There was a kind of silence in the warehouse that did not belong to peace.
I arrived an hour early. Not out of discipline, but instinct. Places like this demanded preparation—quiet ones especially. The warehouse squatted at the edge of the docks, far enough from the city to be ignored, close enough to be useful. Even the river nearby seemed reluctant to make noise here.
The structure itself was old. Cloth and garment storage, most likely. I could tell from the smell alone—layers of dye, raw fabric, and something faintly chemical that clung to the back of the throat. The scent seeped into the air long before the building came into view, like a warning the world no longer bothered to articulate clearly.
Inside, the space was vast and dim.
Crates were stacked in uneven towers, paper boxes slumped against one another like tired men leaning for support. I chose a corner where shadows gathered naturally, wedged between two stacks that offered both concealment and sight. From there, I could see the entrance clearly. Anyone who walked in would not walk past my eyes.
At least, that was what I told myself.
For protection, I carried a solid metal pipe. It was cold in my hands, heavier than it looked, reassuring in its honesty. I couldn't afford firearms. Guns belonged to soldiers, syndicates, or the government—none of which I was part of. I was just a normal editor.
My weapons were subtler.
Information gathered too early.
News heard too late by others.
Contacts who could forge identities convincing enough to survive scrutiny.
That had always been enough.
Why did I come here?
I still don't know.
The moment I read that letter, something stirred in me—a spark, small and treacherous. Curiosity. I could have ignored it. I could have thrown the envelope into the furnace and gone on with my life. But I didn't.
Curiosity killed this cat.
My hand slipped into my overcoat, brushing against a familiar shape. A cigarette box. Empty, of course. It had been nearly a year since I quit smoking. Still, whenever my nerves tightened, I bought a pack. Not to smoke—just to know it was there. A useless comfort, but comfort nonetheless.
I was so lost in thought that I failed to notice when the warehouse stopped being empty.
Two men stood at its center.
Trench coats. Dark, heavy fabric. Their voices echoed softly off the walls, restrained but unconcerned with being overheard. I shrank further into the shadows, my breathing slowing instinctively.
"The incidents have been low," the taller one said. He wore a black coat, his face swallowed by distance and shadow. "But we still captured three cores this past month."
The other man laughed quietly, the sound sharp and humorless.
"Don't insult me," he replied. "I know the white coats have been more active lately. The government's trying to monopolize the cores. That's why I won't pay a penny over ten thousand raaz."
"Ten thousand?" the taller man snapped. "Are you serious? Do you know how hard it is to evade the white coats? How hard is it to hunt a Hulaka?"
My body reacted before my mind caught up.
Hulaka.
The word alone sent a shiver through me, cold and immediate. My grip tightened around the pipe, knuckles whitening.
Behemoth beasts. Creatures that fell from the sky.
"You think I give a damn?" the second man scoffed. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a coresmith these days? No one wants the business anymore. Not with how brutal the white coats have become. This trade isn't for cowards. It takes people with balls."
Silence followed.
The taller man said nothing.
My thoughts raced. Illegal trade. Dangerous goods. Hulaka cores—whatever they were used for, they weren't meant for ordinary hands. I had never seen a Hulaka in my life. Few people had.
They appeared on the periphery of cities, usually at night, leaving devastation in their wake. By dawn, they were either dead—brought down by the government or private groups—or gone, retreating back into the margins after their rampage.
This wasn't my world.
I shouldn't have been here.
Then I smelled it.
At first, I couldn't place it. It didn't belong to the warehouse. It wasn't dye or cloth or dust. It was something else—something wrong.
Rotten gutters soaked in rainwater.
A field of daisies under a summer sun.
Both at once.
My stomach twisted.
The scent was coming from outside.
From the entrance.
My fingers clenched fully around the metal pipe.
And at that moment—
Doom arrived.