The farther Jack walked, the heavier the air became. Not just from exhaustion, though that gnawed at him too, but from the scent — that sickly, coppery tang that meant only one thing.
The Mist.
It drifted in lazy currents between the ruined buildings, thin as gauze but dense enough to blur the edges of everything it touched. Like the world was holding its breath.
Jack pulled his scarf higher over his mouth and nose. He'd survived the Mist before, but that didn't make it safe. No one knew what was in it — or what it did exactly. Some said it killed you slowly. Others said it whispered to you, offered bargains no sane person would take. And then there were the Hollows... walking proof of what happened when you breathed too deep.
He adjusted his pace, cautious and deliberate. The city was quieter here. No wind. No sound of scavengers. Just the soft swirl of the Mist curling around his legs, as if it had a mind of its own.
Then he heard it.
A whisper.
Soft. Faint. Like a voice barely carried on the wind. He stopped, straining his ears. Nothing. Just the Mist and his own breathing.
Then it came again — clearer this time.
> "Jack..."
He froze.
That wasn't possible. No one here knew his name. No one alive, anyway.
Jack spun around, eyes darting through the veil of gray. The ruins were empty. Shadows of crumbling walls, twisted rebar, and collapsed rooftops. No footsteps. No figures.
Still... the voice had been clear. And it had sounded familiar.
He shook his head.
> "Losing it," he muttered to himself. "Keep moving."
But the Mist had other plans.
As Jack pushed forward, the whispers grew — layers of voices now. Some pleading. Some laughing. Some screaming. He gritted his teeth, trying to block them out, but each step made them louder.
Then, ahead of him, a shape emerged through the fog.
A person.
Jack's hand went instinctively to his dagger, but he paused.
It was a man — tall, broad-shouldered, wrapped in a heavy cloak. His face was hidden under a hood, but his posture was... off. Rigid. As if standing still required effort.
Jack raised his voice.
> "You lost, old man?"
No response.
Jack took a cautious step forward.
> "If you're Hollow, I'm not in the mood to—"
> "Jack."
The man's head snapped up.
His face was a blur of scars, one eye missing, the other a pale, lifeless orb. But it was the voice that made Jack freeze.
It was his brother's voice.
> "You came," the man rasped. "You finally came."
Jack's breath caught in his throat. This was impossible. His brother had vanished years ago, long before Jack ever made it this deep into the ruins.
> "No... you're not him," Jack growled, stepping back. "You can't be."
The man's lips twisted into a grotesque smile.
> "Why? Because I'm dead? Because I left you alone?"
Jack's grip tightened on his dagger.
> "Shut up."
But the voice didn't stop.
> "You remember what I said before I left? 'Find the Citadel, Jack. The truth's there.' Remember? And you still came after me. Even after I abandoned you."
Jack's pulse thundered in his ears. His mind screamed to attack, to run — anything but stand here and listen. But his feet... they refused to move.
> "You're not him," Jack whispered, more to himself than anyone else. "You're just the Mist. That's all."
The figure laughed. A sound like bones grinding together.
> "Maybe. Or maybe the Mist just shows you the truth you don't want to see."
Suddenly, the figure lunged — fast, faster than Jack expected. But his body reacted on instinct. He sidestepped, slicing his dagger across the man's side. The blade met flesh, but no blood flowed. Instead, the form dissolved into mist, dispersing like smoke in the wind.
Gone.
Jack staggered back, panting. The whispers retreated with it, fading into the distance.
For a moment, he just stood there, swallowing hard, trying to steady his breath.
> "Just the Mist," he muttered. "Just tricks."
But part of him wasn't sure. That voice... it had been too real.
He kept walking, faster now, needing to leave this place behind. Every shadow felt like it was watching him. Every wisp of fog carried the memory of that smile.
Somewhere, far off, he thought he heard his name again. Fainter this time.
> "Jack... don't forget..."
But he didn't stop.
Whatever the Mist was — ghosts, memories, madness — it wasn't taking him. Not yet