_______________
The air is colder tonight. You notice it the moment you step outside the underground chamber. Frost has begun to cling to the edges of the concrete around the entrance. Every breath you take drifts out in thin clouds, dissolving quickly into the dark.
Azael follows closely behind you, moving like he's expecting someone to step from the shadows at any second. You don't need to ask; the hollow in your chest thrums insistently, the pressure of it almost tangible. It's alive in a way that makes your skin crawl.
"This site," you mutter, voice low, "feels… smaller than yesterday."
"It's tighter," Azael says, scanning the perimeter with his eyes. "Predictable. That's why we're here. Not comfort. Not concealment. Preparation."
You nod, though the words do little to calm the pit of unease growing in your stomach. You've learned that the hollow doesn't lie. When it surges like this, when it vibrates through your limbs and presses against your chest, it's telling you something is coming. Something imminent.
You follow Azael toward the main hall of the site. Broken machinery lines the walls, crates stacked haphazardly. Dust and frost mix, leaving a thin, slick layer under your boots. Each step echoes too loudly. Each sound carries farther than it should.
"They're testing the boundaries again," you say.
Azael glances at you. "Not testing. Mapping."
You frown. "Mapping?"
"Yes," he says, moving toward a rusted doorway leading into a storage wing. "Every second you spend in this space, every movement you make, every reaction — they're recording. Every structural flaw, every blind spot. That's how Kaelthyr learns faster than we can."
You swallow. The weight of it presses into your chest. You glance at the hollow in your skin, faintly glowing, as if it can sense the danger too.
"So we wait?" you ask.
Azael shakes his head. "We prepare. Every second counts. Don't underestimate the quiet before it strikes. That's the moment it's most dangerous."
You step over a broken pipe, careful not to trip. You feel the hollow shift under your ribs, restless. It's reacting to the space around you — subtle distortions you can't see, pressure in the air, faint vibrations along the floor. You bite your lip. It's almost unbearable.
Azael moves to a stack of crates and begins checking the makeshift barricades you set up yesterday. You watch him silently. He's methodical, precise, but there's tension coiled in his movements you haven't seen before.
"They know we're here," you say quietly.
"They do," he replies. "They always know."
The statement hangs in the cold air between you. You feel your jaw tighten. The hollow pulses again. Closer. Stronger. You press a hand to your chest instinctively, feeling the pressure crawl up your spine.
Azael looks up from the barricades, eyes narrowing. "Do you feel that?"
You nod. "Yes."
He takes a deep breath. "Good. That means they're here — not fully, not yet, but they're close enough that hesitation will cost us."
Your stomach twists. "They're going to strike tonight?"
"Yes," he says, voice low, controlled. "Soon."
You glance around the room. Every shadow looks like it's moving, every flicker of dust in the faint light seems deliberate. Your heart hammers in your chest.
Azael moves toward you, placing a hand on your shoulder. "Listen," he says. "Fear isn't weakness. It's data. It tells you where to put your focus."
You close your eyes briefly and nod. The hollow thrums faster, responding to your anxiety and your anticipation. You can feel the air shifting around you in ways that don't make sense. Small distortions, tiny pressure points — subtle enough that a normal person would dismiss them, but you feel them.
"Do you think Kaelthyr is coming himself?" you ask quietly.
Azael hesitates. "I don't know. But if he is, he won't make a show of it. He'll make you think the attack is somewhere else, somewhere you can't see. He's patient. Methodical. He waits until the moment you're most exposed."
The thought sits heavily. You can feel the hollow tighten, a coil of energy under your skin. It's alive. It reacts to the knowledge like a wound does to salt.
You pace a small circle, boots crunching on frost and dust. The silence is deafening. Your ears pick up every creak, every tiny movement in the walls. You stop at the edge of the barricade, looking at Azael.
"What do we do until then?" you ask.
"We watch. We listen. We test every reaction, every gap," he says. "Every mistake we make gives him information. Every second we hesitate gives him an advantage. We can't give him that."
You nod. The hollow pulses in agreement, sharp and insistent. You move to a corner of the room and begin checking lines of sight, testing for blind spots, feeling the walls, the floor, the angles. Every imperfection is a potential threat.
Hours pass. You and Azael rotate, checking every entry point, listening to every creak, every groan of the old building settling. You move methodically, deliberately, but the tension never lifts. Every shadow could be the first strike. Every faint vibration underfoot could be the advance of the Things.
By mid-evening, the hollow is restless, almost unbearable. You lean against a wall, trying to focus. Your hands glow faintly as the hollow responds to your agitation. You close your eyes and draw a slow, steadying breath, but the pressure doesn't ease.
"They're close," you whisper.
"I know," Azael says, his voice quiet but firm. "And that's exactly what we want. We want to feel them before they strike. Anticipate. Prepare."
You glance at him. "And if they anticipate us?"
"They will," he says. "But the difference is we can react. We have to. That's all we have."
You sit on the edge of a crate, fingers pressing lightly against the floor as the hollow hums beneath your skin. Time stretches. Every second feels like an hour. You hear nothing, yet everything feels wrong. The air feels heavier, charged, like static before a storm.
Then — a shift.
A subtle vibration, faint but distinct. It courses through the floor, through the walls, and through the hollow inside you. Your breath catches.
"They're moving," you whisper.
Azael is immediately alert, blade in hand, eyes scanning the shadows. "Where?"
You shake your head. "I can't see. I just feel it."
The hollow pulses again, sharper. Almost painfully. Something brushes against it from beyond the walls. You press your hands to your chest instinctively.
"They're close," Azael says again, calm but tense. "Stay ready. Don't act until I give the signal."
You nod. Every nerve in your body is taut. Every movement feels like it matters. Every breath is deliberate. You shift slightly, testing angles, testing your footing, listening.
Minutes stretch. Then hours. Or at least it feels like hours. Every sound — a loose panel, a pipe creaking, distant wind — makes your pulse spike. The hollow responds, surging faintly in your chest, spreading warmth and pressure through your limbs.
"You think this is just a warning?" you whisper.
"No," Azael says. "Warnings are wasted on us. This is preparation. Observation. Patience."
You take another slow breath. You feel the hollow tightening, coiling, restless. You're ready, almost. You hope. You pray.
Something shifts behind you. You spin, blade at the ready, hollow flaring slightly. Nothing. Just shadows.
Azael's hand lands on your shoulder. "Patience," he murmurs.
But the tension is unbearable. Your muscles ache from standing, waiting, alert. Your jaw is tight. Every fiber of you feels stretched.
Then — a faint sound, almost imperceptible. Not footsteps. Not wind. A subtle distortion in the air, like heat waves in winter. Something is moving just beyond your sight.
The hollow surges violently. You press your hand against it, trying to hold it steady. The pressure rattles your bones.
"They're here," you whisper.
"Yes," Azael says, voice quiet but deadly. "And now we wait for the first move."
Everything freezes in that moment — air, light, time. The building, the shadows, the hollow inside you — all waiting.
You breathe shallowly, feeling the anticipation like a physical weight pressing into your chest. The first strike is coming. You know it. You can feel it.
And when it comes — nothing will be the same again.
---