The scent of diesel left a damp, cold trail in the air, like the slime trail of some giant reptile. Samira stared at the brass lock—it still hung perfectly in place, yet the bolt had retracted, leaving a gap that leaked a line of darkness blacker than night. She didn't reach out immediately. Instead, she shoved the wooden bird deep into the deepest pocket of her jeans, as if the piece of wood could scout the path ahead for her.
The door hinges groaned like an old man coughing. Inside, the shipping container was emptier than she'd imagined: abandoned folding cots, an enamel-chipped tray, a few tubes of expired vaccines rolling in the corner like discarded dice. Light leaked through cracks in the ceiling, carving out long, slender knives that illuminated the dust motes hanging in the air—they hung unnaturally still, as if someone had pressed pause.
"Sister."
This wasn't an echo, nor a hallucination from the puddle. The voice came from right behind her, so close she could feel breath stirring against her ear. Samira whirled around, but saw only her own shadow stretched long and thin, reaching all the way to the rust-stained end wall of the container. The shadow moved, though she stood perfectly still.
The rust stains on the end wall began to flake away like dark red snow. Behind each flake lay deeper darkness, and within that darkness floated tiny pinpricks of light—orange, flickering, like embers. They swiftly connected into a fiery line, outlining the shape of a low doorway. Inside the frame, eight-year-old Karim sat hunched on the concrete floor, knees drawn up, face buried in his arms, revealing only sweat-plastered curls.
A choked sob tore from Samira's throat. Her legs moved before her mind could catch up. Her fingers passed through the fiery line—no searing pain, only a cold sharper than the Northern dawn. She grabbed for her brother's shoulder—and grasped empty air. The fiery line flickered, like a projection disturbed by wind, then snuffed out with a soft *puff*. The container plunged back into gloom, leaving only a lingering chill in her palm.
A light metallic scrape sounded behind her. Samira turned to see the door, which had been open, slowly swinging shut. Outside stood a figure—tall, wearing a grey trench coat, a small silver badge shaped like an elongated ear pinned to the collar. The figure raised a hand, index finger pressed vertically against its lips in a "shhh" gesture.
The door locked with a sharp *click*.
The container suddenly came alive. All four walls began to press inward simultaneously. Rust stains transformed into writhing, rust-colored tendrils crawling across the floor towards her ankles. The air was sucked away; breathing became like swallowing shards of glass. Samira stumbled backward, her back hitting the cold, hard steel. Her fingers convulsed around the wooden bird in her pocket—it had begun trembling again, more violently than ever before, almost pecking through the fabric.
A brittle *crack*. Not the door lock, but the wooden bird in her pocket splitting cleanly in two. As the splinters flew, the crushing pressure stopped. The frozen dust motes drifted once more. The rust tendrils slithered back into the walls, reverting to harmless stains.
The door was pulled open from the outside. Real sunlight flooded in. Lena stood framed in the light, breathing heavily, half her blonde ponytail undone. She clutched a pair of bolt cutters and the severed brass lock in her hand, her pupils wide with shock.
"What were you doing?" Lena's voice trembled, her gaze sweeping the empty interior of the container—no fiery line, no shadow, just Samira and two small splinters of wood near her feet.
Samira bent down and picked up the remains of the wooden bird. From the break seeped something incredibly fine, like ash or pollen, scattering at the slightest touch. Her voice was raspier than she expected: "They were here."
"Who?" Lena instinctively looked back. The unmarked black van in the distance was gone, leaving only two fresh tire tracks on the ground, like wounds sliced open by a knife.
Samira gathered the wood dust into her palm. The ash clung to her fingerprints like indelible evidence of some crime. She lifted her gaze to the far end of the camp—beyond the wire fence, the morning mist was thickening again. Within the fog, engine sounds echoed, near and far, like a noose not yet tightened.
"Shadowhunters," she uttered the word for the first time, her voice so faint it was almost inaudible, yet potent enough to drain the color from Lena's face, leaving it paper-white.