Rain fell in relentless sheets, turning the streets into mirrors of light and shadow.
Harold walked alone, his black umbrella cutting through the downpour, a basket dangling from his left hand. His hoodie clung to him, white streaked with black, damp and cold, while water trickled down the hems of his black trousers.
Each step echoed softly against the pavement, muffled by the rain but carrying just enough for Harold to feel the emptiness of the streets. The rhythmic patter of droplets on his umbrella became a strange sort of music, one that seemed to slow and twist time with each note.
He glanced to his right. A nine-story building loomed, balconies crowded with exotic flowers that seemed almost alive, writhing in the wind. One balcony caught his attention—a figure inside painted feverishly, a single red flower blossoming across the canvas.
But its shape was wrong, unnatural… and for a fleeting moment, Harold thought the flower moved, curling toward him.
BOOM.
Thunder cleaved the night. Harold's gaze shot upward, reflexive, searching the dark clouds for the storm's source. When he looked back, the painter was gone. The window was empty, lifeless, and yet Harold's heart thumped with the certainty that someone—or something—had been there.
He shook his head and continued walking, trying to convince himself that hallucinations were harmless companions on lonely, rainy nights.
A few blocks later, he noticed someone waiting.
The man was sharply dressed in black, gloves and glasses matching the night around him. He sat on a sidewalk chair, an invitation carved into his calm demeanor.
"Hey, young man," the stranger called. "Sit. Sit with me."
Harold hesitated. The man's presence felt… wrong, but he could not look away.
Sitting down, Harold immediately felt a chill, though the rain still fell around him. The stranger's gaze pinned him in place, unsettlingly sharp behind dark glasses.
"Tell me, young man…" the man said after a pause, voice smooth and deliberate. "Which is the correct path in life? A man who wins by sacrificing everything for the people he loves… or a man who sacrifices everyone for his goals and ambitions?"
Harold opened his mouth, then closed it. The answer eluded him, slipping away like smoke.
"There is no correct path," the man said. "People follow their own compass. Those who do not… they wander. They fade. Empty shells, shadows of what they once were."
Harold's stomach knotted. The stranger's words felt like they carried a weight beyond mere philosophy, a warning wrapped in enigma.
The man smiled slowly, raising a gloved hand and pointing upward.
Harold followed the gesture. The full moon hung above, silvery and serene… then, in the next instant, it was gone.
BOOOOM
Thunder ripped through the sky, and Harold flinched. When his eyes readjusted, the moon glowed crimson, molten and unnatural. Shadows stretched and twisted around him, moving of their own accord. The air thickened, pressing in from all sides.
Something cold brushed against his skin, crawling beneath his clothes.
He tried to stand, but his legs felt rooted to the pavement. The darkness crept closer, and Harold realized with growing dread that the rain had stopped. The world was silent, except for the soft, wet whisper of something sliding along the ground toward him.
And then… the crimson moon blinked out.
There was only black.
-------
I woke up with a start.
The ground was hard beneath me—or something hard. My head throbbed, and my vision was blurry. For a moment, I thought I was still on the street, soaked from the rain. But no. The air was warm, heavy, and smelled… strange. Oil? Smoke? Something metallic, like hot iron.
I pushed myself up onto my elbows. Around me, the shadows were thick, twisting in the dim light that filtered through cracks in wooden walls. Dust floated lazily in the air, drifting in the hiss of escaping steam.
I tried to make sense of the room. It was small, cramped, and cluttered. Copper pipes coiled along the ceiling, hissing as if they were breathing. Shelves overflowed with gears, coils of wire, and half-finished machines I didn't understand. A small furnace glowed orange in the corner, and the floor creaked under me like it was alive.
I swung my legs off whatever I was lying on—it felt like a cot—and stood. My legs wobbled. My heart was still hammering, and the memory of the crimson moon made my stomach twist. What the hell just happened?
I stumbled to a small, grimy window and looked out.
The city beyond… I couldn't even begin to describe it. Copper towers stretched into the sky, smoke-stacked factories puffing steadily into an amber haze. Airships drifted between the spires, their hulls covered in pipes and strange spinning contraptions. People moved on elevated walkways, dressed in leather and brass, faces half-hidden behind goggles and masks. Huge clocks ticked atop towers, their hands spinning relentlessly.
And the streets below? Steam hissed from vents, filling the air with a choking warmth.
I pressed my hands to the rough wooden wall, trying to ground myself. Nothing made sense. None of it. It wasn't my world. None of it felt real. My mind raced, trying to remember how I got here, what had happened after the moon… but I drew a blank.
The shed smelled of oil, coal, and old wood. Every creak of the floor made me flinch. Every hiss from the pipes sounded like the world itself was alive, watching.
I wanted to leave. I wanted to run. But where would I go? I didn't know this place, and I didn't know if leaving the shed would even help.
Still… I had to try.
I opened the door. The light outside hit me like a slap. The city sprawled before me, massive and impossible, and I realized I didn't know anything—about the city, about how I got here, about what had happened with that moon. All I had was the rain of confusion in my head and the weight of the unknown pressing down.
I took a shaky step forward. And then another.
And that was when I realized… I know dont know jackshit about anything.