The rusted overhang creaked above Elias Varn and Rory Tate, its jagged edge dripping with the last of the rain as the storm tapered into a drizzle. The alley was a narrow slit of shadow, its walls slick with wet graffiti and the air heavy with the tang of damp asphalt and rotting trash. Elias leaned against the doorframe, his thin gray gown sodden and clinging, his bare feet numb against the cold pavement. Without his glasses, the neon glow of West Hollow blurred into a hazy smear beyond the alley's mouth, and the ember in his chest flickered, a restless heat that pulsed with his shallow breaths, a quiet defiance against the night's chaos.
Rory crouched beside him, his patched hoodie dark with rain, his red hair sticking up in damp spikes as he shook water from his freckled face. His skateboard rested against the wall, its wheels still, and his green eyes scanned the alley, sharp with the street-honed wariness that had kept them alive. "We're good—for now," he muttered, his voice low but steady, cutting through the distant hum of the city. "Stone lady bought us time—hope she's okay."
Elias's throat tightened, the memory of her green-lit stand flashing—cracked fists against drones, a shield for his escape. "She—she fought for me," he whispered, hands trembling as he hugged himself, the ember flaring faintly. "Because of this—this thing in me." His eyes glowed for a fleeting second, a shimmer that lit the gloom, and he squeezed them shut, tears mingling with the rain on his cheeks. "I don't know how to make it stop."
Rory rocked back on his heels, wiping his nose with a sleeve. "Maybe you don't stop it," he said, his tone thoughtful, almost gentle. "Maybe you steer it—like that creepy staff guy said. Claim it, right?" He tapped his skateboard, spinning a wheel absently. "You're not just a victim here, Elias. You've got juice—crazy, scary juice—but it's yours."
Elias's breath hitched, the Shroud's voice stirring: "Claim it, or they will." He flinched, the ember pulsing sharper, and pressed a hand to his chest, the heat a lifeline he feared to grasp. "I don't know how," he rasped, staring at the blurred pavement. "It's—it's too big. The Shroud, Voss, all these people waking up—I'm not strong enough."
Rory grabbed his arm, forcing him to look up, his grip bruising but warm. "You're stronger than you think, man. You've been running, fighting, freaking out—and you're still here. That's not weak." His grin flickered, stubborn despite the exhaustion lining his face. "I'm not exactly Captain Hero either, but I've got your back. We'll figure it—together."
The words sank in, a fragile anchor, and Elias nodded, a small, trembling motion. The ember settled, a dull ache, and he wiped his face, the rain's chill easing as the drizzle faded. "Okay," he mumbled, voice thick. "Together."
Rory stood, stretching with a wince—his ribs still tender—and kicked his skateboard upright. "Good. First step: we need a hideout—somewhere Voss's goons won't sniff out." He rummaged in his hoodie pocket, pulling out a soaked scrap of paper, its ink smudged but legible—a flyer, torn and faded, advertising a storage locker auction. "Found this in the shed—guy I knew stashed stuff in one of these. Might have gear we can use. It's a trek, but beats sitting here."
Elias squinted at the blur, trusting Rory's lead. "Storage locker?" he asked, voice shaky but curious. "What kind of gear?"
"Dunno—clothes, maybe food, if we're lucky something to fight with," Rory said, shrugging as he helped Elias up, the gown flapping wetly. "Point is, it's off the grid. Let's move—chopper's quiet, but I don't trust it."
They slipped from the doorway, the alley's shadows cloaking them as they moved, Rory guiding Elias's unsteady steps. The city loomed beyond—neon-lit streets, the murmur of late-night traffic—but they stuck to the fringes, weaving through backstreets and underpasses, the ember a faint pulse keeping Elias alert. Rainwater dripped from awnings, and his bare feet ached, but Rory's presence steadied him, a tether in the dark.
The storage facility squatted on the city's edge, a sprawl of orange metal doors under flickering floodlights, its chain-link fence sagging with neglect. Rory scaled it first, vibration humming as he bent a gap wide enough for Elias to slip through, the metal cold against his skin. They crept to a locker marked 17-C, its lock rusted but intact, and Rory grinned, cracking it open with a pulse of his hands. "Jackpot," he muttered, pulling the door wide.
Inside was a cluttered cave—boxes, a duffel bag, a tarp-covered lump. Rory dug through, tossing Elias a faded jacket and boots too big but dry, then unearthed a flashlight, its beam cutting through the dust. "Score—clothes, some granola bars, even a knife," he said, holding up a rusted blade. "Not much, but it's a start."
Elias shrugged on the jacket, its warmth a relief, and sank onto a crate, the boots loose but grounding. "Thanks," he mumbled, nibbling a granola bar as the ember flickered, his eyes glowing faintly in the flashlight's glare. "Feels—feels normal, for a second."
Rory nodded, slicing open a box, then froze, pulling out a notebook—yellowed pages, handwriting scrawled in frantic loops. "Whoa—check this," he said, flipping it open. "Looks like a journal—dates go back years." He read aloud, voice low: "The Shroud hums beneath—felt it in the mines, the river. Woke something in me—green light, strength. They buried it, but it's alive."
Elias's stomach dropped, the ember flaring as he grabbed the notebook, squinting at the blur. "That's—that's like her," he breathed, the stone woman's green glow flashing in his mind. "Someone else felt it—woke up, like me." The Shroud's voice whispered: "You are not alone." He shivered, the ember pulsing sharper, and the flashlight flickered, a faint blue glow seeping from the locker's floor.
Rory dropped the notebook, vibration humming as he stepped back. "Not again—another glowy weirdo?" But the light coalesced, not into a figure but a shimmer—a man, his form translucent, his eyes blue and piercing, like the child from the tunnel. He hovered, tendrils of light curling from his hands, and Elias's ember flared, his eyes glowing in sync.
"Beacon," the man rasped, voice echoing with a hollow weight. "You've stirred it—the Shroud grows restless. I felt you, from the beneath." He gestured, the blue light pulsing, and the locker trembled, dust sifting from the ceiling. "It's yours to wield—or it wields you."
Elias scrambled back, the crate creaking, and Rory raised his knife, vibration pulsing. "Back off, ghost guy! He's not your puppet!" But the man's eyes softened, a flicker of something human breaking through.
"I was like you," he said, voice fading. "Afraid—then broken. It chose me, too—til they silenced me." His form flickered, tendrils dimming. "Claim it, or they'll bury you—hunters, deeper than her. Find the mines—it sleeps there." He dissolved, the blue winking out, leaving the locker silent but for their ragged breaths.
Elias's chest heaved, the ember a searing knot, and he clutched the notebook, its pages wet with his grip. "The mines," he whispered, tears spilling over. "It's—it's real, Rory. It's not stopping."
Rory lowered the knife, his face pale but set. "Okay—so we've got a lead. Mines, some old Shroud crap—better than running blind." He grabbed the duffel, stuffing it with supplies. "We're not buried yet—let's go."
But the locker's door rattled, a sharp clang cutting the quiet, and a voice—cold, mechanical—crackled through: "Target located—containment imminent." Black-clad figures loomed outside, visors glinting red, and the chopper's thrum roared closer, its spotlight piercing the night. The ember flared, Elias's eyes glowing, and the choice burned—run, or claim the spark before they did.