74 : The City That Pretends to Sleep
Moon and Kai stood at the edge of a city that looked… beautiful—at least, from where they were.
From a distance, it could have been mistaken for a painting: tall, elegant buildings bathed in pale moonlight, ivy spilling lazily from balconies like green waterfalls, and faint golden glimmers from ancient street lamps, their light trembling in the darkness as though unsure they still belonged here.
But the beauty was only a mask.
Up close, the air felt wrong.
It was silent—
Not the peaceful, sleepy silence of a countryside night… but the kind of silence that feels heavy, almost sentient. It pressed against their ears, making every small sound—the scrape of Kai's boot, the rustle of Moon's sleeve—seem too loud, too sharp.
There was no wind. No distant murmur of insects. No scurrying of rats in the shadows.
No footsteps but theirs.
No life.
No one. Literally no one.
Even the shadows here felt… stiff. Like they were holding their breath.
They crossed the cracked cobblestone path leading to the city's main gate, though the word "gate" was generous—it was just a rusted metal arch with vines curling through it, half swallowed by time.
And then they saw it.
Just like every strange place they had entered before, there were rules.
A large board stood crooked near the entrance, its wooden frame warped from years of neglect. Rusted nails clung stubbornly to the edges, holding in place a sheet of faded metal with writing etched into it—writing so worn, some letters looked like scars rather than ink. The edges were flaked with corrosion, the surface dusted with a thin film of grime.
Beneath the board hung a small hook, from which dangled two mechanical wristwatches.
They weren't modern or sleek; these were old, heavy timepieces, their glass scratched, their metal frames tarnished to a dull bronze. Yet the hands still ticked—steadily, unnervingly, both perfectly in sync.
Kai stepped closer, his gaze catching on the faint glint of the watch faces before moving to the etched words above them.
Moon stayed a pace behind, eyes scanning the shadows instead.
The rules waited for them.
And though the letters were faded, they seemed to stare back.
The writing on the board was faint, the metal surface pitted with rust, but the words were still there—etched deep enough to outlast the years.
Kai brushed away a layer of dust with his sleeve, revealing the title in long, uneven strokes:
Rules of the City
---
1. A shadow figure roams here.
Pretend you didn't see it. Pretend you didn't hear it.
No matter how close it gets—no matter if it stands right behind you—ignore it.
Do not look. Do not react.
2. An old man will offer you tea.
If you see him, run.
Do not speak. Do not linger. Do not taste what he offers.
The tea is not tea.
3. Wear a watch at all times.
Time here is twisted.
The city will try to take your hours and give them back… wrong.
Without the watch, you will lose more than minutes.
4. If you enter any building, remain inside for 24 hours.
If you leave too soon, they will be waiting.
They always wait for those who step outside too early.
---
Beneath the list, the words grew heavier, carved deeper, as though the writer wanted them to be felt, not just read:
Goal:
Find the hotel.
Learn the story of the woman who lost her child.
Warning:
If you fail… you will die.
---
The two wristwatches beneath the board ticked softly in the quiet, their sound unnervingly loud in the still air—
tick… tick… tick…
A reminder that time was already moving, and in this place, time itself was the enemy.
A faint "Good luck" was scratched beneath, as if the writer had been laughing when they wrote it.
Moon's throat tightened.
The memory hit him without warning—
the crooked-necked woman from the bridge,
the whispering leaves of the silver jungle.
"She's here," Kai muttered, his voice low, taut.
"If we find her story, we can leave. If not—"
He didn't finish.
They each reached for the watches.
The metal was cold, as if it had been sitting in a shadow untouched for years.
When the clasps locked around their wrists, there was a faint click—too mechanical, too deliberate. Moon felt a prickle along the back of his neck, as if the city itself had just taken note of their arrival.
They stepped forward.
The first row of houses loomed on either side of the cobblestone street, their outlines sharp against the dim light. And that was when they felt it—
a weight in the air, invisible yet pressing, like a dozen pairs of eyes tracking their every move.
The sensation came from everywhere—behind garden gates overrun with vines, from slits in wooden fences, from the black squares of windows where no curtain twitched.
The stare was steady. Patient.
Some houses looked warm. Too warm.
One had its front door open, spilling soft yellow light onto the pavement. Through the window, Moon saw the silhouette of children running, laughing. A woman's voice scolded playfully, "Don't run, you'll get hurt!" Somewhere deeper inside, a TV blared the muted hum of football commentary.
For a heartbeat, Moon almost believed it. Almost.
But he knew.
A house without a rule board meant it had been claimed completely.
There was no life inside—only bait, wrapped in the comfort of memory.
They kept walking.
And then—
ahead of them—
an old man.
He was bent with age, his spine slightly twisted as if gravity had been gnawing at him for decades. A faded shirt clung loosely to his frame, sleeves rolled to reveal skin like dried parchment. His trousers were patched at the knees, the fabric fraying at the edges.
He was tending to a garden that should not exist here.
Bright flowers swayed in a wind that wasn't there. The hedges were so perfectly trimmed they looked carved, their edges too precise—unnaturally precise. In the soil, the roots seemed to pulse faintly, as if
Alive
The old man straightened slowly, vertebrae cracking in the quiet. He brushed the dirt from his hands in slow, deliberate strokes, and smiled.
It wasn't the warm smile of a grandfather—it was too practiced, too even, his teeth just a shade too white.
"Ah, my boys… where are you headed?" His voice was warm, syrupy, almost hypnotic. "Come in… eat something."
He tilted his head slightly, eyes glinting like wet stones.
"Help me with the garden. Just a little. Don't be afraid… stay the night—it's dangerous to wander after dark…"
Then, he paused.
His smile widened, stretching just a fraction too far.
"…or at least…"
A long beat of silence.
"…come and have some tea."
The last word felt heavier than it should have—rolling into the air and sinking into it, warping the silence around them. Somewhere deep in Moon's chest, something primal recoiled.
His heart slammed against his ribs.
Beside him, Kai's eyes sharpened, the faintest flicker of fear breaking through his usual composure.
They didn't answer.
They didn't even breathe.
They just ran.
Their footsteps hammered against the cobblestones, echoing unnaturally loud in the hollow streets.
As they passed the gaps between buildings, shadowy figures began to take shape—pale, translucent, faceless. They didn't move. They didn't block the way. They simply… watched.
Moon kept his gaze fixed ahead, his pulse roaring in his ears.
The rules were clear.
Ignore them.
They turned a corner, then another, sprinting until their legs burned and their chests heaved. When they finally stopped, gasping in the stale air, Moon checked his watch.
By their own count, barely twenty minutes had passed since stepping into the city.
But the watches on their wrists told a different story—
six hours… gone.
The rules hadn't lied.
Time here was a predator.
They pressed on, boots crunching over cracked cobblestones, the air thick and stale as they turned down a narrow street hemmed in by buildings that seemed to lean inward, as if eavesdropping.
That was when they saw it.
An old railway station office, wedged between two collapsed warehouses. The glass panes were grimy, but a faint, unsteady glow flickered inside—like a lantern struggling to stay lit in deep water. The sign above the gate was tilted, one corner hanging by a single rusted bolt.
They didn't even think—just stepped past the gate.
And that was when Kai froze.
"Wait—" His voice was sharper now, urgent. "We just walked in… this is inside the premises!"
Moon stopped dead.
The realization hit like a punch to the ribs.
"Great." His tone dripped with frustration. "Now we have to follow these rules too."
The station's air was heavier than the street's, carrying a faint, metallic tang that made the back of Moon's tongue ache. Near the ticket counter stood another rule board. This one wasn't like the city's—it was darker, the paint fresh, the letters etched deep and sharp, almost as if they'd been carved yesterday.
---
Rules of the Railway Station
1. If a man asks you about train timings—or any question about trains—send him to platform 666. Do not answer anything else.
2. Light up every lamp in the station before 6 p.m. This station has 666 platforms. Start early.
3. Lock yourself in the station office before 6 p.m. Find a spot where they cannot see you.
4. Remain hidden until 10 p.m., then go to bed. But never sleep alone. And never look down from the bed. The monster outside will now be under your bed.
5. Leave exactly 24 hours after entering. If you stay longer, you will be trapped here for one year. You will repeat the same routine every day—and in that year, you will see things you will wish you could forget.
---
Moon's eyes narrowed as he read the last line, a muscle ticking in his jaw. "This place…" he muttered, voice low with a mix of disgust and unease, "…wants to keep us."
"Then we don't give it the chance," Kai replied. His voice was firm, but his grip on the watch strap tightened unconsciously.
Still—both of them knew the truth.
They could feel it.
The city was already smiling… and it had all the time in the world.
To be continued…