The city never really slept, but Lina sometimes wished it would.
At two in the morning the air still hummed with neon and noise—music leaking from bars, engines growling far off, rain whispering against glass. She walked fast, the strap of her worn messenger bag digging into her shoulder, the weight of a long shift pulling at her bones.
She passed the same dark storefronts every night, the same cracked sidewalk, the same streetlight that flickered like it was breathing. Routine kept her steady. Routine meant control.
Home wasn't much—an old apartment wedged above a laundromat—but it was hers. No shouting, no slammed doors, no one reminding her that she was the family disappointment. She'd grown up in a house where love came in fragments and silence filled the rest. When she turned eighteen, she'd packed what she could and left without looking back.
She worked double shifts at a café, took online classes she could barely afford, told herself that someday she'd leave the city for good. She smiled for customers, laughed with her roommate when she could, and tried not to notice how often she felt invisible.
Except lately, invisible wasn't the problem.
Lately, it felt like something saw her too clearly.
It started with the heat. The old apartment was always cold, yet some nights she'd wake drenched in sweat, the air thick as if the walls were breathing fire. Then came the dreams—crimson skies, burning rivers, a voice she couldn't escape whispering her name.
"Get a grip, Lina," she muttered now, tugging her hood tighter against the rain. "You're just tired."
The wind rose, carrying a scent that didn't belong—ash, faint and sharp. She stopped. Across the street, beneath a broken lamp, stood a figure. Too tall to be human, too still. His outline seemed to shimmer, as though the light couldn't decide whether to reveal him or hide him.
Lina blinked, and he was gone.
Her heart thudded. She told herself it was a trick of the light, the rain, the exhaustion pressing behind her eyes. Still, she hurried the rest of the way home, keys clenched tight in her hand.
Inside, the apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator. Her roommate's door was closed. She peeled off her wet jacket and set her bag on the counter, trying to shake the tension crawling up her spine.
The mirror by the entryway caught her reflection.
Behind her, for a breath, the air rippled—heat distortion, impossible in the cool room. Two faint, ember-red lights hovered in the reflection before fading.
Lina spun around. Nothing.
She pressed a palm to the wall; it was warm. The faint smell of smoke lingered, then slipped away.
Later, lying awake, she told herself she'd imagined it all. The city made people paranoid. Loneliness made it worse.
But somewhere far below the waking world, in a place where the ground burned and the sky bled light, a pair of eyes opened.
A demon had seen her through the veil—
and would never stop looking again.