The room was dark when he opened his eyes again.
No, not his room. Not the ceiling of his apartment.
The fog was back.
He was back as Lucien Graves in this dream like world.
It was pouring but not heavily. Cold air pressed against his skin, carrying the faint smell of damp stone. Beneath him, the same cobblestones stretched endlessly, slick with moisture. He sat up slowly, brushing at his uniform, though the dirt clung to his hands again.
His heart beat faster. The scratches on his palms stung, as if to remind him that this was not a dream.
People walked by. Lantern light flickered from iron posts along the street. Carriages rattled over uneven stones. The crowd moved around him without pause, without a single glance.
Just like before.
It was as though he did not exist.
He rose to his feet. His shoes clicked against the cobblestones. The noise drowned his thoughts. He turned left, then right, trying to take in the strange city. Tall, dark buildings loomed over the streets, their windows glowing faintly from within. Shadows stretched unnaturally long across the ground.
The whispers began again.
Faint at first. Like a murmur beneath the crowd's noise. Then sharper, clearer, pressing against his ears.
"—nothing matters."
"—truth lies beneath your skin."
"—do not resist."
He turned quickly, but the people walking past carried blank expressions, as though carved from stone. No one had spoken. No one even looked at him.
The whispers grew louder.
A shadow rippled at the edge of his vision.
It moved differently from the rest. The crowd's shadows stayed in line with their bodies, long and flat against the ground. But this one stretched upward, bending, curling like smoke.
It was attached to a man. Or at least, something that looked like a man.
The figure wore a long coat and a crooked hat that shadowed his face. He walked slowly, each step deliberate. His shadow dragged itself behind him like a second creature, writhing, twisting, independent of his movement.
The whispers came from him.
Not from his mouth, but from the shifting shadow that scraped across the cobblestones.
"—your bones remember."
"—the worlds will crack."
"—you are not awake."
The boy froze. His breath caught in his throat.
The figure's head tilted slightly, as if noticing. But the man did not stop. He passed by like everyone else, footsteps steady, eyes hidden beneath the brim of his hat.
Yet the shadow paused.
It lingered for a heartbeat, stretching toward the boy's feet, its edges flickering like black fire.
He stumbled back, heart racing. The cold from the stone seemed to seep up through his shoes.
Then the shadow pulled itself free and followed its master, curling back into the crowd.
The boy stood frozen, his hands trembling. His throat felt dry, his mind heavy with the words echoing inside.
He forced himself to breathe. Slowly. Carefully.
This world was wrong. Terribly wrong, yet so real. Where either real?
But if it was meaningless, then so was his fear.
He straightened his back and started walking. His footsteps carried him into the fog, deeper into the streets where lantern light barely reached. The whispers faded, but his heart still pounded with the memory of the shadow curling toward him.
He walked until his legs felt heavy. Past carriages that rattled by without notice. Past men and women whose faces never shifted from that dull, blank mask. Past doors that seemed to watch him with dark, empty windows.
Then his vision blurred.
The fog thickened. The cobblestones beneath his feet dissolved.
And when his eyes opened again, he was back in his room.
The ceiling. The hum of his refrigerator. The faint noise of traffic outside.
Home.
But his palms still hurt.
And in the silence of his apartment, he thought he could still hear the whispers.
"—you are not awake."