....
The city was quiet, as if it were holding its breath after something it didn't want to acknowledge.
Enark moved along the rooftops more slowly now, the urgency that had carried him earlier stripped away by exhaustion. Each step feels heavier than the last.
Leaving his friends.
Arriving too late.
Not being able to save anyone.
That, more than anything, gnawed at him.
He dropped from the rooftops several blocks from home, landing hard in an alley slick with oil and grease. The impact sent a jolt through his bones. He hissed under his breath and steadied himself against the wall, fingers pressing into cold, damp brick.
For the first time that night, he stopped moving.
The adrenaline was fading fast, leaving only weight behind—fatigue, pain, and regret. His hands trembled as he reached up and loosened the blindfold, letting it fall around his neck. The world didn't change for him visually, but the edges of sound dulled slightly, as if his body itself were begging for quiet.
He exhaled slowly.
"Too slow." "Too late," he thought to himself.
"Again," he muttered. Then again, softer—bitter. "Again. Again."
By the time he reached his house, the city had fully surrendered to night. Through the walls, he could hear his grandparents asleep upstairs—the slow, steady rhythm of breathing, the faint creak of wood settling under their weight.
He slipped inside without a sound and locked the door behind him.
The familiar space greeted him with stale air and stillness. Enark made his way to his room, shrugging his bag from his shoulder. He peeled off the black shirt with a quiet hiss of pain, fabric tugging against bruised skin.
He pressed his back against the wall and slid down until he was sitting on the floor.
Outside, rain began to fall.
At first, it was light—scattered drops tapping against the windows and roof. Then it thickened, layering sound over sound, until the city beyond the walls softened beneath it.
For most people, the rain was an annoyance-- a disruption.
For Enark, it was mercy.
The individual raindrops drowned out the chaos of the world, smothering distant cries, muting footsteps, and voices alike. For once, the only things he could hear were his own breath and the steady thud of his heart.
The rain carried memories with it—echoes of quieter nights.
Wrapped in that fragile calm, Enark allowed himself to rest.
-----------------------------
*Rrrrrshhhhhh.*
"Enark? Enark—what are you doing out here?" a woman called into the night, panic cutting through the rain. "You're soaking wet!"
She rushed toward him, bronze skin glistening beneath the streetlight, black hair plastered to her face as ocean-blue eyes searched for him.
A small boy stood at the edge of the precipice.
His eyes mirrored hers in color—but his pupils were like snow, unfocused on the world around him.
She knelt in front of him, hands warm as they gripped his shoulders. "Hey… hey, it's okay," she said softly. "Did you have another bad dream?"
The boy didn't answer.
Instead, he turned back toward the city—toward the rain-drowned streets stretching endlessly ahead—and lifted a small trembling finger.
"Someone's crying," he whispered.
The woman stared at him, dread settling slowly into her chest. Then she followed his gaze—out toward the rain-soaked city, and for a fleeting moment, it felt less like a place—and more like a monster staring back.
She swallowed.
Without another word, she stepped forward and scooped him into her arms, pulling him close as his small hands clutched at her shoulder.
"Alright, mister," she said softly, forcing a lightness into her voice. "Let's get you back inside before you catch a cold."
The boy didn't resist. He rested his head against her chest, listening to her heartbeat—steady, warm.
But as she turned away from the city, he asked quietly,
"Mom… who's gonna help them?"
Her steps faltered for just a moment.
Inside, she moved quickly, wrapping him in a towel, rubbing warmth back into his arms and legs. The storm raged outside, rain rattling against the windows like restless fingers.
She knelt in front of him, brushing damp hair from his blooming eyes.
"Enark," she said gently, "you can't keep wandering outside every time you have a nightmare." Her voice softened. "You can sleep with your dad and me, okay? You don't have to be alone."
"But…" he whispered, fingers curling into the towel, "even when I do… they don't stop."
She froze.
The room felt tiny.
For a moment, she didn't know what to say.
Then she exhaled and forced a smile, brushing her thumb across his cheek.
"Okay," she said carefully. "Then… you ignore them."
He frowned. "Ignore them?"
"When you hear the voices," she continued, trying to sound sure, "you put a pillow over your head. You pretend they aren't there."
His lip trembled. "But… I can't."
She straightened slightly.
"Enark," she said, more firmly this time—not angry, but afraid.
She cupped his face between her hands, squeezing his cheeks gently until a small, reluctant smile formed.
"I know you want to help," she said softly. "I know you hate hearing people cry. But the city is too big." Her voice wavered just a little. "And you're still so small."
She pulled him into a hug, holding him tighter than before.
"I don't know what I'd do if you got hurt."
She leaned back, meeting his eyes.
"Promise me," she said quietly, hopeful and terrified all at once. "You won't follow the voices."
The boy hesitated—just for a heartbeat.
Then he nodded, brightening slightly under her gaze.
"Okay," he said. "I promise."
Her shoulders relaxed.
"Good," she whispered, lifting him into her arms. "Come on. You're sleeping with your father and me tonight."
"Okay," he replied, already growing drowsy.
-----------------------------
Sunlight pierced through the windows.
The rain was gone.
The city stirred awake once more.
Enark opened his eyes with a tightness in his chest, the memory clinging to him like a wound that never healed.
A single thought echoed in the quiet.
...
"Why…"
"Why did I listen to her?"