The shift ended slower than usual. The belts wound down, the machines let out a last sigh, and one by one the men disappeared through the back doors, dragging the scent of sweat, steel, and cheap cologne with them. I lingered behind, pretending to fold a few boxes I didn't need to touch. The air after work always felt different—emptier, like the place was exhaling once the noise left it.
By the time I stepped outside, the sun had already dropped behind the distant silos. The parking lot stretched out gray and damp, pools of light from the streetlamps trembling in puddles left by last night's rain. I leaned against the wall near the entrance, cigarette between my fingers. The flame flared to life, the smoke curling upward, faint blue in the dim light.
My lip still ached when I drew on it. The piercing was healing slow, a dull throb that reminded me it was there every time the cold air touched it. I rolled the metal bead with my tongue. The skin around it was tender.
I kept my eyes on the road, half-expecting to see that grin again, that face that shouldn't have vanished as easily as it came. Deus. The guy had shown up once, spoke like a prophet in a factory uniform, and then disappeared like smoke.
I took another drag. The taste was bitter, like metal and dust. What the hell was that guy's deal anyway?
If he was some temp worker, he'd be on the list. If he was a drifter, he wouldn't have known Igor's name like that. And if he was a scammer, he would've come back to sell me something by now. But nothing.
The phone buzzed in my pocket. I checked the screen. Poppy.
I answered, already smiling. "Aye, Poppy. How's it going?"
"Where have you been?" Her voice came bright through the line, the city noise behind her wrapping around every word.
"I've been around," I said. "Where have you been?"
She laughed—a full sound that started loud and then trailed off into something low and soft, like someone rewinding a tape.
"You know the job," she said after a beat. "Anyway, let's get together today. You don't have work tomorrow, right?"
"Supposedly."
"Good. Two hours. Don't disappear on me again."
"Okay, bet."
The call ended with a click that echoed longer than it should have. I slipped the phone back into my pocket, flicked the ash from my cigarette, and stayed there, watching smoke curl into the cold air until it vanished.
I don't know why I waited. Maybe I thought I'd imagined him, that the brain fills silence with faces when it's lonely enough. Maybe I wanted to prove he'd been real at all.
Then—light pressure against my shoulder.
I turned fast, heartbeat rising.
Deus stood there. Same uniform. Same half-smile. His eyes caught the light strangely, that faint metallic sheen that made it hard to tell what color they were.
"Hey, man," I said, letting out the breath I hadn't realized I was holding. "Didn't see you today."
"Came in late," he said. His voice was even, calm. "You waiting for me?"
"Yeah," I admitted, dropping the cigarette and crushing it under my boot. "I just wanted to ask you a bit more about the mountains. About the people there."
Deus tilted his head slightly, as if weighing my question. The corner of his mouth lifted—not a smile exactly, but close.
"You've been thinking about it."
"I guess I have."
The wind stirred between us, carrying the faint scent of something sweet and burnt—like incense, or maybe plastic catching on fire. I couldn't tell.
He stepped closer, the gravel crunching under his boots. "You sure you're ready to know more than you should?"
"I just want to understand what you meant," I said. "You said you know someone up there. Someone who gives power. I want to know how that works."
He studied me for a long moment. A moth skittered against the bulb and fell. The light stayed a fraction dimmer.
"Alright," he said finally. "Then listen carefully."
He fished something out between two fingers, a little hard shape that caught the lamplight for a blink before his palm covered it.
"There's a road past the old train yard," he said quietly. "You'll see a trail that climbs north into the ridge. It isn't marked on the maps, but you'll know it when you find it."
"And what's up there?"
"People who deal in what others call impossible." He glanced up at the sky as if something were moving there. "They don't just teach magic. They trade in it."
"Trade?"
"Everything has a cost."
His eyes flicked back to mine. "Don't forget that."
He slipped the object into my jacket pocket before I could react. His hand was warm, too warm, and then gone.
I looked down, my fingers closing around the pocket's edge. "What's this?"
"Directions," he said. "You'll see."
And before I could say another word, he turned and walked toward the edge of the lot, where the lamplight stopped. His shadow moved ahead of him, stretching long over the cracked pavement.
When I blinked, both of them were gone.
I slid a hand into my pocket. My fingers brushed something cool, heavier than I expected. I pulled it out.
It was a coin. Larger than any I'd ever held, thicker too, the kind that felt like it belonged to another century. The metal caught the lamplight and gleamed faintly gold, though the surface was worn smooth around the edges. I turned it over in my palm.
On one side, there was an engraving of a mountain range, carved in fine, shallow lines. On the other, stamped deep enough to feel even through the grime, were the words:
THE BLACKREACH HIGHLANDS
My breath caught in my throat. The name looked wrong sitting there, too real for a myth.
There was no way. No way he meant that place.
Everyone in Ebonreach knew about the Highlands, though no one talked about it in daylight. A stretch of black soil and stone far north of the city, said to swallow sound and light both. Trucks went missing there. Hikers vanished. Even the police had stories—unofficial ones—about patrols turning back halfway through because their radios died and the compass needles started spinning.
I ran my thumb over the letters, half expecting them to smear like wet ink. They didn't.
The coin was cold, colder than the night around it. It seemed to hold its own temperature, as if it had never been part of the air I breathed.
I closed my hand around it. Static crept up my wrist.
"The Blackreach Highlands," I muttered under my breath. "You've got to be kidding me."
The coin made a soft metallic sound as I slipped it back into my pocket. I stood there a little longer, watching the mist settle over the parking lot. The light from the warehouse door flickered once, faintly, then steadied.
He'd said, you'll know it when you find it.
I didn't know whether that was a promise or a threat.
Either way, I was already thinking about what I'd need to pack.
The steps under Valery Bridge were slick; the concrete bruised-dark. The river below moved slow and heavy, carrying the city's light in thin streaks across its surface. I could smell the damp—earth, rust, a faint trace of smoke that drifted from the campfire below.
Our spot sat tucked beneath the bridge's arch, a hollow in the world that no one bothered to look for. It used to belong to Eddie's old crew before they found something better—a warehouse on the east end, warmer, drier. He kept this one for us. A base that smelled of smoke, cheap liquor, and survival.
I descended the last step, boots scraping stone. The sound of laughter drifted out before I saw them. Poppy was already there, sprawled across a worn bean bag, a cigarette pinched between two fingers. The light from the fire painted her face in bronze and shadow, the kind that made her look both alive and half-faded at once.
Eddie stepped out of the tent, dragging another beanbag by the handle like it weighed more than it did. He grinned when he saw me.
"Look who decided to show up," he said.
I dropped my bag beside the fire, catching the glint of glass near Poppy's hand. "Is that a bottle of whiskey I'm seeing?"
Poppy turned her head lazily, a smirk tugging at her mouth. "Yeah. One of my clients gave it to me," she said. "Told me I was better than his fiancée at the job."
Eddie burst out laughing, tossing the beanbag down near her feet. "Which job is it this time?"
She didn't miss a beat. "The kind that doesn't come with a wedding ring," she said, exhaling smoke through her smile.
Eddie wheezed with laughter. I shook my head, grinning despite myself. "Christ, Poppy."
"That's my name tonight," she said, flicking ash into the fire.
I sat down, the heat from the flames brushing my knees, the air thick with smoke and the river's chill. Poppy stretched out her legs, the torn fabric of her tights catching the firelight. She wore an oversized jacket that kept slipping off her shoulder, the color somewhere between mud and army green. Her skin caught the glow, golden in some places, soft in others, freckles scattered like dust across her cheeks and nose.
Her hair was black and long, a tangled curtain that fell around her face in uneven strands, catching bits of ash and orange light. There was something tired in her eyes, that deep blue-gray that never looked directly at you but always seemed to see everything. She had two thin necklaces layered around her throat and a small metal tag that clinked softly when she moved.
She looked built of midnight and laughter—messy, restless, beautiful the way people get when they stop pretending they aren't broken.
"Why're you staring at me, magician boy?" she asked, smirking.
"Just trying to see if the whiskey's already hitting you," I said.
"Not yet. But it will," she said, passing me the bottle. The glass was cold and heavy, the label half-torn. I took a small sip—the burn slid down clean, sharp enough to wake something inside me.
"Deus," I said quietly, half to myself.
Eddie, now crouched by the fire, looked up. "Who?"
"Some guy from work," I said. "Showed up once, started talking about things he shouldn't know, and then vanished. No record of him, not even on the shift logs."
Poppy leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "Vanished, huh? Maybe he's one of those government types. Or maybe," she said with mock drama, "a ghost."
Eddie grinned. "Or maybe, Hugo, you just made him up. Been spending too much time with your cards again."
I didn't answer. My hand drifted into my pocket. The coin pressed cold against my fingers.
Poppy caught the movement, her gaze sharpening. "What's that?"
"Nothing," I said, pulling my hand out.
She tilted her head, studying me like she always did when she knew I was lying. The fire cracked between us, throwing sparks up into the dark.
"Whatever you're chasing," she said, voice low now, softer, "just make sure it's not chasing you back."
The wind picked up under the bridge, carrying the smell of rain and whiskey. I looked down at the fire, watching the flames curl and twist, and thought of Deus's voice again—everything has a cost.
Poppy raised the bottle high, her voice breaking the low crackle of the fire. "To Riley," she said. The whiskey sloshed inside the glass, glinting amber under the flames.
Eddie lifted his hand in a half-hearted salute, the faintest smile pulling at his mouth. "To Riley," he echoed, quiet, almost reluctant, his eyes not leaving the fire.
I sat still for a moment, watching them both. Watching that small, tired ceremony repeat itself like a habit none of us knew how to quit. The movement to raise anything—to toast him—felt wrong. I couldn't bring myself to lift my drink.
Maybe Riley needed a prayer instead of a toast. Something whispered, something that asked for forgiveness rather than remembered him through the clink of glass. Maybe he needed saving long before it was too late. The signs were there—small, forgettable things at the time. The long silences that stretched too far between words, the way his gaze drifted past us even when he was sitting right there. The moments he smiled, but the smile never reached his eyes.
I used to think he was just quiet. Thought it was his nature to fade into the background, to listen instead of speak. But looking back now, every pause was a call for help we mistook for calm. Every shrug was a weight he didn't know how to name.
None of us looked close enough. We were too loud, too busy surviving our own messes to notice when his started swallowing him whole. No one heard what he was saying. Or maybe he did speak, and we just didn't want to understand.
Including me.
I was everywhere but by his side.
The thought came with a weight I couldn't shake off. It pressed against my ribs until my chest felt tight. If I could curse every single person who pushed him toward that edge, I would. Without hesitation. I'd curse them all to the same misery that kept clawing through my head. The same trap that never let me rest.
The fire popped, sending sparks upward. I blinked fast, my eyes stinging—not sure if it was from the smoke or the ache crawling up my throat.
Before anyone could see, I got up. My legs felt unsteady, heavy from sitting too long.
Eddie glanced up. "Where are you going, dude?"
"Just moving my leg a bit," I said, brushing it off. My voice sounded too even for what I felt.
I stepped closer to the edge of the camp where the river met the stones, the sound of water louder there. The city lights shimmered across the surface, breaking into fragments that never seemed to hold their shape.
I thought of Deus again. His words. That strange glint in his eyes.
Maybe, compared to the world we live in, the people around us, the devil isn't so bad. At least he's honest about what he is. He doesn't wear kindness like a mask or turn away when someone starts to sink. He offers you a deal—clear, cruel, and simple. You give, he gives. There's symmetry in that. Fairness, even.
People like to believe they're better than him, but I've seen the way they devour each other with smiles on their faces. I've watched mercy dry up in the mouths of those who preach it. If the devil stood beside them, I think I'd know which one to trust first.
If I could reach the source—whatever that meant, whatever waited there—I would. Maybe it wouldn't save me, but maybe it would quiet the noise. Maybe it would give me something stronger than this ache that keeps circling back to Riley, sharper than guilt, cleaner than grief. Something that could burn it all away until there's nothing left to remember.
The coin pressed against my thigh, a small, perfect circle of cold metal. Its weight felt deliberate, as if it had a pulse of its own, steady and patient, waiting for me to choose.
Behind me, Poppy's laughter rose again, bright for a second, then thinning into the night until it sounded like something breaking. The river murmured against the stones. The bridge above us groaned with passing cars. And beneath all of it, there was that quiet tug—something ancient and certain, threading itself through the hollow space inside my chest.
It didn't ask why. It only asked when.
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August 20th, 2019
Hugo Hollands, Age 19
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The air under the bridge was dry and heavy, carrying the smell of dust, smoke, and stale river water. The concrete radiated the day's leftover heat, turning the space beneath into a low, slow oven. I was half-asleep on the thin mattress, sweat sticking the fabric to my skin, when I felt it—a shift in the air, a shadow leaning close.
I opened my eyes.
Riley hovered above, his face half-lit by the dying glow of the fire outside the tent. He looked wrecked. His hair hung in messy strands, sticking to the side of his face where sweat met blood. The bruises around his mouth were fresh, a faint purple halo spreading along his jaw. A strip of bandage cut across his nose, stained just enough to show it wasn't new. A small metal chain dangled from his ear, catching what little light there was, and his eyes—deep, amber-brown, fevered with exhaustion—met mine in a slow, steady stare.
He was beautiful in that dangerous kind of way, the kind that made you want to look longer even though you shouldn't. His lips were split, dry, a trace of red along the corner. The tattoos across his neck disappeared under the collar of his hoodie, the words inked in strokes so sharp they looked like they'd been carved instead of drawn.
"Woah," I said, voice still groggy. "You look like shit. What happened?"
Riley smirked, a flash of teeth beneath the bruises. "Just a quick fight with Rocco's underlings." He winced as he sat down beside me. "Got anything to smoke?"
I shook my head. "No cigarettes left."
"That's alright," he said, leaning back on his hands, breath heavy. "What are you doing here anyway? Thought you were supposed to be at the shelter."
I pulled my knees up to my chest and wrapped my arms around them. "I hate it there. It's... scary."
He snorted softly, half amusement, half disbelief. "Wow. You've got some balls saying that word around here. 'Scary'—forbidden language, man."
"I mean it," I said. "People there are weird as fuck. Last night I woke up, and there was this guy crouched next to my bed, injecting himself. I swear, he didn't even notice I was watching. Freaked me out."
Riley let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh. "You've been on the streets for a year now, and that still gets to you?" He glanced at me, shaking his head. "At least you've got a roof over your head."
"When I was staying here," I said, nodding toward the tent flap, "I had a roof too."
He chuckled. "You mean a piece of cloth. This thing's the meanest bastard when it gets cold."
For a while, the silence between us was easy. The river moved outside, slow and heavy, carrying bits of light from the city above. I could hear the creak of the bridge whenever a truck passed.
Riley turned, his voice softer now. "You want to come stay with me, then? But fair warning—Kal's place isn't much better. And he's got people. Real people. We bring in money though. Good money. Your cashier job's not gonna keep you alive out here."
"I don't want to distribute drugs," I said.
Riley rubbed at his jaw with a small, weary smile. "Yeah, and we've been hiding you from Cole for a year, trying to help you stay clean. But you're starting to overstay your welcome, the way you're acting."
I sighed, staring at the damp floor. "Is there any other way I can bring money in?"
He tilted his head, thinking. "We can ask Poppy about that."
"Who's Poppy?"
He smirked again, but softer this time. "You'll meet her sooner or later. We kind of grew up together on the streets. She took a different path than the rest of us, but she's family. We look out for her."
"Then I can get your protection too?" I asked, only half-joking.
Riley turned toward me, his face closer now, his expression hard to read. He reached out, the warmth of his hand rough against my cheek as he cupped my face. His thumb brushed near my temple, careful, like he was checking if I was real.
"You already got my protection, fucker," he said quietly.
The words were heavy with something I couldn't name. Gratitude, maybe. Or grief, hiding underneath the humor. His hand lingered a moment longer before he pulled it back, resting his arm on his knee.
Outside, the sound of the river deepened, a slow endless murmur against the stone. The fire cracked once, sharp, like a heartbeat.
I didn't say anything after that. I just sat there beside him, trying to memorize the way the light touched his face—the faint shimmer of his eyes, the quiet rhythm of his breath. I didn't know it then, but that night under the bridge would be one of those memories that never really leave. The kind that hums when you're alone, the kind that follows you, whispering things you don't want to remember.
And Riley—he was still alive at that moment. Still warm beside me. Still whole enough to laugh.
They didn't have to take me with them. But they did. Maybe because they saw how lost I was, or maybe because Riley couldn't walk away from something broken.
They took me to a diner, one of those all-night places that smelled like burnt coffee and fryer grease. I was still shaking when the waitress set down a plate in front of me—fries, eggs, toast that crumbled too easily. I hadn't eaten all day. I remember the first bite more vividly than most days of my life. The yolk ran; the salt made my eyes sting. The warmth, the ache in my throat when I swallowed.
They asked for my story, and I told them what I could. The words came out small, like I wasn't sure they were mine.
When I was done, Riley said, "You want to make money, you can work with us. Cole always needs hands."
I didn't know who Cole was, but from the way they said his name, I understood he wasn't the kind of man you said no to lightly.
Still, I did.
I told them I'd rather find another job. Maybe a second one if I had to. Anything but dealing. I said I didn't want to start that way—that I still had a chance to make something different of myself.
They laughed. Not cruelly, but with the kind of laughter that carried years behind it.
Eddie smirked. "Listen to this guy. Still got that shine on him. Probably showers twice a day."
"Too clean for these streets," Riley said, chuckling. "You'll learn quick."
They paid for the food and walked out, leaving me sitting there with the empty plate. The sound of the bell above the door was sharper than it should've been. I watched them go through the window, their figures fading into the blur of passing cars and neon light.
For a minute, I thought that was it—that I'd lost whatever small thread of connection I'd found. I stood outside the diner, the night heat pressing against my skin, the world buzzing faintly with the sound of traffic and insects.
Then Riley stopped.
He turned around, his hands in his pockets, the light from the streetlamp catching the side of his face. He looked at me for a long second, something unreadable in his expression. Then he started walking back toward me.
Each step felt heavier than the one before, like the moment was stitching itself into me. I remember thinking, oh. this is salvageable. I'm going to be rescued now.
Because I was that kind of desperate. The kind that mistakes any shadow for shelter.
And when Riley reached me, he didn't say much. Just, "Come on."
I did. I followed.
And from that night on, the bridge stopped being just concrete and steel. It became something else—a place where the lost found each other, even if only to stay lost together.
I was holding on to anything that even remotely looked like safety.
Anyone who told me what to do, I listened. Anyone who offered direction, I followed. I stopped asking why I was here, why the world had spat me out like something it didn't want. The only question left was when—when I'd stop feeling like a stranger in my own life. When I'd stop flinching every time the city looked at me. When I'd finally get used to it all.
Where do his intentions lay?
Or does he even have any?
She says, he never really looks at me
I give him every opportunity
In the room downstairs
He sat and stared
In the room downstairs
He sat and stared