Crisp autumn air soured by gasoline fumes and cigarette smoke hit Elijah's nose as he stared out his P.I.A.-issued Mustang window. Vibrant red and gold leaves swirled in the Mustang's wake, settling over cracked asphalt potholes that rattled the chassis.

"Corwood, Tennessee," Elijah mumbled, rubbing his salt-and-pepper beard. He chucked an empty cigarette pack out the window. "Hope there's a gas station soon. Before Bruce lets one rip."

Ashley, the blonde agent driving, glared at him via the rearview. "You should quit. It's not good for your health."

Eli smirked. "Neither's this job."

Bruce, the rotund agent riding shotgun, sprayed burger crumbs as he laughed. "C'mon, Eli! Free food, free gas—hell, free existence!" Mustard dripped onto his P.I.A. jacket, staining a file labeled Site Gamma.

The radio fizzed—a country twang warping into static. Bruce smacked it. Thunk.

"Real smooth," Ashley muttered, tossing her book—The Electrical World by Nikola Tesla—onto the dash.

Eli pointed to a flickering sign: Static Stop & Go. The 'S' was dead, leaving the tatic glowing like a command: "Stop here."

"Want anything?" Eli asked, stepping out.

"I'll have—"

"Not you." Eli cut Bruce off.

Ashley smirked. "Cassette player? Bruce killed ours."

Eli trudged toward the gas station. Graffiti marred its plywood-boarded windows: a crude hollow sun with rays ending in skeletal fingers. Inside, fluorescent lights buzzed like angry wasps.

"Mornin'," croaked the clerk, an elderly man with milky eyes and a Dave nametag.

Eli grabbed a coffee, eyeing a vending machine hawking Static-X Energy Pills! The mascot—a cartoon ghost—grinned too wide.

The clerk's radio crackled, distorting a basketball game into guttural static.

"That happen often?" Eli asked.

"Ever since the new reactor," Dave spat. His gaze dropped to Eli's P.I.A. badge. "Y-you're here for the inspection, ain'tcha? I didn't mean—"

"Relax. Just routine." Eli slid cash across the counter. The radio emitted a faint silver aura—a shimmer only he noticed. His stomach tightened. Anonium residue.

Outside, the Mustang idled. Ashley frowned. "You look like you saw a ghost."

"Nah," Eli lied, glancing back. Dave stood frozen, staring at the hollow sun graffiti. His reflection in the boarded glass didn't blink.

Eli handed Ashley the cassette player and slumped into the Mustang as Ashley turned on the engine. "Not a good start for this job."

Ashley raised an eyebrow. "Veteran instincts?"

"Nah, Ether Trace." Bruce burped, mustard smearing the Site Gamma file. "Right, Eli?"

Eli lit a cigarette, the smoke curling into the static-laced air. "Traces at a backwater gas station. Gloom's here—just not loud yet."

Ashley jammed her headphones on. "Every track's static. Anomaly confirmed."

Bruce tossed Eli the smudged report. "Gamma risk, per the Hotline."

Eli skimmed it, his temples throbbing—a familiar hum building behind his eyes. Job fatigue. Always job fatigue. Outside, the reactor loomed, its silhouette clawing the sky.

"Who built this eyesore?" Eli asked.

"Ether Tech," Bruce said, slurping his soda.

Ashley slammed the brakes. "Fuck! What's he doing?!"

An old man stood in the intersection, windbreaker flapping, eyes vacant. A mulberry aura pulsed around him, syncing with the reactor's distant hum. His lips moved soundlessly: "...bruise-colored skies... sew-n... thread..."

Eli drew his Desert Eagle. "Stay here."

The man turned. His irises were fogged mulberry, veins spiderwebbing like cracked glass.

"Sir?" Eli called, finger tense on the trigger. Not yet. Not until he's Hollow.

The man's head jerked toward the reactor. A static screech ripped from his throat—

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

BRRRZZZT The static screech tore through the air, vibrating in Elijah's molars. The man's veins blackened, spreading like ink through water, before he crumpled—a puppet with severed strings.

Ashley radioed for local law enforcement. Bruce gagged. "What the hell was that?!"

Eli stared at the reactor and then at the lifeless husk of what used to be a man. "Our evidence that Gloom is here," he said as he holstered his gun. Let's find a pay phone and contact HQ."

"That's Gloom!?" Bruce asked wide-eyed as Elijah got back in the car. "Why would anyone take that shit?"

"Technically, that's Sour Blood. Nasty shit, no wonder why the government has been keen to nip this in the bud," Ashley mentioned.

"And we have been turned into glorified undercover drug operatives when we should be dealing with the para natural," Elijah said as he heard police sirens echoing in the distance. "I'm going to have a word with the mayor and get a vibe of this town. Can you all handle this?" Elijah asked as he gestured at the police cars arriving on the scene.

The engine hummed as he drove down the country road toward Corwood, Tennessee. He lit a cigarette at a stop sign; his eyebrows furrowed as he watched an addict stumble into a parking lot before driving off. His eyes drift towards the pro- and anti-ether posters in the windows of local downtown businesses. Across the street, a female high school basketball team takes donations at a car wash. A yellow and purple cougar mascot danced to 90s teen pop as the girls washed muddy trucks.

Elijah popped an Ibeprofun as he passed multiple vandalized closed businesses. Stained, scratched sofas sat, and feral cats occupied unkept yards. Homes were rustic and Victorian age with boarded-up windows and burn stains. 

"Fuck!" Elijah shouted as a broadcast began playing on the radio, promoting the Corwoods festival later in the week. He quickly turned off the radio as he arrived at the mayor's office next to the town's police station.

Elijah presented his badge to the receptionist, whose eyes widened as she fumbled to get the mayor. His chestnut-toned hands rubbed his temples as he listened to the mayor bicker with someone on the phone. His eyes drifted to a slight yellow ether glow from the young receptionist, and her eyes met his. The receptionist's fingers trembled as she dialed the mayor, her pupils flickering like a faulty bulb.

"Sorry about that; I was not expecting the P.I.A. to arrive so soon," A middle-aged, clean-shaven man said as he rubbed his neck, leaving a faint yellow ether glow.

"Elijah Carter, P.I.A. Special Task Force," Elijah said as he showed his badge. "I take it you're the mayor of this town?"

"Richard Corwood. It's a pleasure. You're here for the reactor, right?" Richard asked, then gestured to Elijah to follow him into his office.

"I am, but an ether hotline lead also brought us. Have you heard about what we ran into on our way here?" Elijah replied as he followed Richard into his office and sat in a vintage chair.

"I did, I did, he was Matthew Cambell. He was a good man but fell into rough times while the town waited for the new reactor to be built," Matthew explained as he sat behind his office desk and offered Elijah a glass of whiskey. "Seventy percent of adults in town have worked at the previous reactor in one way or another. Many people had a hard time finding work, and we are very thankful that Ether Tech built this in such a short amount of time."

"So, is that why there is a gloom epidemic here?" Elijah asked as he sipped the whisky, leaving a sweet but sour lingering aftertaste in his mouth.

Richard's laughter cracked mid-syllable, his hand drifting to a drawer where a Gloom Pill sits. "I wouldn't call it an epidemic. Some people use it, and our officers diligently keep it off our streets. Matthew was just a tragedy, not a good example of the overall picture in Corwood." Richard downs a shot of whiskey before pouring himself another. "We have an excellent high school sports program. Number one male and female basketball teams in the state for two years."

Elijah scoffed as he glanced up at Richard. His temples throbbed as a faint yellow haze—like sulfurous fog—curled off the mayor's desk. He forced himself not to react, but the afterimage burned behind his eyelids.

"That's all fine and dandy, but you're not making a convincing case when I know you're using it too."

Richard's eyes widen as his mouth slumps open. "What...I.. don't, how could you tell?"

Elijah rolled his eyes as he saw traces of Ether's residue on Richards's desk. "That's classified information, Richard. I will link up with my other two agents and get a feel of your town. Is there a payphone around here somewhere?"

"What, don't arrest me! Look, I take it from time to time. Helps with stress, but it's not like I am selling this shit to my community," Richard pleaded.

"Oh, I believe you, but that's not my job to arrest. The FBI can handle that. I deal with things related to that Ether hotline tip that someone in your town sent."

Richards's eyes lowered as he darted from side to side and gazed over documents on his desk. "Ether hotline?"

"Experienced anything unusual in town? Electronics not working correctly, strange local legends or people acting unusual?" Elijah asked.

"Well, the radio stations have been a nuisance of the last month. Especially the closer you get to the High School. Nothing of the sort about unusual behavior or local legends. We are talking about ghosts. So, are the rumors about the P.I.A. investigating that type of stuff true?"

"No, because ghosts are not real. Also, Classified intel," Elijah said as he had one last sip of the whiskey and began to leave. He stopped and glanced at the receptionist. "Unless you want to end up like Matthew, I suggest you lay off the gloom, too."

Her eyes drifted from his gaze, and her eyebrows furrowed as he left the building. The receptionist's pen clattered to the desk, her pupils dilating like black holes. A tremor raced through her hands as she muttered, "How did you know?"

Elijah stepped into the brittle afternoon light, the reactor's hum vibrating in his molars. The high school mascot's painted smile now a rictus grin. Static crackled from its speakers, warping the pop song into a guttural chant: 'Sew-n... thread... from-a dead star dress...'". He walked over to the pay phone across the road, sparking a cigarette as he held the phone to his ear. He inputs zero, zero, and one before dialing the number that displays on his pager. The phone rings three times before someone picks up.

"News already, Agent Echo?"

"Wanna report a likely Gamma risk level anomaly and Gloom Smuggling during assignment 010-24. How do you want me to proceed?" Elijah responded as he glanced up at an Ether Tech billboard and the high school at the edge of the suburbs.

"Proceed as normal, prioritizing the investigation into Ether Tech and their possible link to Los Fantasmas del Mercado. Ashley and Bruce will provide support if Risk Tier Level exceeds the initial assessment."

Elijah set the phone back down, the mayor's lies still souring his tongue. He was halfway to his car when the mascot's speakers erupted—a jagged burst of static that clawed at his eardrums.  The speakers gargled a warped, dark pop tune, the lyrics twisting into something wrong:

"An' it's hummin' yer face like a broke-down train..."