The silence didn't just fall. It folded in on itself.
The alley was still the same narrow cut between two old brick buildings—at least, it looked that way—but it no longer felt connected to the world beyond its walls. The faint hum of the city outside, the shuffle of passing feet, the occasional car horn… all of it was smothered, as though someone had taken a thick, dark quilt and draped it over reality.
The change wasn't sudden, but gradual—like someone was slowly draining the sound from the air with a hidden siphon.
Xiao Fan's breath, which moments ago had been quick and shallow from the bullying, now sounded too loud in his own ears. Every exhale was a soft rush against the damp air, and every inhale scraped against his dry throat. He became acutely aware of the cold brick at his back—its uneven texture pressing through the thin cotton of his shirt, tiny ridges digging into his skin. Some parts of the wall were slick with moss; others felt dry and rough, almost sharp.
Somewhere near his shoulder, a single ivy vine hung down, swaying slowly. But there was no wind.
His fingers tightened around the phone.The familiar shape—the rectangular frame he had carried in his pocket countless times—felt heavier, almost as if gravity had grown stronger just for it. The surface was unnaturally smooth, but not in the way of polished glass. It was resisting him, subtly pushing back against his grip like it didn't quite want to be held.
Then, the screen pulsed again.
Not a normal light. Not a notification flash or battery glow. It was warmer, richer—like the faint burn of an ember under ashes.
The light didn't just appear; it breathed. It swelled outward with the slow rhythm of a living thing inhaling, then receded with a gentle exhale. Each pulse cast faint reflections on the nearby bricks, warping in the uneven mortar lines before melting back into the shadows.
The icon in the center wasn't flat. When the glow reached its brightest, it looked almost liquid, as though a thin layer of molten metal was suspended just beneath the glass. Ripples spread outward from the center, distorting its edges before fading again.
Xiao Fan's thumb hovered above it.
The space between skin and screen felt… charged. Tiny static prickles ran across his skin, but they weren't sharp—they were warm, threading their way into his fingertips. He swallowed without meaning to, throat suddenly dry.
That was when he noticed the hum.
At first, it was faint—so faint that he might have mistaken it for his own blood rushing in his ears. But as he stilled, as his breath slowed, he realized it was deeper, lower… something that vibrated through the bones of his hand, his arm, all the way into his chest.
It wasn't a single sound. It was layered—thin, almost invisible threads woven together into a tapestry of whispers.
The first layer was like static, the faint hiss of radio interference. Beneath it was something sharper, metallic, like the edge of a blade dragging slowly over glass. And under that… there were voices.
Not human voices.
They were too fragmented, too warped, too ancient to be from anything living. Some were soft and breathy, curling like smoke; others were jagged, breaking in and out of existence. None spoke in words he understood, but they spoke to each other, overlapping in uneven rhythms. It felt less like a conversation and more like… chanting.
The shadows in the alley seemed to deepen.
The cracks between bricks grew darker, almost oily in their blackness. Corners that had been visible a moment ago blurred into impenetrable dark. Even the puddles on the ground had changed—their surfaces now smooth as glass, reflecting the light in ways that didn't match the weak streetlamp overhead.
And still, the world outside remained muted.
The laughter of the bullies was now barely a memory. Had it been seconds ago? Minutes? The boundary between now and before was starting to blur.
The pulsing light began to match his heartbeat.
Thud… glow.
Thud… glow.
Every time it brightened, the warmth under his skin spread a fraction further—from his fingertips to his palm, from his palm to his wrist. It was moving slowly, deliberately, as though the glow were syncing itself to his body, claiming territory inch by inch.
He adjusted his grip. The casing was cool despite the warmth of the screen, but in the center—where his palm pressed—it felt almost alive. There was a faint, rhythmic give beneath the surface, so subtle he might have imagined it.
He remembered the blood.
The moment his knuckles had split under the bully's blow, the smear of red against the glass, the way the screen had flared with sudden, unnatural brilliance. The tiny motes of golden-red light that had hung in the air for an instant before vanishing.
Now, that memory didn't just sit in his mind—it burned. Every flicker, every shimmer, was as sharp as if it were still happening.
And maybe, in some way, it still was.
Because the warmth crawling through his veins felt eerily like that light. It didn't surge—it slithered. It found the rhythm of his pulse and matched it, weaving itself into his body like a parasite that was somehow… welcome.
The whispers swelled slightly, reacting to something. To him.
From deeper in the alley, a sound broke the stillness—a sharp plink, metal on stone.
Xiao Fan's head turned sharply, eyes narrowing. At the far end, a dented can lid rolled in a slow, lazy arc before toppling onto its side. It spun for a few seconds before coming to rest.
Nothing else moved.
The glow from the phone brightened again. Just slightly.
It was a nudge. Not a command, not a push—just an invitation.
And in that moment, Xiao Fan understood, without logic or proof, that this wasn't a device.
It wasn't his.
It was a threshold. A locked door, waiting for him to decide if he would open it.