Seven years. Seven long years since I first stepped foot in this godforsaken city, and not a day has gone by without me wondering if it was a mistake. The rain falls like knives, the wind howls like it's mourning something, and the moon—full and silent—just hangs there, indifferent. Lightning streaks across the sky in flashes of purple, each one shaking the bones of this place. The city stinks, always has. The rain stirs up the rot, pulls filth from the gutters and spreads it everywhere, like some kind of disease. Garbage piles up, and the men meant to clean it haven’t shown up in weeks. No one cares—not the officials, not anyone.
image [https://cdna.artstation.com/p/assets/images/images/021/248/192/large/fan-li-3-3.jpg?1570961398]
image [https://cdna.artstation.com/p/assets/images/images/007/051/050/large/helio-frazao-beyond-human-enviro02-back-alley.jpg?1503324744]
Source: Fan Li[city nitght 03]
Source: Helio Frazao[Beyond Human - environment design]
But none of that matters to me. Not now. I wander through the labyrinth of towers stretching up to the smog-choked sky, lost. Tired. So goddamn tired.
They say ignorance is bliss. I never got that. Not until today. Now, knowledge sticks to me, heavy in my gut like a sickness I can’t shake. I’ve prayed for some kind of release, but it won’t come. You can’t unsee what you’ve seen. Can’t unhear what’s been said. It’s like this discovery is burning inside me, a wound that refuses to heal.
The wind cuts into me, sharp and cold, driving rain into my face. I pull my jacket tighter, but it’s useless, soaked through. My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I ignore it. I don’t have it in me to care.
I glance up, my eyes stinging as I take in the concrete jungle around me. Towers loom above, indifferent, unassailable. I’m small here, smaller than I ever realized. Chewed up, swallowed, and waiting to be spat out. Neon lights shimmer in the puddles, flickering on the rain-soaked streets. And then, high above, an ad catches my eye. A baby, blonde with round cheeks and blue eyes—just like my daughter, Chloé.
My thoughts darken, festering, turning vile.
"No," I mutter, shaking my head. "No."
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My heart pounds in my chest, my breath coming in slow, deliberate exhales until something cold and hard settles inside me. I need something—anything—to fill this hollow feeling. I need to know.
Before I realize it, my phone’s in my hand. Fifty-one missed calls from Honeybun. I swipe them away and open the TransitLink app, calling for a ride. A hologram flickers above my phone, showing the car’s route. I stand at the curb, ignoring the faceless crowd moving past me. Minutes later, an ugly, squat cab pulls up. I press my thumb to the scanner, and the door slides open with a hiss. Inside, the seats are cracked, the fake leather worn. A discarded condom pack sits beside the belt buckle, grinning up at me with a drawn-on smiley face.
I slide in anyway.
"Good evening, valued user," the auto’s voice drones. "Would you like to head straight to your destination, or—"
"No stops," I say, my voice flat. "Post haste."
"Very well. Please fasten your seatbelt, valued user."
The elevator pings at seventy-five. I step out and walk down the quiet hallway to my apartment. Abigail, the babysitter, looks up, startled. She says something, but it washes over me. I move past her and sit by the cot where Chloé sleeps. I take off my glasses, fold them carefully, and tuck them into my pocket.
I stare at the cot, my breath hitching. Tears blur my vision and spill over, hot against my cold skin. My chest heaves, my throat tightens, but I swallow the sobs down. I wipe my nose with my sleeve. Denial presses in, but it has no place here.
More tears come, and then the sobs break free.
Abigail leaves quietly.
My phone rings, waking Chloé. She cries, but she isn’t my baby. She never was. The sitter returns and takes her away.
"Lies," I whisper, the word heavy on my tongue. "All lies."
How do I know? I don’t. But somehow, I do. Instinct, maybe.
"It was all a lie..."
"A FUCKING SHAM!"
The phantasmal claws clutching my heart squeeze tighter, crushing the dead thing inside me. My darkening vision sharpens, and suddenly I can hear everything—Amelia’s frantic pacing in the elevator seven floors below, the stale scent of Abigail’s tobacco still lingering on the balcony. I warned her not to smoke anywhere near my—
‘…child.’
The supernatural surge drains from me, leaving me exhausted. I rise from my seat, leaving the apartment. I brush past Amelia on my way out, ignoring her desperate attempts to talk. She grabs my sleeve, trapping me between the elevator doors.
"Christopher!" she pleads. "Please, hear me out!"
I look at her, my gaze empty. She flinches, her grip loosening.
"I’m sorry," she whispers, tears in her eyes. "Please. Don’t leave."
"Lies," I rasp. "All lies."