The morning sun struggled against the city’s perpetual haze, bleeding weak rays through the thick canopy of smog and neon reflections. Dystrios never truly woke—it only shifted, grinding forward like a rusted machine, its gears clogged with the residue of too many lives stacked on top of each other.

  Victor Harrow stood on an abandoned overpass, his hands curled around the rusting railing, eyes fixed on the streets below. The city churned, oblivious to the fact that something unnatural had stirred beneath its steel and concrete bones.

  The shimmer. The faceless body. The symbols etched faintly into the concrete floor. It didn’t add up. But then again, nothing in his life had added up for a long time.

  A gust of wind cut through the overpass, carrying the damp stink of exhaust fumes, burning plastic, and something acrid from the slums further down. He ignored it, rolling his thumb over the jagged scar on his cheek, a subconscious habit when his thoughts ran too deep. His reflection in the puddle near his boots was warped, rippling in the rainwater like it was trying to twist into something else.

  His comm buzzed. He sighed, already knowing who it was.

  He pulled it from his coat, thumb hovering over the ‘decline’ button. But duty had a way of digging its claws into his bones. He answered.

  “Harrow.”

  “It’s Lansing,” came the voice on the other end. Cold. Clipped. The voice of a man who expected results.

  Victor exhaled through his nose. “Figured.”

  “Have you made any progress?”

  Victor let the silence stretch. Lansing hated silence. He could hear the billionaire pacing, probably in some sprawling penthouse, a scowl on his face as he stared out at a skyline he owned a good portion of.

  “Some,” Victor finally said. “I’ve got leads.”

  “Leads?” Lansing’s voice sharpened like a blade. “Harrow, I’m paying you to solve this, not chase shadows.”

  Victor’s jaw tensed. “And I’m doing my job. These things take time. Unless, of course, you’ve got something you haven’t told me?”

  A pause. The kind of pause that meant Lansing was calculating.

  “No,” Lansing finally said. “But I expect results soon. My daughter deserves justice.”

  “And she’ll get it,” Victor replied, voice steady. “But I don’t work on your clock.”

  Lansing’s silence was answer enough. A second later, the line went dead.

  Victor pocketed the comm and ran a hand over his face, dragging his fingers down his cheek, feeling the rough ridges of old fights and bad memories.

  The shimmer. The faceless body. The unease in the air, like something watching from a crack in the world. This wasn’t a normal case. And now he had the most powerful man in the city breathing down his neck.

  The wind carried the scent of damp earth and coal smoke through the narrow streets, curling like ghostly fingers around the gas lamps that flickered in their iron cages. James Caldwell pulled his coat tighter against the cold, his breath a faint mist in the autumn air. The city of Blackwood was settling into its restless night—the cobblestone streets wet with rain, the distant toll of a church bell swallowed by the fog.

  It was a city of dim candlelight and whispered secrets, where the past clung to the walls like ivy, and every shadow held a story.

  James sat alone in the corner of The Hollow Finch, a tavern of dark wood and darker clientele, where the air smelled of old books, pipe smoke, and spiced rum. It was one of the few places where men spoke freely of things they weren’t meant to understand. The kind of place where you didn’t ask what a man did for a living, only how much he was willing to pay to forget it.

  A half-empty glass of whiskey sat before him, untouched. The golden liquid caught the dim light, throwing warped reflections across the scratched surface of the table. His fingers hovered over the rim, lost in thought.

  The shimmer. The tear in the air. The fleeting glimpse of a world beyond.

  He had seen it before—when Eliza disappeared.

  His hand tightened into a fist.

  The tavern’s heavy door creaked open, letting in a gust of night air and the sound of boots against wood. James didn’t need to look up to know the man who had entered was not the sort who came here for drinks or companionship.

  A shadow passed over the table.

  "You’re Caldwell," the man said. His voice was low, edged with experience.

  James lifted his gaze. The stranger standing before him was older, a man carved from hard years. His beard was neatly trimmed, streaked with grey, his coat well-worn but expensive. His eyes—sharp, unreadable—were those of a man who had seen more than he would ever say.

  James nodded. "Who’s asking?"

  The man slid into the seat across from him, resting his forearms on the table. "Name’s Barrow. I trade in things people don’t want found. And I hear you’ve got an interest in… unnatural matters."

  James studied him, his mind working through possibilities. Barrow wasn’t a drunkard spinning ghost stories for the sake of a free drink. He carried himself with the confidence of a man who had learned to listen before he spoke.

  "Depends," James said, finally. "What are you offering?"

  Barrow reached into his coat and withdrew a folded map, laying it on the table between them. His fingers tapped a small mark, just outside the city’s border—a lonely house, sitting at the edge of the woods.

  "I passed it a few nights ago," Barrow said, his voice quieter now, like a man recounting something he wished he hadn’t seen. "Old place. Supposed to be empty. But the lights were on. And something was inside."

  James frowned. "People see things all the time, especially in the dark."

  Barrow’s lips twitched—not quite a smile. "Not like this."

  James unfolded the map, tracing the marked location with his finger. "What do people say about it?"

  Barrow exhaled, shifting in his seat. "They call it cursed. Haunted. A place where things don’t stay dead."

  James glanced up sharply.

  Barrow met his gaze without hesitation. "I’m not saying I believe in ghosts, Caldwell. But I’ve seen things that don’t make sense. And so have you, haven’t you?"

  James didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

  The candlelight flickered between them, casting long shadows against the wooden walls.

  "You want me to check it out," James said finally.

  "I want to know what’s in that house," Barrow corrected. "And if you don’t come back, I’ll know it was something worth paying for."

  James smirked. "That’s a generous offer."

  "Pragmatic," Barrow replied. "You’re the first person I’ve told who didn’t laugh in my face."

  James reached for his whiskey and knocked it back in one smooth motion. He had faced the unknown before. He had lost everything to it.

  He would not turn away now.

  "Fine," James said, standing and tucking the map into his coat. "I’ll look. If I make it back, we’ll talk about your payment."

  Barrow inclined his head. "Fair enough.

  James walked the overgrown path toward the abandoned house, the fog clinging to the ground like the grasping hands of the dead.

  The house loomed in the moonlight, a forgotten thing, its broken windows dark eyes watching him approach. The wooden porch sagged under his weight as he stepped forward, pushing open the door with a slow, deliberate motion.

  Inside, the air was thick with dust and something else—something wrong. The scent of mildew and old wood clung to the walls, but underneath it was a faint metallic tang, like blood left too long in the cold.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  He struck a match, lighting the small lantern he carried. The flickering glow painted the room in long, wavering shadows. The furniture was ancient, draped in sheets that had turned grey with time.

  Then he saw it.

  The shimmer.

  It pulsed faintly in the center of the room—a crack in reality, like light bending through water. James stepped closer, his heartbeat thrumming in his ears.

  Through the tear, he saw shapes moving. Blurred figures, shifting in and out of focus, as if caught between worlds.

  One of them turned.

  James froze.

  For a heartbeat, he saw a face.

  Eliza.

  His breath caught in his throat. "Eliza?"

  The shimmer pulsed violently. The figures grew clearer.

  And then, suddenly—one of them saw him.

  The moment shattered. The tear collapsed, leaving nothing but empty space.

  James staggered back, his pulse hammering. Whatever this was, it wasn’t natural.

  And it wasn’t over.

  Barrow sat in the same booth, swirling his drink. He looked up as James slid into the seat across from him, his face pale, his hands unsteady.

  "You look like you’ve seen a ghost," Barrow said dryly.

  James exhaled sharply. "It’s not a ghost. It’s something worse."

  Barrow’s fingers tapped against his glass, his expression unreadable. "You’re not afraid, are you?"

  James managed a smirk, though there was little humor in it. "Terrified." He picked up a glass and downed the whiskey in one go.

  "But I’m used to that."

  The city held its breath.

  A thin drizzle coated the streets in a slick sheen, neon reflections warping across wet concrete like fractured constellations. The rain came down in slow, measured drops, the kind that made everything seem heavier. The night wasn’t silent—it was expectant. A moment before the storm.

  Victor Harrow moved through it with the quiet confidence of a man who had long since stopped fearing what lurked in the dark. His boots struck the pavement with a steady rhythm, matching the pulse in his temple. His mind was a tangle of loose threads, unraveling faster than he could grasp them—the rippling distortion, the faceless body, the corpses turning up in strange places, Lansing’s relentless pressure.

  And now, another body.

  The industrial docks of Dystrios stretched along the city’s edge like the ribs of a decaying beast, its skeletal cranes looming over the water. Rusting cargo containers stood stacked in uneven rows, their once-bright logos faded by salt air and time. The automated loaders groaned as they worked, their steel arms lifting crates in the rain, indifferent to the horrors concealed between them.

  Victor approached the taped-off crime scene, floodlights casting harsh white beams across the slick pavement. The scent of oil and brine mixed with something else—something metallic, something burnt.

  A young officer stood at the perimeter, her visor flashing data streams in its HUD as she turned to acknowledge him.

  “Detective Harrow,” she said stiffly.

  “Just Harrow,” he muttered, ducking under the tape.

  The body lay crumpled against a stack of shipping crates, twisted unnaturally, its limbs bent at angles that no living man could manage. Victor had seen his fair share of death—too much to be fazed by the sight of broken bones and lifeless eyes. But this…

  This was different.

  He crouched beside the corpse, rain pattering against his coat. The dock worker’s uniform was torn, his boots scuffed with dirt, but it was his face that made Victor’s stomach turn.

  Or rather, the absence of it.

  The features were blurred—not disfigured by trauma, but wrong. As if reality itself had failed to define him properly. Like a painting smudged by an impatient hand.

  And then he saw the burn marks.

  Faint, barely noticeable. Circular scorch patterns on the wet ground, radiating outward from the body. Not from fire. Something else. Something that had altered the very space around it.

  Victor’s gut twisted.

  "What the hell happened here?"

  The officer shifted uncomfortably. “No witnesses. Security cameras blacked out for three minutes. When they came back on… he was like this.”

  Victor exhaled slowly. “You’re telling me no one saw or heard anything?”

  The officer hesitated. "There’s one guy. Says he saw lights—bright, like an explosion—but no sound. He’s shaken up. Won’t say much more.”

  Victor sighed. "Where is he?"

  The glow of an oil lamp flickered across the cluttered surfaces of Barrow’s workshop, casting long, restless shadows. The air smelled of whiskey, metal shavings, and aged parchment, a space filled with the remnants of a hundred trades.

  James Caldwell sat hunched over a battered wooden table, his fingers trailing over the creased surface of an old map, its edges curling from years of wear. He barely noticed the books and papers stacked around him, lost in thought.

  He had seen the shimmer again.

  A distortion in reality—a wound in the world.

  Barrow poured two glasses of dark liquor and slid one across the table. “You’ve seen something like this before,” he said, his voice even.

  James curled his fingers around the glass but didn’t drink. "Once. A few years back. When my wife vanished."

  Barrow studied him. “Eliza, right?”

  James’s back straightened, his grip tightening around the glass. “How do you know that?”

  The merchant shrugged. “People talk. A man chasing ghosts tends to make ripples.”

  James exhaled sharply through his nose. “Then you know I haven’t found her.”

  “Maybe not,” Barrow said, swirling his drink. “But you’re closer than you think.”

  James leaned forward. "What do you mean?"

  Barrow set his glass down, his expression unreadable. "Because I’ve seen it too. The distortions. The rips in reality. And I know what’s on the other side."

  James felt his pulse quicken. He knew that tone.

  It was the voice of a man who had stared into the abyss and didn’t like what stared back.

  "You’re saying—"

  "I’m saying this isn’t just about your wife, Caldwell. Or the boy’s missing sister. Or the corpses turning up in the city." Barrow’s voice was steady but heavy. "This is bigger than any of us. And it’s not stopping."

  James exhaled through his teeth. “Then why do you stay out of it?”

  Barrow turned the glass in his hands, watching the liquid move before answering. “Because I believe some things should be left alone,” he said finally. “We shouldn’t be chasing the dead, Caldwell. We shouldn’t be prying into the places they’ve gone. What’s lost is lost.”

  James froze, his fingers tightening so hard around his glass that the veins in his hand strained.

  Barrow’s tone remained calm, but there was something heavy beneath it. “There’s a natural order. People die. They pass on. And that’s the way it should be. We have no right to tear at the seams of existence just because we’re not ready to let go.”

  The words hit James like a hammer to the chest.

  His breath left him in a sharp exhale, his pulse hammering in his ears.

  Let go?

  His hand slammed against the table. The glass rattled. His voice, when he spoke, was low—dangerous.

  “Eliza is not dead.”

  Barrow didn’t flinch, but his eyes darkened.

  James leaned forward, voice rising. “She’s not gone. She’s out there—somewhere. And I don’t give a damn what some natural order says, I will find her.”

  Barrow held his gaze, unblinking. “And if you do? Then what? Drag her back? Force her into something she was never meant to return to?”

  James shoved himself up from the chair, pacing, breath coming in quick bursts. He knew Barrow had seen things, knew he had insight into the rifts, the tears, the strange realities that brushed against their own. But to sit here and act as if loss was acceptable? As if the rules of the universe were more important than the people they lost?

  “She didn’t die,” James growled, turning back to face him. “I refuse to believe that. I refuse to leave her behind just because the world thinks I should.”

  Barrow sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. His voice was quieter, but no less firm. “Caldwell… I get it. I do. But you have to ask yourself… what if the thing you bring back isn’t the person you lost? What if you cross into a place you were never meant to go—and can’t come back?”

  James’s fists clenched at his sides. “Then I’ll cross anyway.”

  Silence.

  Barrow stared at him for a long moment, his fingers drumming once against the table. Then, finally, he exhaled.

  “That’s what I was afraid of.”

  The tension in the air was thick—a fundamental, unshakable difference between them.

  James wasn’t ready to accept that some things should stay buried.

  And Barrow… Barrow had already accepted that some doors should never be opened.

  But neither man was about to change his mind.

  The witness was a middle-aged dock worker, hands trembling, his coffee untouched. His eyes were too wide, too vacant—like a man who had seen something he wished he hadn’t.

  Victor crouched. “Tell me what you saw.”

  The man’s throat bobbed. “It wasn’t normal. The light… it wasn’t real. And then—he was gone.”

  Victor frowned. "Gone?"

  The man nodded jerkily. “For a second. Then he came back, but… different.”

  Victor’s stomach tightened. "And?"

  The man hesitated, staring at the wet ground. Then, barely above a whisper:

  “Something else was in the light. Watching.”

  A silence stretched between them.

  Victor stood, rubbing a hand over his jaw, his mind racing.

  It wasn’t just happening here.

  It was spreading.

  His comm buzzed.

  The name on the screen made him freeze.

  Not Lansing.

  A name he hadn’t seen in years.

  His fingers hovered before he answered.

  “Victor,” a voice said, smooth and calm. “It’s been a while.”

  Victor’s grip tightened. "What do you want?"

  “I hear you’re tangled in something strange,” the voice said. “Thought I’d weigh in. Professional courtesy.”

  Victor exhaled sharply. “I don’t need your help.”

  A chuckle. “Maybe not. But you’re going to want it. This thing you’re chasing? It’s bigger than you think.”

  Victor didn’t respond. He hung up. Jaw clenched.

  Then he heard it.

  A sound.

  Soft. Muffled. A cry.

  Not an adult.

  A child.

  Victor’s hand went to his weapon as he stepped around the crates—

  And stopped cold.

  A young girl, curled up against a container, mud-caked, shaking.

  Her bright green eyes met his.

  And she whispered, voice trembling:

  "I… I don’t know where I am."