Elias walked aimlessly down the street, his hands buried in his jacket pockets as the world around him blurred into a muted hum. The sky above was an indifferent gray, the air biting just enough to make him pull his collar tighter. The street was painfully familiar—chain stores with neon signs and inflated promises, boutique coffee shops that all boasted organic beans but served overpriced, soulless sludge.
He passed one of the newer cafes, its glass facade gleaming unnaturally in the dull light. It hadn’t always been like this. This place used to be something real—a tiny Nigerian restaurant run by a couple who had poured their hearts into every dish. The best jollof rice Elias had ever tasted, rich with spices that clung to the air like a warm embrace. It had been cheap, too, cheaper than grocery shopping, and infinitely more satisfying. He used to sit in the corner chair by the window, his unspoken sanctuary. That chair had always been free, as if it were waiting for him.
Now, the corner was gone, replaced by a sterile booth occupied by a group of people sipping their identical lattes. Elias lingered for a moment, staring through the glass, his reflection ghosted over the scene. A dull pang rose in his chest—loss, maybe, or nostalgia for a time when things made sense. He turned away before it could swallow him whole.
He’d barely taken two steps when someone slammed into his shoulder, jolting him sideways.
“Watch it, hobo!” the jogger barked, barely breaking stride.
The man’s voice was sharp and venomous, his tone laced with disdain as he glanced back at Elias with narrowed eyes. Then, as if Elias were nothing more than a nuisance, the jogger turned forward and nearly collided with another pedestrian—a tall, oddly dressed figure whose features Elias didn’t quite catch before they melted back into the crowd.
Elias froze. The word echoed in his mind, sharp and cutting. Hobo. He glanced down at himself instinctively, his stomach twisting. His jacket was worn, the fabric fraying at the edges. His jeans sagged awkwardly, and his sneakers were scuffed from too many years of wear. His hair hung in messy waves, unkempt and half-forgotten in the chaos of the past weeks.
Do I really look like that? he thought, his heart sinking.
He turned to the coffee shop window again, catching his reflection in the polished glass. The faint outline of himself stared back, distorted slightly by the glare of the lights inside. His hair looked worse than he’d imagined, unruly and uneven, and his clothes hung on him as if he’d borrowed them from someone bigger.
His face burned. A deep red flush crept up his neck, warming his cheeks despite the cold. Embarrassment swelled in his chest, sharp and unfamiliar. It had been so long since he’d cared—truly cared—about how he looked, about how others saw him. The jogger’s insult had ripped through the numbness, striking something raw beneath it.
Elias groaned, dragging a hand through his hair, only to realize how greasy it felt. He looked away from the window, his gaze falling to the ground as if it might swallow him whole.
For the first time in what felt like years, he wasn’t just invisible. He was visible in the worst possible way.
Elias quickened his pace, the embarrassment from the jogger’s insult still burning in his chest. The chill air bit at his cheeks as he moved up the street, his eyes scanning the buildings more out of habit than intent. Then he stopped. Nestled between two nondescript storefronts was a heavy oak door, its frame carved with intricate, curling designs. There was no sign, no indication of what lay inside, but something about it pulled at him, a faint whisper urging him forward.
He hesitated before pushing it open. The door was heavier than he expected, groaning softly as it gave way to reveal a world that was starkly different from the drab street outside.
White marble walls stretched high above him, their surfaces gleaming as though perpetually polished. The space felt vast, cathedral-like, the kind of place where sound carried with reverence. Statues in the style of Greek antiquity lined the walls—figures frozen in motion, their expressions serene, powerful, enigmatic. At the far end of the room, behind a marble counter, sat a woman. Her sharp features were framed by sleek black hair, her demeanor cool and distant as she tapped idly at a computer. She barely glanced up as Elias stepped inside.
“Welcome,” she said, her voice low but resonant, echoing faintly off the marble walls.
Elias turned instinctively to look behind him, but all he saw was the door he’d just entered. Large and imposing, it seemed out of place now, as though it belonged to another reality entirely.
“Uh, sorry,” he began, his voice faltering. “I think I’m looking for a clothing—”
“Yes, yes, I know.” The woman cut him off with a flick of her hand, her gaze finally lifting to meet his. Her eyes were sharp, scrutinizing him with the precision of a blade. “What are you looking for?”
The question took him off guard. “What am I—? I mean, something respectable, maybe?”
The woman’s head tilted slightly, her expression unreadable. “Respectable,” she repeated, almost to herself. Then, her lips curled into a faint, knowing smile. “There are many things that are respectable. Tell me—do you want to earn it, or do you wish to command it?”
Elias blinked. The words felt heavier than they should have, weighted with some unspoken truth. He hesitated, his mouth dry. “Command it,” he said finally, the words escaping in a whisper before he even fully understood them.
“Good choice,” the woman murmured. And then something shifted. A sound like a lock clicking into place resonated through the space, subtle but deeply felt.
From behind the desk, a previously invisible door opened seamlessly into the marble wall. From the newly revealed hallway emerged two figures. They moved with an eerie grace, stepping into the room as though summoned by his answer.
The man was impossibly handsome, his jawline sharp enough to cut steel, his eyes a piercing, unsettling blue that seemed to see through every layer of pretense. The woman beside him was no less striking, her features soft yet precise, her smile radiant but inscrutable. Her eyes, the color of a calm ocean, held a quiet power that made Elias’ breath hitch.
“These are Klaus and Helga,” the woman at the desk said, gesturing toward the pair. “Please follow them.”
“Klaus and Helga?” Elias repeated, his voice tinged with disbelief. “They sound like… henchmen or something.”
“No,” the woman said, a trace of amusement flickering across her face.
“Okay,” Elias said, his brow furrowing. “But… can I at least know where I am?”
“You’re in the Seventh Circle,” she replied evenly.
“Of hell?” he asked, half-joking, though the question felt a little too close to the truth for comfort.
The woman chuckled, a sound as cool and polished as the marble around them. “That’s uptown Manhattan,” she said, smirking. “But no. We are The Seventh Circle. We’re not tied to any religion—we just like the name.”
“So… what do you do here?”
“We help people.”
Elias raised an eyebrow. “Help them how?”
Her smile widened, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “We clothe them. Make them better than they were before.”
He glanced at Klaus and Helga again. Their serene, almost unnerving expressions hadn’t wavered. For a moment, he felt as though he were standing before living statues, beings carved by some divine hand.
The woman at the desk leaned forward slightly, her gaze sharp and commanding. “Now, please go with the two. You’re in good hands.”
Elias hesitated but found himself nodding. Something about this place, about them, compelled him forward. As Klaus and Helga turned, beckoning him into the hallway, he took a deep breath and followed, the weight of the card in his pocket a constant reminder of just how strange his world had become.
There was something deeply unsettling about the hallway. As Elias stepped forward, flanked by Helga and Klaus, the air seemed to thicken, pressing against him like an unseen weight. Each step felt heavier than the last, not because of exhaustion but as though the space itself resisted him. A faint hum vibrated at the edge of his perception, almost imperceptible but impossible to ignore.
The walls on either side were adorned with intricate patterns—carvings that twisted and spiraled like living things frozen in motion. They were beautiful, haunting even, but also unnervingly familiar. He couldn’t place where he’d seen them before, but the recognition gnawed at him, pulling at the frayed edges of his thoughts. The designs whispered something ancient, something forgotten, their meaning slipping through his grasp like smoke.
What have I gotten myself into? The thought looped in his mind, louder than the faint whispers that now seemed to echo from the walls. Were they whispers? Or was it his own voice, fractured and scattered across the endless expanse of the corridor?
Elias glanced over his shoulder, but the doorway he’d entered through was gone, swallowed by the marble and shadows behind him. Ahead, the hallway stretched endlessly, the far end obscured by a haze that shimmered like heat rising from asphalt. There was no turning back now—not that he had any idea where back even was.
As they walked, his senses began to falter. The air grew colder, yet he barely felt it against his skin. The sound of his footsteps, once so loud in the cathedral-like silence, dulled into an eerie quiet, as though the hallway itself was swallowing the noise. Even his thoughts felt sluggish, as if something in this place was slowly dulling his mind.
The whispers grew louder, a chorus of voices that overlapped and danced at the edges of comprehension. They spoke no language he recognized, their tones shifting between urgent and mournful. He glanced at Helga and Klaus, hoping for some anchor, but their serene, almost mechanical expressions offered no solace. They moved with a fluidity that seemed more like gliding than walking, their perfect forms a stark contrast to his disheveled presence.
Elias turned his gaze back to the walls, his breath hitching as the patterns began to shift. The carvings weren’t static after all—they were alive, their spirals and shapes twisting, unfolding, and rearranging themselves as if they responded to his presence. He blinked hard, certain he was imagining it, but the movements didn’t stop. Instead, they grew more pronounced, the designs almost reaching out to him, tugging at something deep within his memory.
I’ve seen this before. Where? The thought rose, sharp and sudden, but the answer eluded him, buried beneath the fog that now clouded his mind. His memories felt distant, muted, as though this place was siphoning them away, replacing them with the whispers. He clutched at fragments—his apartment, the card, the jogger’s insult—but they slipped through his fingers like sand.
“Keep walking,” Helga said, her voice soft but unyielding, breaking through the cacophony of whispers. It was the first time she’d spoken, and her tone carried an edge of authority that brooked no argument.
Elias wanted to stop, to demand answers, but his feet moved of their own accord, dragging him further into the infinite corridor. The dulling of his senses grew more pronounced, the whispers louder, and a strange, almost oppressive calm settled over him.
He wasn’t walking toward something anymore.
It felt like he was being pulled.
Elias stood at the threshold of The Seventh Circle, the weight of the experience pressing down on him like a shroud. The heavy oak door swung closed behind him with a dull finality, sealing the strange world within. He blinked, trying to ground himself in the mundane reality of the street, but it felt off—like a film playing out slightly out of sync. His reflection in a nearby window caught his attention, and his breath hitched.
He didn’t look like himself anymore.
Gone were the shabby clothes and unkempt hair. In their place was a tailored coat that radiated quiet authority, the fabric rich and weighty against his skin. The cut was precise, its lines clean and deliberate, exuding a kind of power that didn’t require explanation. His shirt and trousers followed suit, impeccable and understated, with just enough flourish to suggest wealth without arrogance. Even his hair was different—clean, neatly styled, and glinting faintly in the city’s weak light. He ran a hand through it, the sensation unfamiliar but oddly satisfying.
It felt surreal.
He tried to recall what had happened inside the shop, but his memory was fragmented, pieces of the experience slipping through his fingers like sand. He remembered Helga and Klaus speaking to each other in a language he couldn’t place—German? Swedish?—their tones rhythmic and almost hypnotic. He remembered flashes of motion, the gleam of white marble, the shifting, enigmatic designs on the walls. And then… nothing. No payment, no explanation. Just this.
As he adjusted his coat, he felt a strange blend of confidence and unease. The weight of the fabric was grounding, almost like armor, but the gaps in his memory gnawed at him. What had they done? What had he done? The Seventh Circle wasn’t a place anyone just stumbled into, was it? It felt purposeful, deliberate, as though it had been waiting for him.
He shook his head, trying to dispel the growing sense of paranoia. Enjoy the moment, he thought. You’re not that guy anymore. No more joggers calling you a hobo. No more pitying glances.
Elias stepped into the flow of the street, the city buzzing around him in its usual chaotic rhythm. As he walked, his thoughts drifted back to the card in his pocket and the strange pull it had over him. Every step felt like a thread tightening, tying him closer to something he didn’t yet understand.
And then he saw it—the Axion Tower.
Its glass-and-steel frame pierced the Manhattan skyline, an immovable titan looming over the city like a monument to ambition. Its presence was oppressive, a constant reminder of power wielded by people like Alexander Vale, who seemed to command the world itself. Elias stopped for a moment, staring up at its sleek, impenetrable façade.
What if that were mine? The thought crept in unbidden, dark and tantalizing. He imagined his name etched into the skyline, his empire casting shadows across the streets below. What kind of power would that give him? What kind of man would it make him?
He shook his head, forcing the thought away. The idea clung to him like smoke, but he couldn’t afford to lose focus. Not yet. He turned the corner and saw the Orchard store ahead, its pristine glass walls gleaming like a jewel. Inside, displays showcased the latest Pear technology in all its minimalist glory, each piece glowing softly under carefully placed lights.
As he approached, doubt stirred in his chest. What if they don’t have my order? What if the card didn’t work after all?
The thought was ridiculous, but it burrowed into his mind, coiled tight like a snake. He stood outside the store for a moment, staring at the immaculate interior, his reflection merging with the images of the products inside.
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This was it—the first true test. With a deep breath, Elias stepped toward the entrance, the heavy doors opening automatically as if welcoming him into a new reality.
Elias stepped through the towering glass doors into Pear’s Orchard store, and it was as if he had crossed into a meticulously curated temple of modernity. The air smelled faintly of clean linen and subtle citrus, the kind of sterile fragrance that whispered luxury. The walls gleamed in a pristine white, their surfaces occasionally interrupted by sleek, curved screens playing muted ads—images of serene cityscapes and impossibly attractive people holding Pear devices with expressions of quiet ecstasy.
The layout was a masterclass in seduction. Long, minimalist tables displayed the latest Pyrus phones in an array of colors, each device resting like a crown jewel under soft lighting. Customers swarmed around them, their fingers dancing across the screens as if the devices were extensions of themselves. To the right, a curved display showcased the newest PearBook laptops on illuminated pedestals, each more impossibly thin and precise than the last. Beyond them, an interactive screen demonstrated the seamless integration of desktop capabilities with cloud storage, the future made tangible.
Even the accessories section exuded opulence—a backlit wall filled with premium cases, styluses, and headphones, each meticulously arranged to suggest they were essential companions to the devices on display. It wasn’t a store. It was a shrine.
“Welcome to Pear Orchard,” a voice greeted him from behind. Calm, polished, and practiced to perfection. Elias turned to find a young woman standing there, her uniform impossibly crisp—a tailored white suit adorned with the faintest hint of Pear’s logo, subtle enough to be tasteful but unmistakable. She held a slim tablet in her hands, the sleek device seeming almost weightless.
“Are you looking for something specific today?” she asked with a warm, professional smile, her tone perfectly pitched to make him feel seen but not overwhelmed.
“Uh, yeah.” Elias shifted his weight, glancing around. Despite the crowd, no one seemed to be paying him much attention. Or maybe they were deliberately avoiding looking at him. It was hard to tell. “I have an order for pick-up,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady.
“Of course, sir.” She smiled again, a flawless execution of customer service. “My name is Lydia, and I’ll be your assistant today. Could I get your order number?”
“Right, one sec.” Elias fumbled with his phone, pulling up the email. “It’s, uh, 456918.”
“Thank you.” Lydia tapped swiftly on her tablet, her expression unchanging as the data synced. “Yes, your Pyrus is ready for pick-up. Would you like me to pack it up now, or would you prefer to browse a bit first?”
It’s real. The thought hit him like a jolt of electricity. The card had worked. No fucking way. His heart pounded as he fought to maintain his composure. “Actually,” he said, swallowing hard, “I was thinking about getting a laptop. Any recommendations?”
“Of course, sir. Right this way.” Lydia gestured smoothly, leading him toward the PearBook display. Her movements were graceful, almost mechanical, as if rehearsed countless times. She stopped in front of a pedestal where the newest models gleamed under the soft spotlight.
“What kind of tasks will you primarily be using it for?” she asked.
“Mostly work,” Elias said, trying to sound casual. “Writing, social media… the usual.”
Lydia nodded, her demeanor remaining effortlessly professional. “In that case, I’d recommend the Arc. It’s designed with a perfect balance of performance and portability. It may not have the raw power of the Prism or the Apex, but it excels at everyday tasks with flawless efficiency. Its new chip design enhances speed and battery life, and the display is—”
Her pitch was interrupted by a sound so grating it felt like nails on a chalkboard. A booming, nasal voice cut through the store like a serrated knife.
“Oh… My… GOD!” the man exclaimed, drawing every syllable out with exaggerated delight. Elias winced. He didn’t need to turn to know who it was. “If it isn’t Mercer!”
The voice’s owner strode into view, clad in an electric-blue blazer so bright it seemed to defy natural light. The fabric shimmered aggressively, paired with a patterned shirt that clashed so violently it could have been declared a crime against fashion. The man’s slicked-back hair gleamed with what had to be an entire bottle of gel, and his smile was wide enough to show every tooth—a grin that practically screamed look at me.
Bryce Halstead.
Of course it was Bryce Halstead. Loud, garish, and utterly devoid of self-awareness. Elias clenched his jaw, bracing himself for the onslaught.
“Bryce,” Elias said, his voice flat, each syllable carefully measured. “What a surprise.”
Bryce’s laughter exploded, loud and obnoxious, as though Elias had just delivered the punchline of a grand joke. “Surprise? Please.” He dragged out the word, throwing his arms wide in a theatrical gesture. “I knew you’d finally drag yourself into a place like this. Decided to join the civilized world, huh?” He gestured broadly to the sleek interior of the Orchard store, his grin as bright as his electric-blue blazer. “About time, Mercer. You were starting to look like a charity case.”
Elias forced a smile, though the tension in his jaw betrayed him. His fists tightened at his sides, the card in his pocket suddenly heavy, like a brand. “Just picking up a few things,” he replied evenly, refusing to give Bryce the satisfaction of a reaction.
“Oh, really?” Bryce leaned in, his voice dripping with mock concern. “And here I thought you were here to window shop. Well, let me know if you need a loan. I’d hate to see you walk out empty-handed.”
Elias exhaled sharply, his smile still plastered on his face like armor. “Thank you for your kind words,” he said, his tone clipped but still civil. Turning to Lydia, who now regarded Bryce with a mix of unease and professional restraint, he asked, “Which option did you—”
“You getting the Core?” Bryce interrupted, his voice cutting through like a rusty blade.
“No.” Elias fought to keep his voice calm, though his patience was wearing thin. He glanced at Bryce, his eyes narrowing. “What are you doing here, anyway?”
“Me?” Bryce puffed up like a peacock, his tone smug. “I just picked up a Pyrus. The Nexus Ultra.” He tapped the logo on the sleek black box he was holding as though it were a badge of honor.
“Wow, nice,” Elias said, his tone flatly unimpressed. “Can you even afford that?”
The smile on Bryce’s face faltered. “What’s that supposed to mean, you—”
“I’ll take the Apex,” Elias cut him off, turning back to Lydia, whose professional demeanor barely masked her amusement at the exchange.
“Great choice, sir,” she said smoothly, stepping into her role. “What dimensions would you prefer?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Bryce interrupted again, holding up a hand like a traffic cop. “You’re not buying that.”
“Why not?” Elias asked, his voice sharp but steady, finally meeting Bryce’s eyes.
“You don’t have a cent to your name,” Bryce sneered, stepping closer as though proximity might intimidate him.
“Oh?” Elias turned back to Lydia, his composure unshaken. “Sixteen-inch, please.”
“Excellent choice,” Lydia said with a soft, knowing smile. “Would you like any additional accessories?”
Bryce stepped closer, his voice rising. “Yeah, I bet you don’t even have the cash for that.”
Elias didn’t flinch. Instead, he directed his gaze at Lydia, his tone cool and deliberate. “You accept cards, right?”
“Of course, sir,” Lydia replied, her professionalism unwavering. “We accept Quantum, Epicure, Horizon, and Regent.”
“Perfect,” Elias said, flashing a brief, pointed smile at Bryce. “I’ll take it, then.”
“Great. If you could follow me, I’ll get everything sorted,” Lydia said, gesturing toward the back counter. She moved with the grace of someone who had mastered the art of ignoring unpleasant customers, Bryce included.
Bryce, however, wasn’t done. He trailed after Elias like an overgrown shadow, his smirk plastered back onto his face. “Where do you work now, Bryce?” he asked, his tone laced with mock curiosity.
“Axion,” Bryce interrupted himself, clearly eager to boast. “Got a nice gig, six figures, baby. Not bad for a guy like me.” He grinned, waiting for Elias to respond. “And you? Still at some call center?”
“Not really,” Elias replied casually, his tone giving nothing away. “I’m going home.”
“Migration got you?” Bryce’s laugh was sharp, his mockery barely veiled. “Headed back to the old country, huh?”
“No,” Elias said simply, his tone unfazed. “Just a short vacation before I start working again.”
“So you’re unemployed?” Bryce pressed, his voice rising, hungry for any sign of weakness.
Elias didn’t respond. His focus remained on Lydia as they arrived at the back desk, where two packages awaited him. The first, the Pyrus Nexus Ultra box, shimmered with a matte black finish that seemed to absorb the light. Its embossed logo caught his eye as he approached, the metallic accents glinting faintly. Next to it, the PearBook Apex packaging gleamed with a brushed titanium finish, its subtle engravings exuding sophistication and luxury.
Lydia turned to Elias with a practiced smile. “Your items are ready, sir. Would you like them packaged together?”
“That’s fine,” Elias replied, his voice calm, as if Bryce’s presence didn’t exist.
Bryce lingered, his smirk faltering as the reality of the transaction sank in. Elias didn’t need to look at him to know the expression on his face. He could feel the quiet satisfaction blooming in his chest, and for once, he didn’t suppress it.
“The phone has already been paid for, and your Apex comes to $6,999,” Lydia said smoothly, her tone making the sum sound like pocket change. “Would you like to add worldwide insurance coverage for $699?”
Elias hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”
“Excellent choice. Just a moment.” Lydia’s fingers danced across the sleek tablet in her hands, her movements fluid and precise. A small display on the counter in front of Elias blinked to life, showing a glowing signature line. “Please sign here to confirm your purchase.”
Elias picked up the stylus, his hand steady, and signed his name with an ease he hadn’t expected. The act felt weighty, as if it carried more significance than it should have. As the signature finalized, something shifted in the air around him—subtle, but undeniable. A faint prickle ran up the back of his neck.
“How will you be paying today?” Lydia asked, her professional demeanor unshaken.
“Card,” Elias replied, pulling the sleek black rectangle from his pocket.
Lydia retrieved a minimalist payment device, a small, polished puck that glinted under the store’s precise lighting. She placed it on the counter and slid it toward him. “Please hold your card here until you hear a soft beep.”
Elias complied, placing the card against the device. For a brief moment, it felt as though the card hummed faintly in his hand—a subtle vibration, almost imperceptible, but undeniably there. Then, the device emitted a quiet, mechanical beep that seemed to echo louder in his mind than it did in the store.
“Thank you for your purchase, Mr. Mercer,” Lydia said, her voice effortlessly calm as she slid a sleek bag across the counter toward him. The bag contained both devices—the Pyrus Nexus Ultra, its box exuding understated luxury, and the PearBook Apex, radiating sophistication even through its brushed titanium packaging.
Elias took the bag, his fingers brushing against the cool material of the handles. For a moment, he stood there, staring at the purchase as if it were some tangible proof of the unreal turn his life had taken.
Bryce, standing just behind him, looked utterly dumbfounded. His mouth opened as if to say something, but no words came out. He was caught between disbelief and some unspoken frustration, his bravado visibly deflated.
Elias turned to Lydia, offering her a small nod of thanks. “Appreciate the help.”
“Of course, sir,” she said, her polite smile unwavering. “If there’s anything else you need, don’t hesitate to ask.”
With the bag in hand, Elias turned and began walking toward the exit, leaving Bryce rooted in place. The soft hum of the store seemed to recede as Elias stepped back into the city, his thoughts swirling with the weight of what had just transpired.
Elias turned the corner, the Orchard store receding behind him like a fading dream. His steps faltered as the weight of what had just happened began to settle in his chest. He clutched the sleek shopping bag in one hand, its contents absurdly extravagant for someone who had been rationing instant noodles just days ago. A phone and a laptop worth nearly eight grand—what the hell am I doing?
He leaned against the cold stone of a nearby building, his breath hitching as he tried to sort through the chaos in his mind. The bag felt heavier now, like it wasn’t just filled with tech but with questions he couldn’t answer. He pressed his back against the wall, closing his eyes. His chest tightened with a sudden pang of guilt. This isn’t survival. This is indulgence.
The hum of the city buzzed around him, indifferent to his turmoil. A distant honk. Footsteps clicking against the pavement. Someone’s muted laughter echoing from a café nearby. All of it felt distant, like he was trapped behind glass, watching the world continue without him.
Eight thousand dollars, his thoughts screamed. That was more money than he had seen in one place at any given time. Money that could have secured him another month of rent, a chance to breathe, maybe even something practical like clothes for job interviews. But instead, it was gone—spent on gadgets he didn’t need but couldn’t resist.
Why didn’t I stop myself?
His hand moved to his pocket almost reflexively, the smooth surface of the card brushing against his fingertips. It sent a shiver up his arm. There it was again—that faint hum, not audible but felt, resonating like a low-frequency vibration deep within his bones. He pulled it out, the card gleaming faintly in the evening light. It was innocuous enough to anyone else, but to Elias, it might as well have been a loaded weapon.
Then he felt it: a faint vibration, not from the card itself but from somewhere deeper, something primal. A whisper stirred at the back of his mind, indistinct at first but growing clearer as he focused.
“Gifts you have received… what will you give?”
The voice was neither male nor female, its tone both familiar and alien. It didn’t sound like a question—it felt like a demand, a summons that clawed at the edges of his thoughts. His breath hitched, his pulse quickening as he stared at the card. The words weren’t just in his head; they seemed to reverberate in the very air around him, weaving through the ambient sounds of the city.
Elias clenched the card tighter, his knuckles whitening. What do you want from me? he thought, though the question felt small, insignificant, like a child’s protest against the tide.
The voice didn’t answer. It didn’t need to. The question lingered, sinking deeper into his consciousness, coiling around his thoughts like a serpent.
He stuffed the card back into his pocket with trembling hands, his breathing uneven.
What the hell have I gotten myself into?