Chapter 2: Something's Off With the Air
The world hadn't ended. Not in the way people expected.
No fire raining from the sky. No angels blowing trumpets. No blood oceans or horsemen galloping down the freeway. Just the same morning gridlock on Eastridge Avenue, the same white noise of espresso machines screaming in corner cafes, the same looped synth - pop playlist that every shop owner swore was different. Spoiler: it wasn't.
People still scrolled through headlines like they were swiping through a dating app — war, floods, heatwaves, disappearances, whatever. Blink. Gone. Refresh. Next.
The city didn't stop.
It groaned and sparked and kept humming like it always had, wrapped in neon and exhaust fumes and that weird mix of human energy and unspoken dread. But underneath it all, buried under the Spotify ads and 5G signals and non - stop construction — something buzzed.
And Aria Solenne felt it like an itch just under her skin.
She moved through the streets like she belonged and didn't at the same time. Headphones in. Hood up. Face unreadable. She blended in the way shadows did — only noticeable if you were really looking.
The subway was the usual chaos. Elbows. Coffee breath. One guy yelling at a poster for reasons only he understood. She didn't flinch when someone jostled her. Not even when they got too close. She just shifted her weight and slipped her fingers around the handle of the small blade in her coat. Instinct. Habit. Insurance.
The train window caught her reflection.
She didn't like how it looked back.
Same girl. Same face. But it felt… delayed. Slightly out of sync. Like watching herself in a livestream with a lag.
She turned away.
The bookstore was where her day officially started. Gutter & Spine — crammed between a hipster plant shop selling overpriced succulents and a vape lounge that moonlighted as a spoken word bar. The kind of place Google Maps forgot, which suited Aria fine.
She pushed open the door and paused.
No chime.
That wasn't right.
She looked up. The little silver bell above the door was still there, still dangling from the hook. But it hadn't made a sound. Like the air was too thick for noise.
Inside, it was quiet.
Too quiet.
"Mrs. Yune?" Aria called, setting her bag down behind the counter.
No answer.
That was weirder.
The old woman never missed a shift. Ever. Even on days she probably should have stayed home. Even on the day of Aria's interview, when the sky had opened up and flooded half the street, she had been there, sipping tea like the storm couldn't touch her.
Her mug was on the desk now. Half full. Cold.
The chair pushed slightly out.
Notebook open.
Blank page.
Aria frowned, unease tugging at the edge of her gut. She poured two cups of tea anyway — white jasmine with ginseng, just like always. Set one down at the register, hoping muscle memory would make everything feel less off.
It didn't.
The second cup stayed untouched. Steam curling upward like it was looking for something. Or someone.
By eleven, the tea had cooled.
By noon, the porcelain cracked with a sharp snap when she moved it.
Aria muttered, "What the hell…"
She cleaned it up slowly, deliberately. Anything to keep her hands moving. To keep her from thinking about how it felt like the whole bookstore was… holding its breath.
She wandered into the back aisles. The mythology section was a mess — again. Probably some college kid hunting for ancient conspiracies to turn into a thesis.
Her fingers skimmed the titles. Worn, faded, some crumbling at the spine. One caught her eye.
Legends of the End Times.
Okay. A little on the nose.
She pulled it out.
The book snapped open like it had been waiting for her.
Pages fluttered violently — way too violently for the still air.
Most were gone. Torn out. Clean edges, not ragged. Deliberate.
Only one page remained.
Scrawled in handwriting that wasn't printed:
She will bloom when all else dies.
Aria stared.
The ink bled at the edges. Not like water damage. Like tears.
She ran her fingers over the words.
Heat pulsed under her skin. A soft flicker in her chest. Familiar. Uncomfortable.
She shoved the book closed and stuck it under the counter.
Enough weird for one shift.
The rest of the afternoon crawled. Barely any customers. Just the low hum of the heater and the occasional groan of pipes older than her apartment building. She finally locked up at six, grabbed her stuff, and stepped into the street just as the rain picked up again.
Drizzle soaked her hoodie in seconds.
Great.
Aria tugged it tighter and walked fast, hands shoved deep into her pockets. Her boots splashed through puddles the color of old coffee.
She passed a digital billboard overhead. The screen flickered, half - glitched.
ZONE A: TEMPORARY MONITORING
SYMPTOM HOTLINE: 311
Nobody looked up.
Nobody ever did.
A voice barked prices from a fruit cart nearby. The same vendor as always — a woman in a puff jacket with gold hoops and an AI - linked payment ring.
"Three for five. Cash only. Don't trust the cloud. That shit steals your face."
Aria grabbed a couple of apples. As she handed over cash, the woman squinted at her.
"You want the red ones? Girl, nah. Bad week for red. Take green."
"…Why?"
"Rot's been weird lately. Stuff looks fine outside, then boom — spores. I'm tellin' you, bad energy in the soil or something."
Aria blinked. "Spore apples?"
The woman just shrugged. "You didn't hear it from me."
Aria muttered a thanks and walked off.
She bit into one apple half a block later.
Regretted it immediately.
Soft. Mushy. The inside was black and caved in.
She gagged, spit it out into the gutter, and dumped the rest into the nearest bin.
By the time she reached her building, her hoodie was soaked through and her nerves were frayed. She trudged up five flights, kicked her boots off inside, and froze.
Something felt… off.
She closed the door behind her slowly.
The apartment was still. Not quiet — still.
Air too heavy.
The smell of something floral.
Faint. Sweet. Wrong.
Her eyes drifted to the bookshelf.
The flower was back.
No — flowers, plural.
Two of them now.
Deep crimson. Growing directly from the spine of Sea Glass Psalms, like they had rooted themselves into the poetry.
No pot. No soil.
Just… existing.
Aria moved closer, slowly.
She hadn't touched them. Couldn't. Something inside her said don't. Not because she was scared of plants, but because these weren't plants. Not really.
They hadn't wilted. Not even a little.
She turned toward the mirror by the window.
Same antique mirror left by the last tenant. Slightly warped. She'd been meaning to throw it out for months. Every time she got close to doing it, something stopped her.
Tonight, it had a crack.
Tiny. Fresh. Like a split in the surface of the world.
She stepped forward.
Her reflection blinked half a beat late.
Not enough to prove anything.
Enough to feel it.
She tilted her head.
The reflection didn't.
She whispered, "Nope."
The mirror said nothing.
Just stared.
Not at her.
Through her.
The air shifted.
Not temperature — pressure.
Her ears popped slightly.
And then, like a voice without words, something whispered.
It wasn't sound.
It was a knowing.
She turned back toward the flowers.
The petals curled.
Listening.
Her knees buckled slightly.
She reached for the arm of the couch and sat down hard.
Her phone.
She yanked it out of her pocket.
No bars.
No Wi - Fi.
No message.
Just dead space.
Like the city had been unplugged.
She muttered under her breath, "Okay, no. We are not doing this today."
The mirror watched.
The flowers pulsed — once — like a heartbeat.
She wanted to move. She didn't.
She whispered, "What are you?"
The flowers didn't answer.
Neither did the mirror.
But the wind outside picked up. Shrieked once across the building like it was clawing at the windows.
Then silence.
She stayed there, still, breathing slow.
At some point, her phone buzzed.
She nearly dropped it.
One new message.
Jules: You good? Heard Yune's MIA. Weird stuff in the city?
Aria stared at the screen, thumbs hovering.
She typed:
Aria: I don't know. Something's wrong. Something's coming.
She hit send.
Put the phone down.
Looked up.
The mirror crack had grown.
A web now. Spreading outward like ice.
Her reflection blinked again — delayed.
This time, Aria didn't blink at all.
The flowers shifted gently, as if reacting to the thought she hadn't spoken.
The air felt electric.
Alive.
Not fear. Not quite.
Anticipation.
The whisper came again.
This time, it was clear.
One word.
Right into her bones.
"Bloom."