Kieran's feet found the ground before his mind could catch up. Every instinct screamed to move, to run, but there was nowhere to go. The city had twisted into a cage, streets warped and jagged, the fractured light casting everything in angles that didn't exist moments ago. Shadows stretched impossibly long, pooling under the warped buildings like black ink, and from those pools, the shapes emerged.
The first one was tall—too tall, with limbs that bent at the wrong joints. Its movement was silent, smooth, precise, like water folding over itself. Kieran stumbled backward, the glow of his mark illuminating his chest and arms, warmth spilling out in pulsing waves. He didn't know why, but instinct told him it mattered. That glow was alive, tied to him.
The figure stopped a few meters away, tilting its head as if studying him, weighing him. Its face… wasn't a face. Just a smooth, reflective surface, like glass or wet stone, catching the fractured light above and reflecting it back in jagged shards.
"Run," the man from before—his mysterious guide—shouted from behind. His voice snapped Kieran out of paralysis. "Run and don't stop. They sense fear, hesitation. You hesitate, and you die."
Kieran didn't hesitate. His legs pumped like pistons, lungs burning, heart hammering so hard it felt like the cracked sky might hear it and shatter entirely. Dust swirled in the unnatural wind, stinging his eyes. Behind him, he could hear the faintest whispering, like thousands of voices carried over a distant river. He didn't dare look back.
He ran.
The world itself seemed to resist him. Concrete slabs shifted underfoot, forming impossible stairways that twisted upward then disappeared midair. Cars hung suspended, metal groaning under unseen weight. Time felt… wrong. Every step was a gamble. Every glance upward made him dizzy.
"Kieran!" the man's voice barked again. He was moving faster than seemed human, vaulting over debris, keeping pace without breaking a sweat. "You have to understand—these things aren't human. They're marks, corrupted. They hunt for the marked. They *know*."
Kieran's chest heaved. "Know what?"
The man didn't answer immediately. They ducked under a shattered streetlight that leaned like it had given up on gravity. "They know *you*. They feel your pulse, the mark beneath your skin. It draws them. It makes you theirs if you falter."
Kieran swallowed. The heat of the mark now felt like it had grown, spreading up his neck, into his arms, like veins of fire. He clenched his fists, teeth gritting. If it wanted him, he'd fight. Somehow.
Then the first one struck.
It didn't run, didn't shout, didn't hesitate. One moment it was still, a dark shape under the fractured light, and the next it was across the street in a blur, faster than his eyes could track. Kieran slammed into the ground, rolling as its elongated limbs slammed into the asphalt where he had been. Concrete splintered, metal screamed. A car door flipped over, narrowly missing his shoulder.
His heart leapt into his throat. "What… *what are you?*"
The man's eyes, dark and unwavering, met his. "Hunters. They were born from the fractures. Shadows given form, life twisted into weaponry. The first one you saw is… an apprentice. There are more."
Kieran tried to push himself up, but the ground trembled beneath his hands. He felt the pull of something beneath the concrete, like the city itself wanted him stopped. A strange hum filled the air, vibrating through his teeth and skull. The shadows didn't make sound—no growl, no hiss—but the hum was theirs. A predator's song.
He looked around, searching for escape. His gaze landed on a narrow alley, half-collapsed, the glow from the fractured sky bleeding through gaps in the debris. "Here!" he shouted. "This way!"
The man followed immediately, but even as they moved, the shadows pursued. One dropped from above like a black stone, landing in front of the alley entrance. Kieran froze, eyes wide, chest tight. It tilted its head again, watching him. Smooth, featureless. Patient.
The mark on his back pulsed violently. A strange warmth surged through him, spreading to his fingers, his toes, until it felt like electricity under his skin. His vision sharpened. The shadows slowed, almost as if his focus alone had made them hesitate.
"You feel it," the man said. His tone was almost reverent. "That's your mark. It's not just a curse. It's a weapon. But it isn't safe yet. You'll need control."
Kieran swallowed hard, heart hammering. "Control?"
"Yes," the man said. "Or it will kill you first. You think surviving the fall was luck? No. That mark chose you, and now, it demands its first lesson. Make it count."
The shadow shifted again, leaning forward like a hunter about to strike. Kieran's instincts screamed. He focused on the warmth of the mark, imagining it extending outward, like he could push it. He didn't know if he could, but he had no choice.
A surge of heat shot through him, blinding, nearly burning his lungs from the inside. The air around him shimmered. The shadow recoiled. Its elongated limbs wavered. Kieran stumbled, dizzy, but he had done it. Somehow, something had worked.
The man grinned briefly. "Good. Now you see what you have. But one strike won't save you forever. They learn. They adapt. You need more than instinct. You need mastery."
Kieran tried to speak, but only a rasp emerged. He looked back at the shadow—it didn't disappear. It watched, calculating. Waiting.
And then he heard it: a low, unmistakable whisper carried across the fractured streets. Not from the shadow, not from the man, but from the sky itself. His name.
"Kieran… Vale…"
He froze. The pulsing warmth on his back flared, hotter than before. The fractured light above him seemed to lean closer, glowing veins spreading like molten fire across the clouds.
The voice came again. Louder. Clearer. *Demanding.*
"**Come to me.**"
Kieran's stomach turned. Fear, confusion, and a strange, irresistible pull twisted together inside him. The shadows around him stirred. The mark throbbed. And the city… seemed to hold its breath.
He took a step forward.
And then another.
He was moving toward something he didn't understand. Something that might kill him.
But he couldn't stop.
Because whatever had chosen him… had already begun to claim him.