The next morning, the city was alive in its ordinary rhythm. Commuters hustled along sidewalks, cars honked, and the neon signs blinked lazily. Soren moved among them, careful, small, almost invisible. To everyone else, he was just another young man navigating the streets. But every glance, every shadow, every flicker of movement was a potential danger he could feel pressing against him.
He tightened the strap of his worn backpack, feeling the faint tremor in the air. A presence. Not obvious, not yet—just the kind of subtle disturbance that would have gone unnoticed by anyone else. He walked faster, blending into the crowd, pretending he didn't notice the figure that had appeared in the subway station moments before.
A man emerged from the tunnel—ordinary at first glance—but Soren froze. The face was wrong. Human, yes, but twisted like clay, features stretching unnaturally when he blinked. Horns curled from the top of his head like polished wood. Tentacles—thin, writhing, almost playful—crawled behind his back.
Soren's chest tightened. Don't move your eyes, the Monster warned. Don't look directly. They'll notice you.
He adjusted his pace, letting the crowd carry him past. Every motion felt like a test, every step a battle of control. His body reacted instinctively—leaning, twisting, barely perceivable movements that no one else would notice.
The horned man turned his head slightly, almost as if sniffing the air, and for a split second, Soren imagined those tentacles wrapping around him, pulling him into some unseen world. Then the figure moved away, absorbed into the crowd, leaving him trembling.
At a coffee shop a few blocks later, Soren sat at a corner table, eyes fixed on the bustling street outside. Ordinary people, ordinary lives. But he could see the anomalies—the subtle disturbances in reality, the hum of presences hidden beneath the mundane.
He traced the shapes in his mind, careful not to acknowledge them out loud. One wrong thought, one misstep, and he might be noticed. And being noticed wasn't just dangerous—it could be fatal.
A young woman passed by the window. Her reflection rippled strangely in the glass.
Soren held his gaze on the cup of coffee in front of him, pretending not to see. Yet instinctively, his body prepared itself, muscles tensing, reactions sharpening.
"You're learning," the Monster whispered. "But you're still far from safe."
Soren closed his eyes for a brief moment, letting his senses sweep the room. Nothing overt, nothing obvious—just the faint ripples of something alive beneath the surface. He exhaled slowly. Every day was a test. Every day required patience, discipline, control.
And every day, the shadows grew bolder.
When he stepped back onto the street, the sun glinting off the glass and asphalt, Soren felt the weight of the city pressing in around him. Not the weight of people or buildings, but something unseen, something aware. Shades were everywhere—intelligent, perceptive, dangerous. And yet, he moved through them as if he belonged.
He didn't belong. Not yet.
But he was learning.