The city didn't sleep after that morning. Arielle didn't either.
Three nights passed, each one darker and heavier than the last. The once-festive buzz of Pride Month soured, the streets tense beneath their glitter and rainbows. People still danced and celebrated, but Arielle saw the way threads flickered around them, fraying and snapping in silent waves. Connections died by the dozen, unnoticed by anyone except her.
On the fourth night, she sat on the edge of her fire escape, camera in hand, her knees drawn up. Below, the east district churned — laughter, traffic, a swirl of colored lights reflecting off slick pavement. Above, the threads quivered so violently they blurred.
She pressed the shutter out of habit, not because she wanted the shot. Photography used to calm her, to make sense of the chaos. Now, every click felt like a countdown.
Selene pulled themselves onto the platform without a sound, their boots barely creaking against the metal. Arielle didn't turn.
"You've been watching them again," they said, their voice quiet but unavoidably present. "You can hear the snapping now, can't you?"
Arielle's fingers tightened around her camera. "It's constant. Like a mosquito whining inside my head. I can't sleep, can't eat. The threads don't care. They just keep…" Her words faltered as another thread overhead flickered and broke, a faint pop echoing in her ears like a snapped guitar string. "…dying."
Selene leaned against the railing, coat rustling. "Because something is feeding. Not just on bonds. On the weave itself."
Arielle's jaw tightened. "Then we stop it. Or cut it. Or… I don't know, whatever it is you Threadweavers do. You've got magic. I've got—" she gestured vaguely at her camera, her exhausted expression — "a hobby and mild panic attacks. What am I even doing in this?"
Selene didn't answer immediately. Instead, they watched the horizon, where the massive black tether pulsed faintly like a distant, monstrous heartbeat. When they spoke, their voice was softer. "Because you're not just a witness, Arielle. The threads don't hover around you because you're curious. They respond to you because you pull them. You're not an observer. You're a Threadbinder."
The word struck her like a physical blow. She looked up sharply. "What does that even mean?"
"It means," Selene said, their gaze flicking toward the skyline, "that whether you want it or not, the weave won't let you stay neutral. If you don't learn how to shape the threads, they'll use you anyway. And if the tether reaches you before we do… it won't be to feed. It'll be to claim."
The last word lingered in the air, heavy as lead.
Arielle swallowed, her gaze dragging back to the skyline. One thread — a thin, pale silver one — floated down near the fire escape, almost brushing her knee. On impulse, she reached for it. The hum in her chest surged as it bent toward her fingertips.
Selene's hand shot out, catching her wrist. "Not yet. Touch it without focus, and it'll burn through you."
Arielle yanked her hand back, heart hammering. "Then teach me. Whatever this is, I don't want it to control me. Show me how to use it."
Selene's expression softened, though their eyes stayed sharp. They nodded toward the skyline, where another thread flickered, then went dark. "Then you'd better be ready to start tonight. Because the city doesn't have much time left.