And we, who once strode boldly through history as if the world itself were ours to name, now scuttle like rats in the labyrinthine ruins of our own making. What remains is not life, not death, but something monstrous in between—a blind groping through shadows cast by the fire of our undoing.
We are not merely haunted; we are the haunting, the echo that resounds long after the music of being has ceased. -Leo's journal 111
Chris Cardone jerked awake with a sharp gasp, his chest tight, heart pounding against the cage of his ribs. Sweat slicked his forehead and dripped down his neck, pooling in the hollow of his collarbones. His eyes fluttered open to the cruel, fluorescent glare of the clock beside his bed, its red digits bleeding into his vision: 6:30 AM. The air in the room felt heavy, like the morning itself was pressing down on him, suffocating him.
His skull throbbed with a dull, steady ache—a migraine that felt like it was gnawing at the inside of his skull, raw and jagged. Every muscle in his body screamed at him as if he'd been run over by a truck. What the hell had happened last night? He couldn't remember a damn thing. His limbs felt like dead weight, like he'd spent hours—no, days—doing something bad. Something wrong. But the memory slipped through his fingers like smoke.
He groaned, dragging a hand across his face, rubbing at his tired eyes with the heel of his palm, trying to force the fog of confusion away. The remnants of whatever he'd done last night lingered on his skin—grease, grime, and something metallic, like blood. His tongue felt thick, coated with a staleness that made him gag.
The red alarm blared at him again, relentless and unforgiving. With a snarl, he slammed a hand down on it, the plastic of the clock cracking slightly beneath his fingers.The sharp sound of the clock silenced, but the ringing in his ears didn't.
He swung his legs off the bed and planted them on the floor, his bare feet meeting the cold, stained carpet. The room smelled like mildew and something worse—something old and forgotten, a stench that clung to the walls. His apartment was a tomb. No windows. No escape.
He didn't bother to look in the mirror when he stumbled to the bathroom. Didn't need to. He knew what he'd see. The same thing as always: bloodshot eyes, skin as pale as death, bruises around his jawline that had appeared somehow and would disappear in a couple of days. He had a hunch—maybe a fight, maybe something else—but he wasn't ready to face it.
The shower was a burst of icy water, like needles against his skin, but it didn't wake him up, didn't bring clarity. It only numbed him. He stood there for a long moment, staring at the drain as water spiraled down, turning dark, swirling with the remnants of last night's mistakes. His hands gripped the edge of the tub, knuckles white, as the thoughts came rushing in—anxiety, dread, a deep, gnawing emptiness.
When he finally stepped out of the shower, the chill of the bathroom air bit into his damp skin, making him shiver. His reflection in the fogged mirror was a ghost—lean, unshaven, eyes hollow. He ran a hand through his wet hair, but it only made the mess worse, strands sticking up in every direction. He didn't care. He never did.
He grabbed the nearest shirt from the pile on the floor—a faded, stained band tee that still smelled like the stale smoke of last week's bar crawl—and pulled it over his head. The fabric scratched at his raw skin, clinging to the places where his muscles had ached for hours after whatever he'd done to himself the night before. A hole in the sleeve, a burn mark on the collar. Perfect. He wasn't in the mood to care about how he looked.
His jeans were already half-unbuttoned on the floor, a pair of cheap, ripped-up ones he'd bought on some drunk impulse. He shoved his legs into them with a grunt, wincing as the fabric dug into the bruises on his thighs. One of the buttons came off as he yanked them up, but he didn't bother to fix it.
He looked down at the floor, scanning the piles of clothes, empty bottles, and scattered papers like he was waiting for something to make sense, like he was waiting for the puzzle pieces of last night's chaos to finally come together. But there was nothing. Not even a hint. Just nothing.
Chris shook his head, trying to force the headache away. He grabbed his jacket, pulling it on without bothering to button it. The door to the apartment creaked as he stepped out into the hallway, the stench of mold and rot filling his nose again, the floorboards groaning beneath his weight. It felt like the building was sinking into the ground, like it was all collapsing, and he was just waiting for the day when it would finally break apart.
It was Monday. And whatever happened last night, whatever he couldn't remember, was still waiting for him. He strode out of his apartment before he took two steps his phone rang, he picked up "Chris." His voice came out flat, like the words were getting stuck in his throat. The buzz in his ears hadn't stopped, and his head felt like it might explode at any second.
"Chris, it's Nick from the office. You good, man?" Nick's voice crackled through the phone, too upbeat, too normal, like everything was fine. "We've got a meeting in half an hour. Where you at?"
Chris clenched his jaw, the weight of the words pressing into him. Half an hour? He didn't even know what day it was. Hell, he wasn't even sure if he'd been to work the last few days. The hazy memories of last night were fragments—blurs of lights, loud music, angry faces. He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to shake off the tension.
"Yeah, I'm coming in," Chris muttered, not even sure why he'd said it. He wasn't coming in, not really. Sure he'd physically be there but his mind would be nowhere near. He stuffed the phone into his pocket, the buzz of Nick's voice still faintly echoing in his ears.
He turned down the hall, the dim lights flickering above him, casting long, jagged shadows along the peeling walls. The building felt more suffocating with each step. Like it was collapsing in on itself, as if it was holding its breath, waiting for something.
But Chris had learned long ago to ignore that feeling.
He shoved open the front door of the building and stepped into the street. The morning was damp, the air thick with the stench of rotting garbage and diesel fumes. The city hadn't changed since last night, The streets were quieter than usual, almost too quiet for a Monday at least.
Shaking it off, he moved toward his car, the keys cold in his hand. His head pounded as he fumbled with the lock, his fingers slipping on the metal. He needed coffee, needed something to clear his head, but that wasn't going to stop the feeling that gnawed at him. He couldn't shake the sense that something was... off.
He jumped into his car, turned on the ignition and watched as the engine sputtered to life with a rough cough, and Chris slammed the gearshift into drive. The streets blurred past him as he headed toward the office, but his mind wasn't on the road. It was still on last night. The missing pieces. The feeling that whatever had happened—whatever he couldn't remember—wasn't done with him yet.
Something was waiting. And it wasn't just a hangover.
Chris pulled his car into the parking lot of the recruitment office, the tires grinding against the cracked pavement. The building loomed before him—an old, crumbling structure, all arched windows and heavy stonework, more like a cathedral than a place where people shuffled their resumes. The kind of place where desperation clung to the walls, like dust to a forgotten Bible. He didn't know why he kept coming back, but there he was, grinding through another day of dull routine.
Chris killed the engine and stepped out, the morning slapping him in the face like an overdue bill. The city hung heavy in the air—exhaust fumes, garbage, and broken dreams marinated overnight and served cold. His boots hit the cracked concrete, loud enough to echo off the tenement walls. Loud enough to make his head throb worse than it already did.
He wasn't halfway to the door when a shadow blocked out what little sunlight was leaking through the smog. Barry. Six-four, three bills easy, the kind of guy who could use a human being as a paperweight. He had the grin of a man who thought he was everyone's best friend but wouldn't flinch at squeezing someone into a hospital bed.
"Chris," Barry said, his voice gravel and bad intentions. "Good weekend?"
Chris squinted up at him, shielding his eyes like he was trying to stare into the sun. "Best one I ever had," he lied, his voice dry enough to start a brush fire. He wanted to say something sharper, but his brain was still playing catch-up. His weekend had been anything but good. He was missing whole chunks of it, and what he could remember felt like it belonged to someone else.
Barry clapped him on the shoulder, hard enough to remind Chris who the big dog was. "That's what I like to hear. You take care now, huh?" Barry flashed his teeth, a wolf pretending to be a golden retriever, and sauntered off like he owned the sidewalk.
Chris muttered something under his breath and headed inside. The building greeted him like an old enemy: dust, stale coffee, and fluorescent lights that buzzed like dying wasps. He walked past the double doors and into the reception area, where a girl sat hunched over a keyboard, typing like her life depended on it.
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
"Morning," Chris said, leaning on the counter and dragging the word out like a bad joke.
The girl flinched, looking up with eyes too big for her face. For a second, she looked human, like she might actually care about the world around her. Then her expression folded back into something robotic. "Oh. Hi," she said, her voice just this side of a squeak.
Chris nodded, didn't push it. She wasn't paid enough to listen to his problems. Hell, he wasn't paid enough to listen to his problems. He shuffled past her desk, his eyes flicking to the clock on the wall. It ticked like it had somewhere better to be.
The elevator ride felt like a bad funeral procession, and when he got to his floor, his desk greeted him with a mess of papers, coffee stains, and a pile of regret. He sat down and felt the weight of it all drop onto his shoulders, heavier than Barry's hand.
That's when it hit him. The bender. A wrecking ball of booze, self-pity, and decisions that didn't seem bad at the time but now felt like a prelude to a prison sentence. It all came flooding back—the yelling, the screaming, the phone call with Louise.
"I wanna see my goddamn kids, Louise! You can't stop me!" he'd shouted, his voice raw, his throat lined with whiskey.
"Try it, Chris. Try it, and I swear to God, I'll rip out your eyes." Her voice had the sharpness of a broken bottle, all jagged edges and the promise of pain.
Two years ago, they were making plans for a future full of grandkids and matching rocking chairs on a porch somewhere. Now? That dream had gone belly-up, bloated and stinking. All their big ideas were just drunken fantasies from a time when love was enough to patch over the cracks.
He slumped in his chair, rubbing his temples. Maybe love wasn't supposed to be easy. Maybe it was supposed to be this grind, this constant war of attrition. People stuck it out because that's what you did when you cared about someone, right?
Except Louise wasn't toughing anything out. She'd thrown in the towel, taken the kids, and slammed the door on him hard enough to knock it off the hinges. Now he was here, stuck in the office, staring at a stack of papers he didn't care about, while she got to pretend she'd won the fight.
Chris leaned back, letting out a long breath. Maybe Louise had a point. Maybe he deserved this. But one thing was for sure—he needed to figure it out, and fast. Because the way he was going, he wasn't just losing weekends. He was losing himself.
Chris stared at the paperwork on his desk, willing it to magically organize itself. It didn't. Instead, his phone buzzed like a mosquito on a mission. He ignored it. Second buzz. Third. He finally grabbed it, squinting at the screen like it was some sort of alien artifact.
Nick: "You in yet? Need to talk. NOW."
Chris sighed, shoved the phone into his pocket, and made his way down the hall. Nick always had the urgency of a man who thought every second was life or death, but half the time it was just about who took his lunch out of the breakroom fridge.
He found Nick in his office—or "the war room," as Nick liked to call it. The guy was hunched over a stack of folders, his tie loose, his hair slicked back in a way that said "I care, but not too much." Nick had the look of a guy who could charm his way out of a felony but would probably need a lawyer by the end of the week anyway.
"You look like hell," Nick said, not even glancing up.
"Good morning to you too," Chris shot back, dropping into the chair across from him. "What's the emergency? You run out of cream for your coffee?"
Nick finally looked up, his smirk as dry as Chris's humor. "Close. We've got a situation. Client's pissed. Says you didn't deliver."
Chris blinked. "What client?"
"Who knows? Some guy named Harkins. Big-shot money manager. Thinks the sun rises and sets on his spreadsheet. Claims you missed the deadline on the report he asked for."
Chris rubbed his temples. He vaguely remembered something about Harkins—an email buried under a mountain of other emails, a request he might have promised to handle. Then the bender had happened, and the rest was history.
"I'll take care of it," Chris said.
Nick leaned back in his chair, folding his hands behind his head. "You better. Guy's already called twice this morning. You let him down again, and you'll be lucky to get a job licking stamps."
Chris got up, nodding toward the door. "Anything else, or can I get back to pretending I care about this place?"
Nick grinned. "That's the spirit. Go get 'em, tiger."
Back at his desk, Chris dug through the disaster zone that passed for his filing system until he found what he was looking for: the half-finished report Harkins had been nagging about. He skimmed it, his headache making the words blur together, then got to work.
The hours crawled by. Coffee came and went. Lunch was a sandwich that tasted like cardboard, washed down with a bottle of water he found rolling around the back of his desk drawer.
Every so often, he'd glance at his phone, half-expecting a message from Louise. Not that she'd reach out—not after everything—but some masochistic part of him couldn't let it go. Instead, his phone stayed silent, mocking him.
By three o'clock, the report was done, and he emailed it to Harkins with a curt note: "Attached is the completed file. Let me know if there's anything else you need." He didn't bother signing it with a "Best regards" or a "Thanks." Harkins didn't deserve that much effort.
At five, he finally logged out, the office a ghost town. The girl at reception was still typing away, her face lit up by the blue glow of her monitor. He wondered if she even knew it was quitting time or if she'd just keep typing until someone told her to stop.
Chris walked out into the twilight, the city already humming with life. Somewhere down the block, a homeless guy was playing a guitar wailing out a tune that sounded like heartbreak. It fit the mood.
He stopped at the corner, lit a cigarette, and took a long drag. The nicotine hit his system like a punch to the gut, but he didn't care. His phone buzzed again. This time, it wasn't Nick.
Louise: "Don't forget, Saturday is Amy's recital. 4 PM sharp. Be there, or don't bother."
He stared at the message, his jaw tightening. She was still twisting the knife, but at least it meant he'd get to see Amy. That was something, wasn't it?
Chris took another drag, watching the smoke curl up into the evening sky. Somewhere out there, the world kept turning, people kept living their lives. But for him, it felt like time was standing still, dragging him down with it.
And yet, he knew he'd show up on Saturday, no matter how much Louise tried to make it hurt. Because some things, you didn't give up on. Some things were worth the grind.
Chris pulled into the lot of his apartment building, the setting sun streaking the sky with blood and fire. It felt like the world was dying a little more every day. He stepped out of the car, rubbing his temples as the pounding in his skull refused to let up. His fingers brushed his keys, but something stopped him.
His door was open.
Not just unlocked—open. Hanging on its hinges like someone had left in a hurry or never bothered to close it at all. His stomach knotted.
Chris stepped closer, his boots scraping on the cracked concrete. The lock was wrecked, the metal twisted and splintered. A faint light bled through the gap, shadows dancing just beyond the threshold.
He nudged the door with his foot, the hinges creaking like an old coffin lid.
The room inside was dim, the last rays of daylight filtering through the blinds. At first, it looked empty, just his dumpy furniture and a mountain of unopened mail on the counter. Then he saw him.
A tall figure stood in the corner, shrouded in shadow. He wore black from head to toe, a priest's uniform complete with a wide-brimmed hat that made him look like he'd stepped out of a gothic painting. His back was turned, but Chris knew that build, those shoulders.
"Danny?" Chris's voice was incredulous, half a laugh, half a curse.
The figure turned slowly, deliberately, his face catching the light. It was Danny—his older brother, the golden child. The one who'd always been better. Smarter. More successful. Danny, who had gone off to conquer the world while Chris stayed behind to drown in it.
"Hello, brother," Danny said, his voice smooth and confident. He held a worn Bible in one hand, gripping it like it was both a shield and a sword. His smile was faint, almost serene.
Chris blinked, trying to process the sight. "What the hell are you doing here? And why the hell are you dressed like... that?"
Danny's smile wavered as he stepped into the light, his movements slow and deliberate, like a man trying not to scare a wounded animal. The Bible hung loosely in his hand, its spine cracked and pages yellowed with age, as if it had been dragged through some forgotten century.
"I came for you," Danny said, his voice low, trembling with a weight that made Chris's skin crawl.
Chris stared, half expecting the walls to close in or the floor to fall out from under him. "Came for me?" His voice wavered between anger and confusion. "Danny, you're not making any damn sense. You broke into my apartment dressed like some... freak? What is this? Some kind of intervention?"
Danny didn't laugh. He didn't even blink. Instead, he took another step closer, his shadow stretching unnaturally along the floor. "This isn't an intervention, Chris. This is a warning."
Chris scoffed, trying to shake off the rising dread curling in his gut. "A warning? About what? That you've completely lost your mind?"
Danny tilted his head, the gesture unsettlingly childlike, as if Chris were the one who didn't understand. "You think I'm crazy. I get that. But listen to me, Chris. You've felt it, haven't you? That gnawing feeling in the back of your mind, like you're sleepwalking through the same day over and over? That's not your imagination. That's the cage tightening around you."
Chris shook his head, trying to suppress a laugh that came out bitter and brittle. "The cage? Jesus, Danny, you sound like some end-of-the-world lunatic. Do you even hear yourself?"
Danny's expression darkened, his grip on the Bible tightening until his knuckles turned white. "I'm not a lunatic. I'm awake. I've been awake for so long I think I'm going crazy but I'm not, and thou could be awake to if you let yourself believe."
Chris bristled, his temper flaring. "Believe? You've got some nerve, walking in here, preaching to me like you're some kind of prophet. You were the golden boy, Danny. The perfect one. The one Mom and Dad worshipped. What happened, huh? You hit rock bottom, found religion, and now you think you've got the answers?"
Danny's jaw clenched, his calm veneer cracking. "This isn't about me. It's about what's happening to you. To all of us." He raised the Bible, not like a holy symbol but like a weapon. "Every twenty-four hours, everything resets. The world rewinds. The same people, the same choices, the same mistakes. Over and over, like rats running through the same maze."
Chris rolled his eyes, turning away. "Oh, give me a break."
"You don't believe me?" Danny's voice sharpened, brittle and raw. He dropped the Bible onto the counter with a heavy thud, its pages fluttering open to an empty, blank spread. Chris frowned at it, then looked back up at his brother, who was now staring at him with a mixture of pity and anger.
"You think you're living a life, Chris? You're not. You're just repeating a script. Every fight with Louise. Every failure. Every drink. You've done it all before—hundreds of times. Thousands. And you don't even know it, I had the same conversation with you when I first got awake tried to convince you the first hundred times, never worked, no matter what I said or did, you'd say the same shit I'm crazy but this time Chris I'll show you what you cannot deny."
Chris turned on him, his fists clenched. " no thanks. You can take your doomsday nonsense somewhere else."
Danny didn't flinch. If anything, the dismissal seemed to fuel him. "I didn't choose this, Chris. I didn't want to see what's really happening. But once you see it, you can't unsee it. The cracks. The way time stutters, like an old tape. The way the same faces show up in different places, saying the same words like clockwork." He took another step closer, his voice lowering to a hoarse whisper. "It's a prison, Chris. A prison that feeds on us, on our pain, our mistakes. And it's winning."
Chris stared at him, searching for some sign of the brother he used to know—the cocky, charming star who could do no wrong. But Danny's face was hollow, his eyes dark and distant, like he was staring into something far beyond the room.
"You're insane," Chris said, but the words came out softer than he intended.
Danny's lips twitched into a faint, humorless smile. "I wish I were. Insanity would be better than this." He gestured around the apartment, the walls seeming to close in with the movement. "This isn't your life, Chris. This is the cage. And if you don't wake up, it'll keep you here until there's nothing left of you."
Chris turned away, running a hand through his hair. "I can't do this, Danny. I can't listen to you talk like this. You need help. Real help."
Danny's voice followed him, cold and cutting. "You think you can just walk away? Pretend this isn't happening? You can't. The cycle will keep grinding you down until you're just another empty shell, going through the motions."
Chris stopped, his hand on the edge of the counter. For a moment, the silence between them was deafening.
Then Danny spoke again, his voice softer, almost pleading. "It doesn't have to be this way, Chris. I broke out. I'm here to help you do the same."
Chris turned back to him, his expression hard. "And what if I don't want your help? What if I think you're just a crazy man looking for something—anything—to make sense of his own insanity?"
Danny's face didn't change, but his eyes grew colder, darker, like the light was slipping away from him. "Then you'll stay in the cage, brother. And when it finally closes, you'll have no one to blame but yourself."
Chris wanted to laugh, to tell Danny to leave, but the words stuck in his throat. The air in the room felt heavy, electric, as if something unseen was pressing down on him.
And then Danny stepped back into the shadows, his silhouette blurring at the edges. "I'll be here when you're ready," he said, his voice distant and hollow.
Chris blinked, and when he looked again, the room was empty.