PART-1: The Night.

  Acheron shot a side-eye glance to make sure no one was watching. Then, he looked at the ghost of Galois— and forgot to blink. It was as if seeing him was a revelation in itself.

  He leaned toward the cash counter. “How... What happened to you?” he asked, voice low.

  “What do you mean?” said Smith, walking forward. He passed through Galois like he was nothing but air.

  Cold sweat prickled Acheron’s skin.

  “Just talking to myself,” he muttered.

  Galois drifted through Smith’s chest and whispered, “I told you; no one can see me. You’re the first.”

  Smith, unfazed, said, “You should go. I’m closing the store.”

  Acheron didn’t answer. He grabbed his bag and stepped out into the snow-dusted street. “Going home?” Galois asked.

  Acheron pulled up his hood, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and walked. His eyes stayed on the gray path.

  “Don’t ignore me,” Galois said softly, sighing.

  The road lay empty beneath the cold wind and flickering streetlights, all under the spell of an almost full moon and the quiet gleam of distant stars.

  “Why should I answer a ghost?” Acheron muttered.

  Galois said nothing. Even in death, something heavy settled in his chest. He stopped following.

  Acheron walked a few more steps, then turned back. “Last time I saw you... you were alive.”

  His voice wavered, caught in something deep and breaking within him. “How did all this happen to you?” he asked.

  Galois stepped forward.

  “I don’t know...” Galois laugh, A quiet laugh, a try to hide the weight of his own pain “Almost a month ago,” he continued, He seemed lost in the realm of his memories. “When the disappearances began... but people didn’t notice. Didn’t care, I was one of them.”

  He kept walking. Acheron followed, as if the ghost was leading him home.

  “I was heading back from extra classes,” Galois said, cold night.

  “Then something hit the back of my head hard.” His voice sharpened, colder.

  “But when I came to, I was in an abandoned warehouse, A broken roof looming under the night. I knew... something was wrong.” He paused, breathless despite no longer breathing.

  “I stumbled out, dizzy and weak. It was midnight. No moon. Just dark. I don’t know how I managed it, but I made it home.”

  Acheron listened in silence.

  “When I got home... I saw my mother.” Galois’s voice trembled.

  “She was holding posters—my posters. Missing posters. She was on the phone with the cops, saying I’d been gone for two weeks.”

  He gave a dry, broken laugh, as he wants to cry aloud but holding.

  “Two weeks? I told her, ‘What are you saying? Look at me—I’m right here!’”

  “And she...” His words caught in his throat, something unswallowable stuck deep down.

  “What happened next?” Acheron’s voice was gentle. As he spoke, he touched Galois’s back lightly, wordlessly saying, It’s all okay.

  “I stood in front of her, shouted... but she couldn’t hear me. Couldn’t see me. Even when she walked right through me.”

  Galois’s eyes were haunted; his pain stitched into every syllable.

  “It took me days to understand what had happened.”

  “When I understood... I know, I was dead.” he smiled, as if trying to comfort Acheron—but it only made the moment sadder.

  They reached Kin’s building.

  Galois grinned, stopping at the front gate.

  “Here we are. Your home, Acheron.”

  Acheron hesitated, unsure what to say. “Do you want to come in?”

  “Nah,” Galois waved him off with a gentle gesture.

  “I’m fine here.”

  “You should go inside,” he added, playfully “It’s not safe out here anymore.”

  Acheron Frowned, “I saw you this morning at school. Walking beside Sail, and Heron, and others... Every day, you show up to class. I saw but how I didn’t realize.”

  Galois grinned.

  “Oh! It’s okay... Today I was just listening to their conspiracies about me.”

  Acheron looked at him, something tender and trembling in his expression. “If you want to talk,” he said, voice cracking just slightly, “Reach out to me.”

  Inside the apartment, as usual, Acheron sat with the ghost of his grandfather.

  Nothing unwonted. Nothing new.

  But tonight, he was different seated at his study table, lost in deep thought.

  Something in his chest wouldn’t settle. Something quietly aching.

  “Galois was one of the fifty who vanished. What if every single one of them... eventually ended up like him?” The quiet surrounding suffocating him.

  Until the ghost of his grandfather passed through the door, cheerful as ever.

  Waaaarm veggie soup~                                  With mushy-mushy mushrooms in a pot~

  So de-li-cious! Yum yum yum,

  My little howler likes it a lot!

  He sang, bouncing like a little kid.

  “Come out with me... for a delighted dinner.”

  Acheron scared for a moment, “You know, Grandpa, one of these days you’re going to be the death of me, popping in like that.” Acheron sighed.

  The old man’s ghost glanced at him, sensing the heaviness.

  “What happened? Who spoke badly of you?” he asked, tilting his head as he stood in front of him.

  “Nothing… no one said anything,” Acheron replied, trying to sound casual.

  The grandfather stepped closer, his voice soft but certain.

  “I’ve known you for eighteen years, Acheron. You think these old eyes wouldn’t notice?”

  Acheron turned away, pretending to arrange his books.

  “Ghosts have eyes…? Are you dead or alive?” he muttered under his breath.

  His grandfather studied him for a beat longer, then smiled gently.

  “Always remember, if something ever does happen to you... I’m on your side.”

  “Whenever you feel lonely, come find me. I’ll be sitting right there—on that old sofa.”

  Acheron smiled faintly, arranging his books into a neat stack.

  He looked up at his grandfather’s ghost, something softer in his eyes.

  “Let’s go for dinner, I felt hungry.” he said.

  And just like that, the heaviness lifted—if only for a while.

  Two shadows, one living and one not, drifting toward the kitchen where warm soup waited.

  The night out the old building grew thick, as moon-hiding hands of shadow stretched across the sky. Below, the city of Northern White lay quiet. A hush blanketed its streets. Only a few people lingered, wrapped in winter coats. A handful of stores still glowed faintly, casting warm light onto snow-specked sidewalks.

  Barry—same age as Acheron, a bulky boy bundled up in a bomber jacket, muffler, and beanie—walked alone. His phone was strapped to a stabilizing holder, complete with flash and mic. He was livestreaming for his followers.

  "I'm here, just like you guys asked..." Barry said, stepping carefully. "Honestly, I don’t think this place is creepy at all!"

  “…But as I heard, this street—Street 49—has been abandoned for the past eighteen years, since 107 people died here,” Barry continued, his breath fogging. “How they died... isn’t clear. But a secret organization called O.R.D.A.R. was suspected.”

  He was vlogging on Street 49—an old stretch of town buried under snow, lined with empty houses, a crumbling hospital, and stories no one wanted to remember.

  A comment popped up on his screen:

  “I heard people keep disappearing there. Barry, be careful.”

  Barry smirked. “Appreciate your caring, man.” he said, looking into the lens—until something made him glance toward a side lane. The hairs on his neck prickled.

  “Thank you for the donation, Mr_01,” he added with a chuckle, though his tone wavered slightly. The cold felt sharper all of a sudden. A wind passed. His breath grew heavy in the chill.

  Another comment came:

  “Turn your head. Someone’s been following you for a while.” commented Mr_01.

  A creature stirred in the dark—its eyes hallow, even the moonlight suck in it. It walked behind him. Barry paused, as he senses something, his smirk faltered.

  He turned.

  Their eyes met.

  But Barry didn’t see the misfortune staring back.

  He chuckled. “Nothing, is back there, Mr_01.”

  But his chat erupted:

  "Kinda gives me the creeps."

  "You can barely see a thing."

  "Nothing to freak out about."

  Barry turned his camera toward the road ahead. His screen flickered, glitched, and buzzed with static. He tapped it—until the feed briefly stabilized.

  In front of him stood an old, rusting drink freezer.

  “I’m gonna grab something from here,” he said, forcing a casual tone.

  He reached into his pocket, pulled out a coin, and pushed it into the slot. Nothing happened.

  “My coin!” he muttered, kicking the machine. It groaned back at him.

  Then, impossibly, it hummed to life and spat out a cold chocolate drink.

  “Hey, alright!” Barry laughed, twisting the cap and sipping. “Cold…” He sneezed.

  He turned back to his phone—and saw the stream had ended. No signal. Just black and static.

  Barry raised his phone high, waving it in the air. No bars.

  A cold breeze crept past, and the streets seemed to rot into shadow. One by one, the streetlights died, until only the harsh flicker of his phone flash to hold back the pitch-black silence.

  “9 PM… Guess I’ll end the stream here,” he muttered. Then a breeze passed behind him.

  “I should go…”

  He turned and began to walk—slowly. But his eyes remained fixed on the screen. The last few seconds of the stream played back.

  And in that recording—

  Someone was behind him.

  A boy. Fully black. Distorted. Hollow eyes. Movements that stuttered and twitched like broken code.

  Barry stopped.

  A sick chill sank through his body.

  “Oh God! What the hell is this…” he whispered, walks faster and faster, almost running.

  He zoomed in.

  The figure was walking behind him. Staring. Directly into the lens.

  Barry tore his eyes from the phone tried to run.

  But he was back.

  Same cracked sidewalk.

  Same buildings.

  Same exact drink freezer.

  Even his own footsteps in the snow were… looping. Circling. Coming back toward him.

  He tried to run, but his steps were slow, no matter how hard he tried. His legs refused to move faster.

  He lifted the phone again. Pressed play.

  The figure was still there.

  The boy, deep in shadow.

  But this time, its head was bent low—unnaturally low—like its neck had been broken forward. And it was trying to lift it. Slowly. Horribly. Like it had forgotten how.

  Twitch by twitch, the head began to rise.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  Bones crackled.

  And its hollow eyes never blinked.

  Its stare dug into the lens—

  Into Barry.

  The screen glitched.

  For half a second, the figure was closer.

  Then closer still.

  Then—right behind him.

  Barry dropped the phone.

  And he is again the same place, the same drink fridge.

  He snatched it back up and walked. Slowly. Mechanically. Toward his hotel. As if sleepwalking. As if unaware of what he’d just seen. The recording still played in his hands.

  Same black figure.

  Still behind him.

  Its steps wrong—jerky and crawling over reality.

  But this time...

  Its head was even lower. Bending forward again.

  Struggling to rise.

  Cracking. Dropping.

  Again, and again.

  Walking behind Barry. Watching.

  “Oh God…” Barry whispered.

  The figure raised its head with effort—and for a moment, Barry saw himself.

  He dropped the phone. Maybe for the second time.

  Or third.

  Or fourth?

  Street 49.

  Same drink freezer.

  The same loop continued for him—night grew darker, vanishing the moon, alone with the hope. In that dark, he is alone—or perhaps, along with something demonic.

  The loop tightened. Darkness swallowed the street, and with it, the last warmth of the world.

  Somewhere else, not far from that cursed street, the cold wind struck the windows of the Northern White City Police Department.

  In the Briefing Room, a hushed tension filled the room as Chief Alber B. Kerik sat flanked by the city’s mayor, Caldwell, and in dark coat—Ereos of O.R.D.A.R. The overhead light buzzed faintly, illuminating the fatigue in every officer’s face.

  Chief Kerik: "Mr. Arikasa will now present his report."

  Mr. Shin Arikasa stepped forward. He adjusted his uniform crisply,

  Shin Arikasa (calmly):

  "We have multiple witness descriptions of a woman in a blood-red coat. But they’re inconsistent. Some claim she’s faceless. Others describe her with stitched eyes and mouth. One detail, however, remains constant—none of them remember clearly. In fact, most forget what happened entirely. There are indications of drug influence."

  Mayor Caldwell (leaning forward):

  "Drugs like Devil’s Breath? DMT?"

  Ereos didn’t speak, but the thought pressed in his mind like a heavy weight:

  This isn’t a drug. Demonic encounters fade from memory—like dreams at dawn.

  Specialist Kai Morgan adjusted his glasses, his voice methodical yet tense:

  "We’re observing classic signs of high-level psychotropics—dilated pupils, tremors, emotional volatility. Victims describe memory gaps, paranoia, even time distortion. But here’s the problem: there’s no trace of any substance. No residue. No biological indicators."

  Kai (continuing):

  "If this is a drug, it’s not something we’ve ever seen. It’s engineered. Clean. Possibly vaporized—or something we don’t have the tools to detect yet."

  A heavy silence fell.

  Then Detective Harris, at the far end, tapped his pen against the table.

  "The pattern’s expanding. Five new disappearances—just in the past two weeks. All near the southern residential blocks. She’s moving."

  Sergeant Elaine Carter, her voice cracked from too many sleepless nights:

  "We’ve interviewed sixteen witnesses. Eleven are now in psychiatric care. The other five barely remember anything. But they all say the same three things: woman, red... inhuman."

  The mayor's voice broke through the rising anxiety:

  Mayor Caldwell:

  "Then what am I supposed to tell the people of Northern White? Their children vanish—and in two months, your department hasn’t found a trace, Alber?"

  Chief Kerik didn't respond. His jaw tightened. Around him, the room stayed silent—shamed, perhaps... or exhausted.

  Then Mr. Shin Arikasa’s voice cut through:

  Shin Arikasa (passion rising):

  "My city, Northern White has been losing people for over a decade. One or two vanish every few weeks. Hundreds of cases every year, and no one solves them. Because the screams of the missing never reached the deaf walls of this so-called justice.

  The harbors, the ports—where do the ships go? What’s in them? No one knows. Human trafficking flourishes in the open. And money silences every tongue. But the silence is breaking now. The people are speaking.

  Those who covered it up... those mixed in corruption... they’ll face what’s coming. Just like O.R.D.A.R. was blamed before, just like my fathers... those who tried to protect this city and failed. We will rise to prove our innocence."

  With that, Shin slammed his badge on the table. The sound echoed like a gavel. He turned and walked out.

  Chief Kerik (rising):

  "Don’t give a long speech and run!"

  But Shin didn’t stop. The door shut behind him.

  Ereos blinked, stunned.

  Ereos: "What... just happened?"

  Chief Kerik leaned back, sighing. The lines in his face were heavier than ever.

  Chief:

  "I apologize for my officer’s outburst, Mayor Caldwell."

  Mayor (calm but firm):

  "I understand his frustration. But this kind of public display won’t get us answers."

  Kerik’s fingers clenched around the table edge.

  Chief Kerik:

  "No residue. No footprints. No suspects. Just a woman? One woman can’t do all this. There must be others. A group. Something bigger is here... operating"

  He turned to the mayor; tone edged with desperation:

  Chief:

  "I requested warrants for unrestricted searches—private property included. But you denied it."

  Mayor Caldwell:

  "You know I tried. But the higher-ups refused. They said the police already have enough power."

  Chief Kerik (voice rising):

  "You have the power. You’re just afraid to use it. For years we’ve been shackled—while children vanish."

  Mayor Caldwell (quietly):

  "You don’t understand. You sound just like your officer. But I’m not angry. I asked for help, and O.R.D.A.R. sent a man they trusted."

  Chief (a bitter smile):

  "And did you forget what happened 18 years ago? The '1O7' case?"

  Mayor Caldwell:

  “That was a tragedy. The city turned its back. The former Mayor and Chief shifted the blame onto O.R.D.A.R.—for something they couldn’t control.”

  Ereos (soft but resolute):

  “The past is done. But the city didn’t just lose people. We lost people too.”

  He stood slowly, his voice unwavering.

  “I don’t yet know what’s happening. But I will figure it out. I can’t do it alone. I need your help. Together, we can protect the innocent but if we are arguing with each other, blaming like this it won’t leads us anywhere... Out there someone is in danger, hoping for our help.”

  For a moment, the room fell silent.

  They all turned to Ereos.

  And in his words, they found something they felt something ashamed.

  Mayor Caldwell:

  “I don’t think, now anyone doubted your capabilities, Mr. Ereos.”

  “I don’t think there’s anything more to report. Let the discussion end here. Chief?”

  Chief Alber B. Kerik (nodding firmly, standing from his seat):

  “Mr. Arikasa is no longer a part of us... Ereos. I hope you’ll handle this without him.”

  The other officers were quiet, some angry, others reluctant to accept.

  Officer Shawn (voice rising):

  “Shin isn’t going to be replaced by a foreigner! He worked day and night on this case with us...”

  Chief Alber B. inhaled, frustration mixing with a strange relief.

  “Now don’t start it, again.”

  His scold quieted Shawn, like the younger fear to say anything wrong Infront of elder, the officers felt that.

  Ereos (to himself): “Investigation? Now, it’s as possible as a sky horse sighting.”

  Ereos (firmly):

  “I don’t think it is going anywhere.” He touched the table to stand, then slowly walked to the door.

  Mayor Caldwell (gazing at Ereos, then speaking softly):

  “Before you leave, there’s something I must convey to you... in silence.”

  Everyone left, except the Mayor and Ereos.

  Ereos (quietly):

  “What do you want to tell me?”

  Mayor Caldwell (disappointed):

  “That officer, Mr. Arikasa... he wasn’t fully wrong. The system is corrupt, and money kept everyone silent... some officers here, are passing the information to out.”

  Ereos (firmly):

  “I have a clear thought about this city... It is that everything is fucked up here.”

  Mayor Caldwell:

  “I know— I have a lead for you, searches the ports. They are behind.”

  Ereos(Seriously look at Mayor):

  “Then why still these things are continuing?”

  Mayor Caldwell:

  We raid there, before few times but every time. Somehow, they knewd that we are coming. Even the City Council gave them security that no, uncalled raid will perform by Police Department. As, I said, someone here is working for them. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be here, and I can’t trust anyone. The Chief, officers like Mr. Arikasa... they’re helpless. The city needs someone like you, free from regulations.”

  Ereos (grinning, resolute):

  “Then O.R.D.A.R. sent the wrong person. Above all, I’m here to finish my last duties.”

  “Master, I’m here for you.” Ereos thought.

  Mayor Caldwell (hesitant):

  “What is your duties?”

  Ereos(grinned):

  “To protect the innocence.”

  Mayor Caldwell:

  “Thank you... I believe in you”

  Ereos left.

  “How can you do this, Mr. Arikasa.” Chief Alber B. Kerik in his office held Mr. Arikasa’s badge in his hand, staring at it silently.

  “You left us in hard time.”

  From the dark alleys of Northern White, at the old Grimson Port, the ruins of a thousand crumbling containers stretched under the broken sky. From within one battered container, a voice echoed.

  "We need the 100 units..."

  Inside the container, Grimson (40s, a tough, broad man) leaned back in an office that shouldn't exist — wooden flooring, industrial lights buzzing overhead, a rough desk at the center.

  Grimson:

  "It’s my pleasure to deal with you, but the arctic air’s frozen the sea. We need a new icebreaker to get through... and you know that’s expensive."

  The Voice (through the old speaker):

  "How much?"

  Grimson smiled thinly:

  "You’re our oldest customer. How could I charge you high? Five million will be enough."

  The Voice:

  "From hundreds of thousands to millions. You’re asking more than your worth."

  Grimson:

  "An organization like yours earned billions from this illegal 'Row'… and here I am — a little man, with a little family, asking for a little price."

  He leaned closer to the mic.

  "And these are hard times. People might not want to know how organizations like yours are mixed up in all this... 'staff'."

  A pause. Then the voice said, coldly:

  "You’ll get your price soon. Just send the Row."

  The line went dead.

  The container began to vibrate — slow at first, rattling the weak lights. Papers flew. A globe on the desk toppled and rolled across the wooden floor, but the heavy desk, bolted to the container, stayed firm.

  Grimson didn't flinch. Calmly, he walked to the door.

  The shaking stopped.

  He swung it open and stepped out — not onto land, but onto a ship — dark waves thrashing below.

  The cold wind slapped against his bald head.

  "You should know," Grimson muttered, "it's not the right time to hang me in the sky."

  A young man leaned against a rail, grinning — Grai (early twenties), grey hair already streaking his head, skin pale, a scrappy beard sprouting on his chin.

  Grai:

  "I'm just testing my powers. Gotta keep sharp, right?" he said with a wink. "How’d the deal go?"

  Grimson:

  "Great."

  He strode to the ship’s edge, gazing into the misty sea.

  "What’s happening in the police department?" he asked, the cold chewing at his bones.

  Grai, scratching his patchy beard, said:

  "Heard the mayor called in O.R.D.A.R. A guy named Ereos showed up. Tan skin, blue eyes. Looks serious."

  Grimson snorted:

  "What am I supposed to do — paint his portrait?"

  He tugged a woolen bonnie hat over his head and grinned.

  "Anyway, leave a little message for the mayor — 'Oldy Boldy, don’t jump too much, or your waist might lose its flexibility.' "

  Grai burst out laughing.

  "That old man’s about to get a taste of his own medicine!"

  The two of them laughed so hard they clutched their sides, their cackling ringing across the deck.

  A few workers, standing at a distance, watched the scene quietly, exchanging puzzled glances.

  From the deep dark night, Northern White barely survived.

  Escaped Barry — He isn’t the only to possess a dark fate. Someone else, someone with an even darker fate, remained behind.

  Even the looming sun, high above the city, hid behind thick, unbroken clouds.

  The light stopped. The city was drowned in an abyss — or perhaps it was the abyss itself now wearing the city’s skin.

  Acheron walked forward.

  Above him, the sky seemed stitched to the ground.

  The whole city lay silent, empty; not a soul stirred.

  He screamed, but only his own voice answered him, echoing through the abandoned streets.

  After many steps into the dark, he stumbled across a figure lying motionless on the ground.

  Acheron ran forward and knelt beside them.

  What he saw was unbelievable.

  It was Sail — a massive wound tearing from his shoulder, across his chest, down into his stomach.

  Blood spilled freely, soaking the ground.

  Acheron tried to stop it, pressing his hands over the wound—but he failed.

  The blood kept pouring, unstoppable. His hands, his legs, the earth beneath him—everything stained red.

  Then: a voice tore through the silence, jagged and cold.

  "You think you can save them?"

  It laughed at his trembling.

  "You are the reason he's dying. Your hands are soaked in their blood."

  Acheron turned, shaking.

  In the abyss, a figure stared back—blue eyes, cold and pitiless.

  "Every breath they lose is because of you.

  Every scream unheard, every prayer unanswered—your fault.

  You drag death behind you like a curse sewn to your skin."

  The voice deepened into a low, rotting growl.

  "Come. Watch them fall.

  This is all you were ever meant for."

  Acheron staggered forward—and the abyss opened its mouth.

  He saw them.

  Galois first—his body twisted, blood pooling in black puddles.

  Sail, gasping silently, crimson gushing from the wound carved into his chest.

  Heron. Lily. Hope. Their faces slack, grey, staring through him.

  His grandfather, lying still, eyelids fluttering, trapped between life and death.

  More faces rose from the darkness:

  a little girl clutching a shattered doll,

  a woman with her throat torn open,

  a man with empty sockets where his eyes should be.

  Dozens. Hundreds.

  The silence broke.

  The bodies whispered.

  "I wanted to live..."

  "You let us die."

  "It’s your fault, Acheron."

  "You promised..."

  "You lied."

  "You were supposed to save me..."

  Their voices slithered around him, colder than the dead air.

  "Acheron... Acheron..."

  A voice pierced the darkness.

  He gasped awake.

  The world snapped back into place—white walls, dusty counters.

  They were inside the post office.

  Everything he had seen—a dream? Or a glimpse of the future? Who could say?

  "I posted the letter," Sail said casually, exhaling like he had survived the boring hustle of the post office, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

  "To my uncle."

  "Let’s go back, Acheron."

  Acheron blinked, disoriented. His chest still felt tight.

  He was quiet for a moment.

  "Where... I’m not... I’m not the one," he mumbled.

  "What happened?" Sail asked, grabbing Acheron’s shoulder.

  "You, okay? Did you... saw that dream again?" Sail tensed.

  Acheron swallowed hard.

  "Nothing," he lied, keeping his voice steady.

  "Nothing. I saw nothing."

  He stood up stiffly.

  Sail tilted his head. "Want some water?"

  "No..." Acheron muttered. "Let’s just go. Get out of here."

  Without another word, he walked rigidly toward the door—

  straight, stiff—

  as if afraid the ground might vanish under his feet again.

  “Wait!” Sail called, jogging to catch up.

  They stepped out onto the street, under a midday sky—bright but pale, warm but cold.

  A few cars passed by. The trees stood motionless, dusted in a faint white silk.

  “I have a question,” Acheron said calmly.

  “Why didn’t you just email your uncle?”

  “Because..." Sail shrugged, smiling. "He doesn’t use computers or smartphones. He’s... old-school.”

  They kept walking, slow, as if just moving with the air.

  “Will you leave this town after graduation?” Acheron asked.

  “Maybe," Sail said, grinning. "After we graduate... I’ll turn eighteen. Perfect time to fly away.”

  Acheron tucked his hands into the pockets of his hoodie.

  He felt cold.

  Maybe because his only friend would soon leave.

  Or maybe because he himself was still standing still.

  “My uncle used to be an aeronautics engineer," Sail said proudly, his gaze fixed on the sky.

  "He left that behind to help newcomers get into the Flight Academy."

  He smiled, almost laughing to himself.

  "Ever since I was a kid, I had a dream. Dream to fly."

  Acheron smiled quietly at his words.

  He inhaled, savoring the rare happiness between them.

  "It’s great," Acheron said. "Knowing what you want to be.

  Look at me... I don’t even know what my hobbies are."

  "But," he added, smiling genuinely, "I would love to see you up there, flying a plane across the sky."

  Sail turned his gaze from the sky to him.

  He didn’t just see happiness—he saw something empty and heavy behind Acheron’s grin.

  "We still have time before graduation," Sail said, a little softer.

  "And after that... who knows we both can become a pilot, or you find something you may like?"

  "You can still find hobbies. Even if you can't, it's okay—you still have time. You can become anything you want, without carrying regrets about the dreams you never chased."

  Acheron laughed quietly, as Sail did.

  "Maybe I’ll stay here forever," he thought.

  But part of him wondered—if I can change... will I?

  "Maybe you just need a break from the same old cycle, Acheron my friend," Sail thought.

  “Hey!” Sail said suddenly, pulling out his phone.

  He held it up to show a grainy livestream.

  "Guess where this is?" Sail grinned.

  "Where?" Acheron asked, curious—and nervous.

  (He had already seen dark, terrible things through screens before.)

  "Street 49," Sail said proudly.

  "You know Barry—the foreign explorer who films haunted places?

  This time, he came here."

  "Did he survive last night?" Acheron asked, his voice tense.

  "What do you mean?" Sail laughed.

  "He’ll be fine. He always just cuts his streams without saying goodbye.

  Bet he'll upload a new video in a few days like nothing happened."

  "I don’t think..." Acheron whispered, shivering a little,

  "I don’t think we should go there."

  "Don’t be such a little kid," Sail teased.

  "If you won’t come, I’ll go by myself."

  "I will come" Acheron exhale.

  Acheron had already stepped into something that would tear their lives apart.