The apartment smells like damp drywall and old sweat, the air heavy with neglect. Mark stands by the window, the cracked glass rattling faintly as the storm howls outside. Below, Rain pools in the alley, reflecting the faint glow of a flickering streetlamp as Mark watches the city. He watches the city through the water-streaked pane, the chaos of the outside world softened by the curtain of rain. His reflection stares back at him, a faint, ghostly image, half-hidden by shadows.
Behind him, the bed creaks as the girl jumps, her faint laughter cutting through the low rumble of thunder. He doesn’t turn. He doesn’t need to. The girl’s translucent form is visible in the corner of his eye, flickering like a bad signal on an old TV. Her pale, spectral feet make no mark on the stained mattress, but the springs groan as if under a heavy weight. She jumps higher, her voice rising with eerie glee.
Mark lights a cigarette, the lighter's faint flare casting jagged shadows along peeling wallpaper. Smoke curls lazily from his lips as he leans on the windowsill, his eyes tracing the distant outline of the storm clouds. The girl’s laughter doesn’t bother him. Neither does the cold radiating from her presence, frosting the edges of the mirror and creeping across the floorboards like icy veins.
He glances at the dresser, where a stack of unopened mail sits beneath a half-empty bottle of whiskey. A cockroach scuttles across the counter and disappears into a crack in the wall. This place is a hole, a snapshot of decay that reflects the man who lives here perfectly.
The sound of jingling keys breaks his thoughts. Mark straightens, his hand instinctively slipping beneath his jacket to the silenced .45. His body moves before his mind catches up, sliding into the shadows near the far wall. The girl stops jumping. The bed creaks one last time before falling silent.
The lock clicks, and the door creaks open. The man steps inside, shaking rain from his jacket as he kicks the door closed behind him. He pauses, frowning, his breath visible in the sudden chill.
“Damn heater,” he mutters, rubbing his hands together. He turns to the thermostat on the wall, cranking it higher. The old radiator hisses faintly but gives no warmth.
Mark watches from the shadows, his breath slow and controlled. The man’s movements are careless, his attention focused on the light switch as he flicks it on. The single bulb above the kitchen table sputters, casting the room in uneven light.
The man frowns. “What the hell?” He steps into the kitchen, setting a wet paper bag on the counter. A loaf of bread and a bottle of vodka peek out from the soggy brown paper.
It’s then that he sees it, Mark’s reflection in the glass of the cabinet door. The man freezes, his brow furrowing as confusion turns to dread. “Who ”
Mark moves faster than the man can react, his gun rising as the man spins around. The silent shot is almost lost in the sound of the storm outside. The man staggers backward, clutching his stomach, his eyes wide as blood seeps through his shirt.
He collapses onto the linoleum. The paper bag topples over as he hits the floor. The bottle of vodka rolls lazily across the tiles, coming to rest against the base of the refrigerator.
The man’s breathing is ragged, his voice a broken whisper. “Why?” he chokes, his bloodied hand reaching feebly toward Mark.
Mark steps closer, his voice flat and detached. “Ask her.” He nods toward the bed, where the ghost now stands, her eyes hollow and her mouth twisted into something inhuman. Her delicate features are warped with rage, her small hands curling into jagged claws.
The man turns his head, his face contorting in terror as he sees her. “No please, I didn’t ”
Mark fires again, the second shot catching the man in the chest. He watches impassively as the light leaves the man’s eyes. Then, as always, the ghost takes over.
The girl lets out an ear-piercing wail as she pounces on the man’s body. Her small frame twists unnaturally, her elongated limbs clawing at flesh that leaves no wounds but drains the man’s essence. The man’s silent screams bubble in his throat, his body convulsing as the ghost consumes what’s left of him.
Mark turns away. He’s seen enough.
He moves methodically, wiping down every surface he’s touched. The faucet, the windowsill, the doorknob nothing escapes his practiced hand. He pockets the spent casings, checks the silencer, and adjusts his coat. He leaves the rest untouched the mess, the body, the life this man had built in decay. That’s not his job.
The rain slows by the time Mark reaches his car. He slides into the driver’s seat, the leather groaning under his weight, and lights another cigarette. The air is heavy and damp, the smell of the storm mixing with the faint scent of gunpowder that clings to his jacket.
He starts the car but doesn’t pull away, the low hum of the engine filling the silence. He rests his hands on the steering wheel, staring out at the rain-soaked street.
The radio crackles, static giving way to a voice tinged with unease. “...intense weather patterns continue, with flood warnings in effect for low-lying areas. In related news, the anomaly near Jupiter is expanding rapidly. Scientists warn that…”
Mark twists the knob, the static fading to silence. He takes a long drag from his cigarette, exhaling smoke that swirls in the dim light of the dashboard.
The car creaks faintly, and the temperature drops. Mark doesn’t react as the girl appears in the passenger seat, her form flickering like a fading photograph. She sits quietly, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her head tilted slightly as she watches him.
“Thanks,” she whispers, her voice soft and cold.
Mark glances at her, his face impassive. She leans forward, pressing her icy lips to his cheek. The kiss burns, leaving a faint frostbite that he doesn’t bother to touch. When he turns to look again, she’s gone.
He stares at the empty seat for a moment, then sighs, flicking the cigarette into the ashtray. “Another night, huh?” he mutters, patting the dashboard. “You’ve seen more of this shit than most people could handle.”
The engine hums as he pulls onto the empty street. Rain streaks across the windshield, the wipers struggling to keep up. Mark lights another cigarette, the glow of the lighter briefly illuminating his weary expression.
“You’d think I’d be used to it by now,” he mutters to the car, his voice low. “But people like him? Hurting kids? That still gets me.”
The stars above the outer solar system shimmer faintly, undisturbed in their ancient vigil. Then space itself ripples, as if reality is a surface disturbed by an unseen hand. A shadow emerges from the distortion, vast and unyielding, its jagged edges gleaming faintly in the cosmic dark.
The Tahl Draxxis, a vessel of impossible scale, looms into view, pulsating with crimson veins of energy that course across its jagged hull. The ship’s alien design exudes menace, a harbinger of control. Its hull bears glyphs that radiate an ominous, fluctuating light, patterns that rewrite themselves in a language incomprehensible to human minds. The ship’s presence alone disrupts the solar system’s natural order, a harbinger of control and inevitability.
The Tahl Draxxis moves with eerie silence, its immense form dwarfing everything near it. On its bridge, High Executor Malstrad gazes at the glowing holograms of Earth, his silver, cybernetically enhanced eyes reflecting its vibrant blues and greens. This is no ordinary assignment for the newly appointed Executor. His predecessor has been publicly stripped of rank and life for his failures. Malstrad is not inclined to repeat the mistake.
“Report,” he says, his voice calm yet carrying the weight of unshakable authority.
A subordinate steps forward, head bowed, his crimson robes shimmering faintly in the glow of the ship’s command center. “High Executor, planetary defenses are negligible. Our scans detect no flux-based weaponry or Class 2 entities. However, the anomaly near the gas giant exhibits residual flux signatures of unknown origin.”
Malstrad’s lip curls slightly. “Irrelevant. Their focus will remain there while we proceed undetected. Prepare the planetary broadcast.”
The Tahl Draxxis hums faintly as its systems activate. Energy ripples invisibly from the ship, moving faster than light. On Earth, it strikes without warning. Satellites flicker, their transmissions collapsing in an instant. Television screens dissolve into static. Radios crackle and fall silent. Even cellphones, dormant on bedside tables or clutched in sleeping hands, begin to glow faintly with a chilling, otherworldly light.
It is 9:00 PM CST. The world is quiet until the voice begins.
“Inhabitants of Earth,” it declares, its tone cold and devoid of inflection. “This is the Exan Empire. Your solar system is now under our dominion. Compliance ensures survival. Resistance ensures eradication.”
The message repeats across every device capable of transmitting sound or image. It speaks in hundreds of languages, each flawless, each carrying the same unshakable authority.
“All resources, technology, and labor will now serve a greater purpose in the unification of the galaxy. You have one planetary rotation to declare submission. Failure will result in the complete subjugation of your world by force.”
The broadcast ends as abruptly as it begins. Silence follows, thick and suffocating. Then comes the realization across the globe, nothing works. Satellites remain unresponsive. Cellular networks are down. Televisions and radios emit only static. Planes in the air lose contact with their towers. Emergency lines buzz uselessly, their operators unable to connect.
Minutes crawl by before systems begin to flicker back to life. Satellites resume their slow orbits, cell towers reconnect, and scattered fragments of communication sputter through. Phones light up with missed messages, networks reassert themselves, and chaos erupts as humanity tries to make sense of what has happened.
In research centers and observatories, scientists scramble to connect the broadcast to its source. The anomaly near Jupiter, discovered only weeks earlier, becomes their focus. It has already drawn attention for its inexplicable flux patterns, a swirling distortion that defies natural law. Now, with no ships detected near Earth and no signs of atmospheric interference, the anomaly seems the only plausible explanation.
In a Pentagon war room, generals and scientists crowd around a holographic display showing Jupiter’s rings. A faint distortion ripples across the image, its flux patterns growing stronger by the hour.
“It has to be from there,” a general says, his voice firm. “There’s no other explanation.”
A scientist hesitates. “We can’t be certain. This could be ”
“A threat!” the general snaps. “I don’t care about your theories. If the message came from Jupiter, that’s where we focus.”
Across the globe, similar discussions play out in hushed, frantic tones. Humanity’s leaders scramble to respond to what they believe is an imminent threat at the edge of their solar system. Meanwhile, the Tahl Draxxis hovers unseen, just beyond the range of Earth’s technology. Its presence is undetectable, its purpose absolute.
On the bridge, High Executor Malstrad observes Earth’s response with a faint, cold smile. “They look to Jupiter,” he says, his voice carrying a quiet satisfaction. “Good. Let them waste their time.”
A subordinate inclines his head. “High Executor, your orders?”
“Wait,” Malstrad replies, turning his gaze back to the swirling hologram of Earth. “This system will kneel. They always do.”
Behind him, the glyphs on the Tahl Draxxis glow brighter, their shifting patterns forming new commands, their energy pulsing like the steady rhythm of a predator’s heart.
Mark parks his car three blocks away, pulling into the first open spot he can find. The rain pours in steady sheets, pooling in the uneven asphalt and cascading in rivulets down the gutters. The city churns around him, alive with its usual chaos honking horns, screeching brakes, and the muffled hum of music leaking from bars and clubs.
He steps out of the car, rain immediately soaking into his jacket. Slinging the guitar case over his shoulder, he adjusts the strap and keeps walking. The cold bites at his skin, but he ignores it, weaving through the foot traffic that clogs the sidewalks. Most people huddle beneath awnings, their conversations blending into a low, frantic hum.
“It was just on my phone,” a man mutters, gesturing toward his friend. “I swear, every screen lit up.”
“Yeah,” his friend replies, shaking water from his umbrella. “I thought it was a prank at first, but it... didn’t feel like one.”
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Mark tunes them out. Whatever they are talking about doesn’t matter. He doesn’t carry a phone too many strings, too much noise. He focuses instead on the neon glow of The Abyss in the distance, its gaudy sign flickering as rain pelts its plastic surface.
A line has formed outside, the crowd pressed tightly under the bar’s narrow awning to avoid the rain. Mark’s boots splash through shallow puddles as he approaches, his face impassive as he scans the people in line. Their voices buzz with excitement, some shouting over the rain while others hold muted conversations. Most ignore him, but one girl near the middle catches his eye.
She stands apart from the others, her dark makeup smudged slightly by the rain, her black hair plastered to her face. Her gaze locks onto him as he passes, sharp and predatory, a small smile curling her lips.
Mark’s stomach twists, and his pace quickens. He shivers not from the rain but from the memory that flickers to life in his mind.
The apartment had smelled like cheap vodka and cigarettes when he walked in that night, his knuckles still raw and his ribs aching from the fight. He had thrown the third round just like they paid him to, but the other guy hadn’t stopped swinging. By the time it was over, Mark had taken enough of a beating to make it look convincing. The fight doc had patched him up and given him some painkillers, they were ok but Mark has built up a tolerance to them over time, so they barely cover up the repercussions of his decisions.
When he returned to the rundown apartment that he and his fiancée had rented 4 months ago, he had walked in hearing moans and the sounds of meat slapping on meat coming from the bedroom. He knew it was coming; it always does.
He had dropped his keys on the counter, ignoring the muffled laughter and sounds of pleasure coming from the bedroom. He already knew what he would see if he opened the door. Tiffaney’s drug dealer had been spending more time at the apartment than he had lately. Mark didn’t care. Not anymore.
He had walked past the closed bedroom door without a second glance, the sounds of their gasping like static in his ears. The shower had been the only thing on his mind, a scalding hot escape from the weight in his chest. The water had burned his skin, but it hadn’t drowned out the voices. It’s the same as last time, he could already picture the cheap excuses she would make, just like before, and the hollow apologies he knew would follow. The last time she had promised that it was never going to happen again and asked him to marry him. The last time he didn’t walk in on them like this time. He was cold, it had been a long night, and he was done.
When he stepped out, the bedroom door was closed again, the laughter replaced by silence. He had dressed, left, and never looked back.
The flash of headlights snaps Mark out of the memory, the cold rain pulling him fully back to the present. He tightens his grip on the guitar case, clenching his jaw as he ducks into the narrow alley beside the bar. The side entrance is propped open with a cracked brick, and a group of musicians is hauling gear inside, their voices sharp and hurried.
Inside, the air is thick with the smell of beer and damp fabric, the dim hallway illuminated by buzzing fluorescent lights. He can hear the muffled thrum of music from the stage, a distorted bassline that vibrates through the walls.
“Bosco! About fuckin time you showed up!”
The voice is sharp, cutting through the noise. Mark turns to see Dakota or Gax, as she is better known leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. Rain glistens on her shaved scalp, the tattoos etched into her skin shifting as she taps a drumstick against her thigh. Her glare could strip paint. The girl was a 10 on the hotness scale but she was also a solid dyke, the last guy who tried to hit that almost had his balls cut off. Besides Mark knows that she wears a strap on at all times, its bigger enough to make most black men jealous. Sometimes she likes to pull it out on stage and make guys gag on it.
“You’re late,” she says, her tone icy. “Again.”
“Traffic,” Mark mutters, brushing past her.
“Bullshit,” Gax shoots back. “Silo’s already setting up, but Gustavo? He’s been pacing like a damn bull in a pen.”
Mark enters the greenroom, the tension thick enough to choke on. Silo, their wiry sound guy, is crouched by a rack of cables, his fingers flying as he adjusts levels on a portable mixer. He glances up as Mark walks in, his face a mixture of relief and irritation.
“You almost blew it, man,” Silo says. “I had to fight with the stage manager just to keep us on. We’re second to last now, but if you’d been another ten minutes”
“I’m here,” Mark interrupts, setting his guitar case on the floor. “Relax.”
Across the room, Gustavo is standing next to the gear, pacing back and forth. Looking up, he glares at Mark, his thick arms crossed over his chest. “If we’d lost the slot, I’d have broken your nose again,” he growls.
Mark ignores the threat, kneeling to open his guitar case. The instrument gleams in the dim light, its polished surface reflecting the chaotic clutter of the greenroom. He runs his fingers over the strings, the tension familiar and grounding.
“Third up,” Gax says, still leaning against the doorframe. “Grave Chain’s closing, so we’ve got some breathing room. Don’t screw it up, Bosco.”
Mark nods, tuning out her words as he checks the frets and adjusts the tuning pegs. The music from the stage grows louder, the crowd’s cheers filtering through the walls. He doesn’t care about the lineup, the tension, or the rain outside. All that matters is the guitar in his hands. It’s the only thing that ever makes sense.
The crowd roars as Mark steps onto the stage, the noise a living thing that claws at his senses. The air inside The Abyss is thick, humid with body heat, reeking of sweat, beer, and hormones. Hundreds of people pack the floor, a writhing sea of humanity pressed shoulder to shoulder, their collective energy pulsing with the music that throbs through the speakers. Neon lights flicker and strobe, casting jagged shadows across sticky walls from years of spilled drinks.
Mark sets his beer bottle on the edge of the stage, the glass glinting under the shifting lights. He rolls his shoulders, gripping the neck of his guitar like a weapon. The crowd's anticipation is palpable, their faces glowing with excitement as they scream for more. Behind him, Dakota sits at the drum kit, her shaved head gleaming with sweat. She catches his eye and grins, a devilish look that says, don’t screw this up.
Silo gives him a thumbs-up from the soundboard, the wiry tech already tweaking the mix to ensure the guitars roar. Gustavo leans into the mic, his massive frame radiating confidence. “Alright, Abyss,” he growls, his voice a low rumble that sends a thrill through the crowd. “You ready for this?”
The crowd cheers.
Gustavo yells louder, “I said, are you mother fuckers ready for this?”
The response is deafening.
Dakota slams her sticks together in a quick four-count, and the band launches into their first hit single, “Iron Specter.”
The opening riff screams from Mark’s guitar, a cascade of distorted notes that cut through the humid air like a blade. Silo’s keyboards layer in, their industrial tones adding an eerie backdrop that twists and writhes through the sound. Dakota’s drums hit like cannon fire, a relentless rhythm that drives the song forward with the force of a runaway train.
Mark loses himself in the music, his fingers moving instinctively across the frets. The crowd surges in response, their bodies swaying and colliding as the music commands them. Gustavo’s guttural voice roars through the speakers, his lyrics painting a vivid picture of despair and inevitability:
"Steel screams in the dead of night,
Iron nails pierce through the light.
Rolling shadows on haunted rails,
A ghost train rides where reason fails."
The lights strobe in time with the beat, casting the stage in alternating flashes of crimson and shadow. Mark leans into his solo, the notes bending and wailing like they’re alive, crying out from some haunted abyss. The crowd’s energy swells, their voices rising as they sing along to the chorus:
"Ride the rails of eternity,
Where the iron specter claims the free.
Bound by chains of fire and stone,
No one escapes the ghost train’s throne."
Mark’s fingers dance across the strings, his solo a blistering cascade of sound that tears through the room. The music builds in intensity, each layer driving the song closer to its breaking point. Dakota’s double-bass pedal thunders like pistons, a relentless machine that carries the song forward. Gustavo’s voice drops to a growl for the next verse, his words dripping with menace:
"Rust and blood in the cold moon’s glow,
Eternal tracks where the damned must go.
The specter calls with its iron wail,
Through the storms and the howling gale."
Silo’s keyboards mimic the wail of a distant train, an otherworldly sound that sends shivers through the crowd. Mark pushes harder, his guitar screaming as the song barrels toward its climax. The crowd surges as one, their fists pumping in rhythm with the relentless beat.
The final chorus hits like a hammer, the band pouring everything they have into the last few moments:
"All aboard, there’s no return,
On tracks of steel, your soul will burn.
Iron nails and shadows reign,
Forever bound to the ghost train’s chain."
Mark throws himself into the closing solo, the notes spiraling higher and higher, a crescendo of raw power that leaves him breathless. The lights dim as the last chord rings out, leaving the room in momentary silence. For a heartbeat, the only sound is the hum of the amplifiers.
Then the crowd erupts, their cheers and screams shaking the walls. Mark lets out a shaky breath, his heart pounding as he glances at his beer on the stage. He grabs it, taking a long swig as Gustavo steps forward, raising his arms in triumph.
“That,” Gustavo says into the mic, his voice hoarse but triumphant, “is why Abyss never quits.”
The crowd roars again, and Mark allows himself a small smile. For a moment, the weight of everything the ghosts, the job earlier that night, the memory of the girl in the line fades into the background. Here, in the music, he is free.
The energy in the bar remains electric, the crowd swelling with each song. Bodies collide in the writhing chaos of mosh pits, beer sloshing from plastic cups as people shove and surge to the relentless rhythm. The air is stifling, thick with sweat and the acrid tang of spilled drinks. Lights flash and strobe, casting the room in chaotic bursts of color that mirror the pandemonium below.
Mark barely notices the heat or the chaos. His focus is on the music. The band tears through their setlist with the precision of veterans, each song building on the last. Dakota’s drums thunder, Gustavo’s growls cut through the air like a storm, and Silo’s keyboards weave an eerie undercurrent that adds a haunting edge to the performance. Mark’s guitar screams and wails, the distortion blending with the crowd’s roars as they lose themselves in the music.
----------------------------------------
As they prepare for their final song, Mark catches movement at the front of the stage. The girl he saw outside, the one that he has seen at every performance is pressed against the barricade, her pale face tilted upward, her sharp eyes locked on his. She is draped goth schoolgirl attire, her black skirt and striped stockings clinging to her rain-dampened frame. The Doom Train logo on her T-shirt glows faintly under the pulsing lights, but it’s her expression that makes Mark’s stomach tighten.
She stares at him with an intensity that borders on hunger, her lips curling into a small, knowing smile. Her dark eyes seem to cut through the distance between them, pulling him in. He feels the connection like a tether, invisible but unyielding. It isn’t just familiarity it’s something deeper, something primal, raw, and filled with need. His fingers hesitate for a split second on the frets, a mistake so small the crowd doesn’t notice, but he does. He can’t look away.
Dakota snaps her sticks together in a quick count, pulling him back to reality. Gustavo leans into the mic, his voice a guttural roar. “This one’s for all the damned souls out there! It’s time for ‘The Raven’s Caw!’”
The crowd erupts as Mark tears into the opening riff, a series of high, discordant notes that cascade downward into a dark, grinding rhythm. Silo’s keyboards join in, layering the sound with a spectral melody that sends shivers through the room. Dakota’s drums hammer like the beating of wings, relentless and unyielding, driving the song forward with brutal precision.
Gustavo’s voice rises, a raw and commanding presence that demands the room’s attention:
"In shadows deep, the night takes flight,
A raven calls in endless night.
Its wings of coal, its eyes of flame,
It whispers truths, it speaks my name."
The lights dim, a single spotlight illuminating Gustavo as he leans into the mic, his voice dropping to a guttural growl:
"Through storms and ash, the caw does call,
A guide for the damned, a fate for all.
Its wings cut air, its shadow grows,
The raven leads where no one knows."
Mark’s fingers fly across the fretboard, the solo rising like a piercing cry that splits the air. The crowd surges, their bodies crashing together in waves as the mosh pits expand. People scream the lyrics, their voices hoarse and raw as they follow Gustavo’s lead.
At the edge of the stage, the girl doesn’t move. She remains still, her focus unbroken. Her dark eyes bore into Mark’s, her smile faint but unnerving. He feels it again that tether, that connection. It isn’t the adoration of a fan; it’s something deeper, something that makes his skin crawl even as it compels him to keep looking.
The chorus hits, and Gustavo’s voice roars above the chaos:
"The raven flies, its shadow falls,
A silent harbinger, the damned it calls.
Its talons sharp, its wings of dread,
It calls the living and claims the dead."
Mark leans into the music, his guitar screaming with raw emotion as the chorus repeats. The sound is a cacophony of rage and despair, a storm of noise that mirrors the chaos of the crowd. Beer splashes against the stage, someone’s drink thrown in the frenzy, but Mark doesn’t flinch. His gaze flicks back to the girl.
She mouths the words along with Gustavo, her lips forming the haunting refrain: “The raven flies, its shadow falls...” Her smile widens, her expression shifting from hunger to something almost triumphant. The connection between them tightens, an invisible cord pulling at Mark’s thoughts, his focus. His chest feels heavy, like the air itself is conspiring against him.
The song surges toward its climax, Dakota’s drums pounding like a heartbeat. Silo’s keyboards spiral into a frenzied melody that twists through the air like a ghostly wail. Gustavo’s voice rises to a roar, the final verse cutting through the noise like a blade:
"The caw does echo, the shadows grow,
The raven waits where mortals go.
Its wings of black, its eyes of flame,
It whispers truths, it claims my name."
Mark’s guitar screams into the final solo, the notes bending and twisting with a rawness that sets his teeth on edge. The crowd roars, their voices blending into one, a chaotic hymn to the music. The girl doesn’t cheer, doesn’t scream. She just stares, her eyes locked onto his as if she’s looking straight through him.
The final chord rings out, the sound reverberating through the room as the lights dim. For a moment, the bar is silent, the only sound the heavy breathing of the crowd. Then the applause erupts, a deafening roar that shakes the walls.
Mark steps back, his chest heaving as he grabs his beer from the edge of the stage. He drinks deeply, the bitter taste grounding him as he tries to shake the feeling that has crawled under his skin. His eyes flick to the front of the stage, but the girl is gone.
----------------------------------------
Mark lingers by the bar after the performance, barely participating in the band’s post-set chatter. His thoughts remain scattered, the girl’s haunting smile still lingering in his mind. He downs another drink, then another, trying to push it away, but the weight in his chest doesn’t lift.
By the time he leaves, the rain has stopped. The streets glisten under the dim glow of the streetlights, and the night feels unnervingly quiet. He turns into an alleyway, taking what he thinks is a shortcut to his car. Footsteps behind him make him pause.
“Hey, rockstar.”
The voice is sharp, filled with hostility. Mark turns to see four men emerge from the shadows, their faces twisted with anger and bad intentions. One of them sneers. “You think you’re hot shit? Stealing our girls with your little guitar?”
Mark sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “Walk away,” he says, his voice calm despite the alcohol in his system. “This isn’t going to end well.”
The first punch comes fast, but Mark sees it coming. He sidesteps, throwing a jab to the ribs that sends the man crumpling to the ground. The others rush him, and chaos ensues. Mark fights back, raw and unpolished but brutal.
One of the men pulls a knife. Mark doesn’t see it until it’s too late.
Pain explodes through him as the blade plunges into his side. His vision swims, the world tilting as his strength ebbs away. The attackers flee into the night, their footsteps echoing as Mark collapses onto the wet pavement. He presses a hand to the wound, his fingers slick with blood.
The sound of chains echoes faintly in his ears, ghostly and distant. They slither across the ground like living things, cold and unyielding. Darkness creeps in, heavy and suffocating. Mark’s breath hitches as the shadows deepen around him, the weight of the night pressing down like a final curtain.
Darkness swallows him, and the faint whisper of his own voice echoes in his mind: Forever bound to the ghost’s chain.