Beneath the Shadows

  The ripples grew heavier, ice-cold, needling against their faces. Their boots shoved through the thin sheets of water that dragged across the fractured road; each step splashed up in quick, wet cracks—sharp against the soaked concrete.

  The crawling streams ran down the alley’s spine, carrying scraps of paper, shattered glass, and crumbling concrete dust. The world felt too wet—the building corrupted, sinking, as if trying to lean down toward them.

  Overhead, across the soaked rooftops, a shadow stirred. It slipped through the storm without stress or care, glancing at what ran beneath.

  The figure moved with unnatural ease, vaulting over a wire fence and sliding past a closed dumpster.

  Ink climbed after it—jumped the fence, skidded on broken tiles.

  Bishop followed seconds later, kicking the loose gate open—the iron mesh shuddered, flinging off clinging raindrops.

  The figure rushed down the alley—metal pipes jutting from fractured walls, trash bags torn and spilling into the stream-slicked path. Its steps barely touched the ground, kicking up sloshes of oily rainwater as it darted past a rusted shopping cart half-swallowed by debris.

  Ink’s breath caught—he faltered, coughing, then pushed forward again.

  Bishop scanned the alley walls. They narrowed, closing in.

  Up ahead: a dead end. Scaffoldings stacked like bones, crooked and wet, barring the way.

  Beyond them, sewer bars ran slick with rushing water.

  The figure stopped just before the scaffold.

  Its head tilted—then froze.

  Not for the footsteps behind, but for a sound only it could hear.

  It didn’t look back.

  Smoke shivered—then vanished.

  The figure reappeared halfway up the scaffold—fingers slipping on a wet beam before catching grip. One hand after another, it hauled itself upward.

  Rain pattered against the frame like nails on sheet metal, each drop scattering through the damp air.

  The rusted bars groaned beneath the strain.

  Only inches from the cloak, Ink stopped. His breath caught. He reached up, fingers brushing the slick pole—but he knew he couldn’t follow.

  He turned. Bishop stood farther back, phone in hand, its camera pointed toward the figure above.

  "Hey, what’re you doing?" Ink called, his voice echoing down the alley.

  He stepped back just as the figure slipped over the wall and vanished.

  “What was that?” Ink shouted through the rain.

  Bishop’s eyes narrowed behind his black-tinted glasses. "Let’s head back. They’re probably waiting."

  No explanation. No mention of the figure. No mention of the recording clutched in his hand.

  As if nothing had happened.

  As if they were mad—chasing shadows through the storm.

  Ink stared at the man from the higher-ups as he walked ahead through the softening rain, shoving the phone into his pocket.

  Without a choice, Ink followed—not trying to catch up, not falling behind—just moving under another shadow’s silent command.

  The phone slipped out again—lifted to the man’s ear, half-hidden by the rain. Ink caught it only from the corner of his eye.

  By the time they neared the house, it was gone—stuffed back into the man’s coat without a word.

  ______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

  The rain had thinned to a cold drizzle, threading silver ripples across the blackened river.

  A lone figure moved along the bank—cloak clinging to their small frame, heavy with water.

  Each step dragged, boots splashing softly through the puddles. They walked without hurry, like someone sleepwalking through the storm.

  The river sloshed hard against the concrete.

  Behind them—movement.

  A hand shot out, locking around the figure’s neck.

  They gasped. Their body jerked backward.

  Click. Something pressed against the base of their collar.

  The grip tightened—forcing them off balance.

  Her blade slipped free from the cloak. In one fluid motion, they slashed backward—arcing toward the attacker.

  A flinch. The grip loosened.

  Fingertips slipped from skin.

  The hood fell back.

  A girl stood there—grinning. Crooked and wild.

  Her violet eyes shimmered, pulsing like gems beneath midnight glass.

  Hair clung to her cheeks, but the rain didn’t seem to touch her.

  She looked too young.

  Too familiar.

  Her face—he’d seen it before, or thought he had.

  Someone he’d buried long ago.

  His breath hitched.

  Then he struck—

  A sharp blow to her hip.

  The impact echoed—like a metal bat hitting wet muscle

  She flew.

  The river exploded around her.

  Water surged against the concrete bank. Leaves and paper twisted in, plastering the white wall like filth.

  He didn’t chase.

  Didn’t even look.

  He just stood there, watching the ripples fade.

  Breath by breath, the water calmed—

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  As if she had never been there.

  After a long while, he turned toward the main street. His trench coat shimmered under fractured city light.

  But then—

  A stumble.

  He dropped slightly to one side.

  His leg had gone numb.

  Pain flared through his ribs.

  The whole body trembled—

  Just for a second.

  Then it stopped.

  He moved on, like someone who'd lived with pain too long to flinch anymore.

  A streetlamp caught his face.

  Pale skin.

  Wet strands of black hair.

  Eyes that had seen something worse than death.

  His trench coat, oversized and heavy, swayed with the soaked weight at its edges.

  His face was cold—expressionless, drained of all life. His gaze was dull, fixed downward on his own steps.

  The riverside was already behind him. The street had begun to wake.

  A car passed—black tires crunching over wet asphalt—then vanished.

  But something was wrong.

  It kept nagging at the back of his mind. The figure had been within reach—he could’ve ended it.

  So why did he strike?

  That face.

  A face that didn’t belong. Or maybe it did.

  His thoughts circled the impossible, already slipping—falling into the black water.

  He stepped onto the slick concrete.

  Droplets from the roof splattered against his coat.

  He passed through the alley and stopped at the walkway’s end, hands deep in his pockets.

  Steam curled from his breath. He took a call.

  “Reed.”

  His lips were dry despite the rain, but his voice was sharp and calm.

  “Yeah, what’s up?” Reed answered, lounging at his desk in the facility.

  “I need a pickup.”

  “Of course. By the way, did you meet the others?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Alright.” Reed hung up.

  ______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

  Ink stepped through the scorched kitchen door, boots crunching on black tile. Bishop stood near the sink, exchanging a quiet word with another man in black. The man handed him a sheet of paper—no envelope, no seal—then left without a glance.

  The house had been erased.

  No bodies. No furniture.

  No valuables left for street rats.

  Ink approached slowly.

  Bishop didn’t look at him—just read, nodded to himself, then reached into his coat. “Here.”

  He tossed something.

  Ink’s hand snapped up—black plastic falling cold into his palm. Metallic buttons against skin.

  Sharp edges. Heavier than it should’ve been.

  Before he could ask, Bishop turned.

  “We’re done here. Back to the facility.”

  He stepped into the alleyway, the paper pinched between his fingers.

  Ink stared after him. The air still smelled of fire and bleach.

  The key pressed against his palm.

  He followed—unsure if he was being led, or left behind.

  At the main road, the cleanup van was already gone.

  Only the service SUV remained, black and waiting, dew cloaking the windows like a second skin.

  The engine came alive, shattering the silence.

  They pulled into the road, leaving Chinatown behind.

  The sun rose between buildings, scattering light across a thousand windows.

  Mist still clung to the edges of the street—standing beside the warming light like an unsuitable couple.

  One must stay so the other could go.

  Ink squinted against the glare, eyes on the road.

  He yawned. Then sighed. Then did it again.

  Bishop didn’t notice—still scrolling through his phone, eyes flicking between the screen and the paper.

  “What’s on that paper?” Ink muttered mid-yawn.

  “The chemical test,” Bishop said, not looking up.

  “Oh. Did someone get pregnant?”

  Bishop blinked slowly behind his teashades. “…What?”

  “Right, right,” Ink mumbled. “So what was that thing anyway? You got any clue?”

  No answer.

  The man in shades at dawn stayed silent.

  Ink braced against the wheel. Was he rambling? Dreaming? Just too tired to care?

  “It wasn’t natural, was it?” he asked again—quieter this time.

  Bishop turned his head slightly from the back seat. His voice low, even.

  “Just drive.”

  ______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

  A man in a tainted trench coat—soaked and streaked with mud—crawled from the river’s shallows, dragging himself up the slope. His fingers dug into wave-softened soil, dirt packed beneath his nails.

  He hauled himself from the water, only to collapse on all fours, panting softly against the debris-scattered shore.

  Strands of hair clung to his face, veiling his eyes from view.

  A car spotlight flared, locking onto him. An engine hummed to a stop.

  The van’s doors slid open on both sides. Three or four men jumped out, each armed.

  Their shadows stretched behind the light, cast long and warped.

  Then came Bloke in the same, yellow-striped suit, the amber glow of his cigar pulsing like a signal in the dark.

  He let out a low chuckle as he stepped closer.

  “Look what we found,” he said, nudging the man’s trench coat with his boot. “A drowning puppy.”

  The soaked figure remained on all fours, trembling—not from fear, nor from the cold.

  His eyes sharpened, and deep within them clung a faint tip of purple. It did not fade.

  The man in the striped suit leaned closer. His voice was clear, ironic.

  “Did you find what you were looking for in those ashes?”

  The figure didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

  So the man assumed.

  “Good,” he muttered, cigar clenched at the edge of his lips. “Now get your ass up. We ain’t got all day.”

  He nodded, signaling the others, then turned and walked back to the van.

  “How can we trust this... nobody?”

  The voice came from the driver’s seat—a man in a track jacket, tapping the wheel with calloused fingers. His eyes didn’t leave the mirror.

  “I didn’t,” said the man in the yellow-striped suit, glancing back toward the shore. “I’m just here for whatever that guy promised about ‘the company’—if it’s even real. Either way, we’ve got him... don’t we, Yuri?”

  Two of the men stepped forward, lowering their guns. They grabbed the figure by the arms, trying to pull him up—

  —but he shook them off.

  Rising under his own power—slow, deliberate—he walked calmly toward the van.

  Inside the loading bay, two long bench seats lined either wall—no belts, just black rope nets rigged to hang on.

  His trench coat, damp and heavy, dragged along the floor, leaving a trail across the worn leather. He sat without a word.

  The others followed, quiet. One of them pounded twice on the metal wall—sharp, hollow knocks that echoed through the bay.

  The van lurched forward, headed out past the edge of the city.

  It took a turn, off the road into the endless field of grass, soft brushing with the breeze, its height just below the knee, as if someone was secretly trimming it short, keeping it neat.

  For half an hour, no one spoke.

  Grass swept softly against the undercarriage. Moonlight flickered through the open slats.

  Every so often, someone glanced at the trench-coated man, half-expecting him to faint again.

  He didn’t.

  The city’s glow dimmed behind them, lost to the horizon. Concrete faded to gravel, then gravel gave way to earth—flattened and compact. The van’s wheels thudded gently now, like they were rolling over a buried heartbeat.

  Eventually, they passed a fence. No barbed wire. No warnings. Just a row of black-flagged posts, quiet in the breeze.

  Yuri cleared his throat. “You sure this is it?”

  “I’m not,” said the man in the suit, breezy. “But he told me where to go. So I’m going.”

  The van drove deeper.

  They arrived at a clearing: a slope of cracked stone in a bowl-shaped depression. Something lay in the center. A rusted hatch. Maybe a storm drain. Maybe worse.

  The vehicle stopped. The doors creaked open.

  Everyone got out—except the man in the trench coat. He looked up. Purple-tinged eyes caught the moonlight.

  “Back away,” he said.

  Yuri frowned. “The hell’d you just say?”

  The figure stood. His coat dripped in rhythm with the wind-cut grass.

  “I said,” he repeated, “get back.”

  Yuri scoffed, raising his pistol halfway. “We’ve got the numbers, trench-boy. What the hell do you think—”

  He didn’t finish. The trench-coated figure walked forward, unbothered by the weapon or the warning.

  Wordless, Yuri raised the pistol again—

  A hand tapped the slide, pushing it down.

  “I want to see this,” said the man in the suit.

  Yuri growled low, tucked the pistol back into his tracksuit. “You’re the boss,” he The trench-coated figure stepped to the hatch.

  It had a keypad—numbers and alien symbols etched into dull metal. The LED lights were dead or weather-worn.

  He knelt. His coat fanned around him, still dripping.

  One hand lifted. The cuff on his wrist pulsed faintly—then flared. His other hand gripped his wrist.

  A flick.

  The hatch exploded.

  Black crystal burst up like jagged spears, curling outward in a violent bloom.

  Everyone ducked—

  Except the man in the suit, who clapped slowly. The cigar was gone.

  “What the hell was that?” one of the men shouted from the back.

  The crystals cracked and faded, breaking into ash swept away by the wind.

  The hatch was gone—only twisted metal remained, peeled back like petals.

  The trench-coated man stood. The light on his wrist dimmed, fading into pulsing veins beneath his skin like fractured glass.

  The man in the yellow-striped suit stepped closer, peering down at the revealed entrance. A narrow shaft, rectangular and lined with steps—old, worn, descending into a dark so thick it felt alive. Somewhere below, something clicked—soft, mechanical, waiting.

  The man in the suit stepped forward. “Well. Looks like you weren’t bluffing.”

  “Yuri.”

  Yuri didn’t move. His eyes stayed locked on the figure. Jaw clenched.

  Then he scoffed, shoved his pistol away again, and muttered something under his breath before stepping forward.

  The rest followed. Down the steps, single file.

  The man in the suit called the last one before he followed the lead. “You stay.”

  Only the man in the trench coat and the last asset remained above. For a moment longer he turned his gaze to the horizon one last time—where the wind pushed softly through the grass, where the city lights had long since vanished.

  Then he descended.

  And the clearing, empty once more, swallowed the silence.

  ______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

  The flashlights traced over molded walls and dripping pipes.

  The passage beneath the hatch reeked of rust, cloaked in chlorine.

  Heavy breaths pulled the tight air thinner.

  “And what the hell is this place?” Yuri asked aloud, his voice echoing under the metal.

  “Old facility,” someone said from the back. “So old, even the alarms are dead.”

  “So what are we here for?”

  “Follow the passage. It’ll lead us to it.”

  “Right…” Yuri muttered. “Try anything like you did up there—and you’re dying first.”

  No reply. Only the drip of pipes and the shuffle of boots.