The shed's single bulb buzzed overhead, its weak light flickering across the crumpled form of the blue-eyed man sprawled on the tarp. Elias Varn sat hunched against the wall, his cracked glasses fogged with tears, the ember in his chest a searing knot that pulsed with every shaky breath. His jumpsuit was a tattered shroud, the fabric stiff with dried sweat and river mud, and his hands trembled as he clutched his knees, the man's words—"The Shroud—it's in you"—echoing louder than the drones' hum creeping closer outside. The air was thick with the tang of scorched paper and damp rot, a suffocating weight that pressed against his lungs.
Rory Tate knelt beside the man, his skateboard abandoned as he pressed two fingers to the stranger's neck, his freckled face tight with focus. "Still breathing," he muttered, glancing up at Elias. "Barely. Whatever you did, it's not keeping him chatty." His red hair stuck to his forehead, damp from the night's chaos, and his patched hoodie hung loose, torn wider at the sleeve. He rocked back on his heels, green eyes darting to the door as the drones' buzz sharpened, joined by the faint crackle of radios—clipped voices cutting through the river's murmur.
Elias wiped his glasses on his sleeve, the cracked lens smearing worse, and stared at the man's still form. The blue glow was gone, leaving his skin pale and lifeless, streaked with dirt like he'd clawed his way from the earth. "He said I woke him," Elias whispered, voice raw. "From the river—from death. How—how am I doing this?" The ember flared, a jolt that made his eyes shimmer faintly, and he squeezed them shut, tears spilling over. "I don't want to be this—whatever this is."
Rory stood, brushing dust off his jeans, and grabbed his skateboard, gripping it like a shield. "Yeah, well, you don't get a vote, man. Dead guys popping up, rock ladies, creepy scientists—it's your party now." He forced a grin, but it faltered, his gaze flicking to the floor where the blue glow had seeped. "That Shroud thing he mentioned—sounds like bad news. What's it want with you?"
"I don't know!" Elias snapped, louder than he meant, his voice cracking as he buried his face in his hands. "It's in my head—telling me I can't run, that it's waiting. I don't even know what it is—some kind of—of monster? God? I'm just a janitor!" The ember surged, a heat that spread to his fingertips, and he clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms to keep it contained.
Rory stepped closer, crouching again, his hand hovering before settling on Elias's shoulder. "Hey, breathe. You're not just anything—you're the guy who keeps saving my ass, even if you hate it." His tone softened, a crack in his bravado. "We'll figure it out—Shroud, hunters, all of it. Together, yeah?"
Elias's throat tightened, Rory's words a fragile lifeline, but it snapped as the shed's bulb flickered wildly, the drones' hum swelling into a roar outside. A beam pierced the gap in the door, stark and blinding, and a voice boomed, amplified by a megaphone: "Elias Varn! This is your last warning—exit the structure with your hands raised!" The radios crackled louder—"Target acquired." "Perimeter locked."—and the shed shook as boots crunched gravel, closing in.
Rory sprang up, skateboard raised. "Crap—they found us! How'd they track us so fast?!" He darted to the door, peering through the crack, and cursed under his breath. "Chopper's back—drones too. They've got the river boxed in."
Elias's heart lurched, the ember flaring as panic clawed up his spine. "They're going to take me," he choked out, scrambling to his feet. "Voss—she'll—she'll cut me open, figure out what's wrong with me—" His eyes glowed brighter, the pulse threatening to break free, and the shed's walls rattled, dust sifting from the ceiling.
"Chill, Elias!" Rory spun back, grabbing his arms. "You're not a lab rat—we're getting out!" He scanned the shed, eyes narrowing on a rusted hatch in the floor, half-hidden under a pile of newspapers. "There—old drainage tunnel, maybe? Beats running into their net."
Elias nodded, desperation overriding doubt, and they shoved the papers aside, the hatch screeching as Rory pried it open. A dank breeze wafted up, thick with the stench of stagnant water and decay, and a faint blue glow pulsed from below—not the man's light, but something deeper, older. Elias froze, the ember resonating, and the voice whispered: "The Shroud waits beneath." He flinched, clutching his chest, and Rory frowned.
"Voice again?" he asked, pausing with one foot on the ladder.
"Yeah," Elias rasped, tears streaming down his face. "It's—it's down there."
Rory hesitated, then shoved his skateboard through the hatch, letting it clatter below. "Great. Creepy tunnel it is—better than tasers up here." He swung onto the ladder, descending into the dark, and Elias followed, the rungs slimy under his palms, each step a plunge into the unknown. The shed's bulb winked out as the hatch slammed shut above, the SWAT team's shouts muffled by the metal.
The tunnel was a narrow throat of damp concrete, its walls slick with moss and streaked with rust, the blue glow pulsing faintly ahead. Water sloshed underfoot, soaking Elias's sneakers, and the air was cold, heavy with the reek of rot and something sharper—ozone, like a storm brewing underground. Rory retrieved his skateboard, balancing it under his arm as he led the way, his silhouette flickering in the eerie light. "Stay close," he whispered. "This place gives me the creeps."
Elias's glasses fogged, and he wiped them uselessly, the cracked lens blurring the glow into a distorted haze. The ember pulsed in time with it, a rhythm that tugged at his core, and the voice grew louder, a resonant hum: "You cannot hide forever." He stumbled, catching himself against the wall, and the glow flared, illuminating a shape ahead—a figure etched into the concrete, not carved but burned, a shadowy outline with eyes that shimmered blue.
"What the—" Rory stopped, staring at the etching. "That's not graffiti. That's… old." He brushed a hand over it, the blue light pulsing under his touch, and Elias's ember flared in response, his eyes glowing brighter.
"It's the Shroud," Elias breathed, dread coiling in his gut. "It's—it's here." The pulse broke free, a wave that rippled through the tunnel, and the etching flared, the blue eyes blazing as a crack split the wall. A voice—not his inner whisper, but a physical rasp—echoed from the fissure: "You've come."
Elias staggered back, the ember burning hotter, and Rory raised his skateboard, vibration humming in his hands. "Who's there?!" he shouted, but the figure that emerged wasn't the stone woman or the blue-eyed man—it was a child, no older than twelve, their skin translucent, their eyes twin pools of blue that mirrored the etching. They floated an inch above the water, tendrils of light curling from their fingers.
"The Beacon," they said, voice soft but piercing. "Your spark woke me—pulled me from the beneath. The Shroud sent me." They tilted their head, unblinking. "It's in you—the source, the call. It's waking us all."
Elias's knees buckled, and he sank into the water, the cold seeping through his jumpsuit. "I didn't ask for this!" he cried, the pulse surging again, weaker but sharp, rattling the tunnel. The child's light flared, tendrils snapping like whips, and Rory's vibration pulsed, shaking the walls.
"Stop it—both of you!" Rory yelled, stepping between them, his hands glowing faintly. "Kid, what's the Shroud? What's it want with him?!"
The child's eyes flickered, a shadow crossing their translucent face. "The Shroud is the beginning—the spark beneath the world. It waits, tests, chooses. He's its voice now—its beacon." They floated closer, tendrils brushing Elias's arm, cold and electric. "They hunt you—the ones above. They'll break you to silence it. Run, but find it—before they do."
The tunnel shook, a distant boom echoing from above—SWAT breaching the shed—and the child vanished, their light winking out, leaving the etching dark. Elias sobbed, the ember a searing ache, and Rory hauled him up, water dripping from his jeans. "We're out—now!" He dragged Elias deeper into the tunnel, the drones' hum fading behind, but the blue glow lingered ahead, a path to something he couldn't escape.
Above, Dr. Voss watched from a sleek van, her tablet streaming drone footage—Elias's pulse, the child's emergence. "The Shroud," she murmured, tapping a note: Subject tied to entity—escalating phenomena. Priority: Immediate containment. Her smile was ice as the SWAT team reported: "Target lost—tunnel access." The net was tightening, and Elias was slipping through—for now.