Minutes before dawn, I woke, hollow with exhaustion and gnawing hunger. The sun dragged itself over the city, not in a blaze of color, but with a slow, disinterested crawl. It crept between rooftops, slinking down alleys and over streets where summer’s ghost lingered—thin and obstinate. It was that stubborn warmth, clinging like a memory that should’ve slipped away but wouldn’t, fighting the inevitable. There was a quiet conflict in the air, heat and cold wrestling like old enemies locked in a hopeless dance.

I felt the tension settle into my bones, the last of the warmth curled around the earth like regret that refused to let go.

Slept like the dead—what a joke. I winced and dragged myself out of bed, feeling every stiff and aching muscle. That was a good sign; at least I could still feel. A quick glance in the mirror confirmed my fears—I looked like death warmed over, and not in the metaphorical sense.

I peeled off the tape; the gash in my neck and sides was gone, only remnants of the torn stitching remained. Cali’s help last night must have done the trick. Or was it the drink Murphy had made me? So many questions about this whole undead gig, and I needed answers fast if I wanted to avoid rotting, or worse.

Aylin’s memory lingered like a faint scent. I eyed the loose board in my room where Frank was hidden. I debated talking this whole thing over with him, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. It would make it all too real. I decided to leave Frank out of it for as long as possible. Besides, I managed without him for most of my life. I could handle this.

Instead, I grabbed a roll of thick silver coins from a hidden compartment in my nightstand and headed out.

Time to visit an old contact, Jeff "The Newsie" Brown. Maybe he could put some feelers out for strange happenings and increased demon activity. If anyone knew, it was The Newsie.

I grabbed a pair of dark sunglasses and a hat, pulling the brim low. It wouldn’t fool anyone up close, but it would keep the stares to a minimum. A scarf around my neck hid the more obvious decay. Passably human, I grabbed a cab and headed into the city.

The city sprawled—took an hour to cross on a good day, no traffic. But today? The traffic was a nightmare, way too brutal for that early in the morning.

For forty minutes, the cab jerked forward with spurts and stutters, like some wounded creature caught in a slow death march. Early bird pedestrians glided by, unconcerned, and soon we crept past them again—until the same faces reappeared. There was the mother with the stroller, pushing ahead again. Irritation gnawed at me. I paid my fare and stepped out, surrendering to the sidewalk. It’d be faster on foot.

The breeze, colder now, cut through me, sharp as a blade. Summer’s fight was futile. This was the beginning of the end, the first breath of the season’s death, quiet but certain.

The light had faded, drained of its former gold. It stretched thin over the city, pale and weary, casting shadows long and brittle, like echoes of something that was once alive but now just... wasn’t. Trees held on to their leaves like gamblers with too little to lose, their final bets trembling on the branches. But the wind was patient, indifferent, pulling them down one by one, casting them aside to join the others already broken and scattered beneath my feet. There was a finality in the way they fell—an unspoken goodbye, not of sorrow, but inevitability.

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With each step, the leaves didn’t crunch; they sighed underfoot, like a secret the earth was trying to share but I was too tired to hear. The warmth was slipping away with every breath, seeping out with each exhale. My breath fogged the air for a moment before the wind snatched it away, another piece of summer claimed by autumn’s grasp.

Everything was poised, balanced on that edge between what was gone and what was coming. The past was fading, and the uncertainty of tomorrow pressed in.

I pulled my collar close, but the chill sank in, deeper than fabric could reach. There was no fight to be had. The battle was already over. It always was.

There was a brief period of calm before the rest of downtown woke up. I cherished it for a few peaceful minutes, enjoying the early birds, though there were too many of them. And then, like a clown with a pie, the city hit me with a slap in the face.

The noise was a living thing—horns blared, tires screeched, conversations blurred together into a buzz of chaos. I shoved my hands deep into my pockets and joined the river of people flowing down the street. The sidewalk was uneven, cracked, like it’d seen better days.

The air smelled like exhaust and cheap food—hot dogs, maybe, or something fried that’d seen more grease than heat. My shoes hit the pavement in time with the rhythmic pulse of the city, every step bringing me closer to...well, nowhere really. I wasn’t in a rush. Not anymore.

Up ahead, a man was yelling into a payphone, face red, veins bulging at his neck like he was ready to burst. No one cared. People just sidestepped him, like he was a pothole in their day, not worth acknowledging. He gave me a sideways glance, eyes wild, and I could feel the emptiness of his anger, like it was all for show.

The bustling streets felt suffocating as I navigated through them, the living brushing past, blissfully unaware of the walking corpse in their midst.

It had been years since we’d talked; Jeff and I. He always had a knack for keeping low while running the show. Years back, he had a handful of newspaper stands dotted across the city. They looked innocent enough—legit, even. But behind the crinkled headlines and cigarette smoke, Jeff was pulling the strings on an info network that fed the city's dirtiest players. A gang of street kids, posing as newsies, funneled him intel. He’d helped me out more than a few times when I was still in the game.

Now I heard he’d set up shop way up in Northern Goodrich—NoGo, the wealthier part of the New Amsterdam city districts, where the skyline gleamed and the streets bustled with quiet power. It was just as busy as the south, but the crime here wore a suit and tie, deals inked over martinis instead of back-alley handshakes. In a city this sprawling, NoGo felt like a different country altogether. If Jeff was operating up there, he was playing a bigger game now. Seemed his little empire had grown into something far more dangerous—and a lot more refined.

I’d spotted him now and then over the years, lingering on the periphery, always just outside my new life. I tried to leave that world behind, but once you’ve seen it—once the curtain lifts and you catch the old man yanking the strings—the puppet show never quite looks the same. You can’t unsee the wires. And no matter how far you walked, it was always in the corner of your eye, waiting for you to look again.

The newsstand looked the same as any other—weather-beaten wood, plastered with faded headlines, and a flimsy plastic canopy sagging under the weight of dust and time. The kind of place you’d pass a hundred times without a second glance. But the closer you got, the more it felt off. The stacks of newspapers, arranged just a little too neat, like they were hiding something. The chipped counter, dark with years of grime, but the cash box? Too clean. A battered stool leaned against the side, empty, but you could feel someone’s eyes on you before you even stepped up. The smell of stale ink lingered in the air, mixing with the faint scent of cigarettes, but beneath it, something else—something sharp, like a deal about to be made. This wasn’t just a newsstand. Never was.

Jeff’s voice cut through the air like a knife. His greasy hair was slicked back, revealing a receding hairline that made him look even more desperate. “Well, if it isn’t the one and only,” he said.