged him from his home into this nightmare. But fear clamped his throat shut.
He forced a small, shaky laugh. "No, no. I'm fine. Just… just needed some air. Rough day at work, you know?"
Her brow furrowed. "You sure? It's pouring out here."
Elijah nodded quickly, a little too fast. "Yeah, yeah, I'm good. Just my brain needed to scream into the rain for a minute."
The woman chuckled softly, still eyeing the dark road. Her gaze drifted briefly toward the front of his G-Wagon. "Looks like you spilled something there."
Elijah's stomach lurched.
The liquid shimmered faintly under the weak streetlight. She couldn't see clearly—the headlights of his car were off, and the red was masked by rain.
He exhaled slowly and forced a grin. "Ah, that? Coffee. I told myself I'd quit drinking it after midnight, but here we are. Caffeine and guilt—my most toxic relationship."
The woman laughed, the tension in her shoulders easing. "God, I know that feeling. You sure you're okay though? You look like you just walked out of a ghost story."
Elijah managed a genuine-sounding chuckle this time. "If I told you what my boss did to our project files tonight, you'd believe I was the ghost."
That earned him a fuller laugh, bright against the rain.
"Alright, Mr. Ghost," she said, shaking her head. "Try not to spook anyone else out here. Get some rest."
"I will," Elijah said, forcing a grin. "Drive safe."
She nodded and rolled up her window, her car pulling away with a gentle splash through the puddles. The red taillights receded into the distance until they were swallowed by the dark horizon.
Silence returned—thicker this time.
Elijah's grin stayed for a heartbeat longer before it faltered. The corners of his lips trembled, then flattened into something else—something hollow.
He turned his gaze back toward the ditch where Dalton Wielder's body lay hidden under the drizzle. His reflection in the car window stared back at him, distorted by droplets, the smile now warped and wrong.
The rain pattered against the hood. His breathing steadied—not calm, but eerily collected.
And then, slowly, a smile returned to his face.
Not one of relief.
Not one of fear.
But something darker.
His lips curved upward with an edge too sharp to belong to reason. His eyes glimmered faintly under the weak streetlight—detached, almost amused.
Like a man hearing a joke only he understood.
The rain fell harder. The road emptied again. Somewhere far away, thunder murmured.
And Elijah, standing beside the body of Dalton Wielder, whispered to no one—
"Guess the Warden really didn't give me a choice."
His smile lingered, crooked and unkind, until the night swallowed him whole.