The cab sliced through the rain-slicked highway, headlights cutting swaths in the fog that clung to Chicago's outskirts. I stared out the window at the blurring suburbs—rows of identical houses glowing faintly under streetlights, families inside probably wrapped in oblivious routines. My life had been like that once, before the accident, before Kairo. Now, everything felt threaded with invisible strings, pulling me toward unknowns.
The driver glanced back in the rearview. "Rough night, miss?"
I muttered something noncommittal, eyes on my burner phone. No new messages. Marcus had promised a safe house address, but silence gnawed at me. Was the warehouse raid a setup? Lena's group seemed genuine, their stories too raw to fake, but in this city, deception was currency. Kairo shifted at my feet, a cool presence that grounded me. Since the merge in the alley, it felt closer, like an extension rather than a separate entity. Echoes of the reaper's fears lingered in my mind—abandonment, a hollow core. It humanized them, made the threat more insidious.
"Drop me at the next exit," I said suddenly. Better to improvise than follow a potentially compromised lead. The cab pulled off near Evanston, a quieter neighborhood with tree-lined streets and Northwestern University's sprawl nearby. I paid in cash and slipped into the shadows of a park, the mist muffling my footsteps. Kairo extended slightly, scouting ahead like a tendril of smoke. No followers, for now.
I found a bench under a dripping oak and powered up my old phone—risky, but I needed info. A quick search on OmniCorp pulled up polished press releases: innovations in data security, charitable donations to local arts. Nothing screamed conspiracy. But digging into forums—anonymous threads about "shadow glitches"—hinted at more. Posts from users claiming visions, pursuits. One mentioned a safe spot in Evanston: an old library annex, abandoned but wired for off-grid types.
Worth a shot. I headed there, the building a squat brick relic tucked behind the main campus. The door was unlocked, as the forum said. Inside, dust motes danced in my flashlight beam—rows of empty shelves, a few cots in the back. Squatters' haven, maybe, but empty tonight. I claimed a corner, barricading with overturned furniture, and let exhaustion pull me under.
Dreams came fragmented: the Weaver's penthouse, her fingers weaving darkness into screens displaying lives unraveling. My parents' crash replayed, but this time shadows twisted the wheel. Kairo appeared in the dream, whispering, *Not accident. Thread pulled.* I woke sweating, dawn light filtering through grimy windows. Kairo pulsed urgently—company.
Footsteps outside. I froze, grabbing a loose board as a weapon. The door creaked, and Marcus stepped in, hands raised. "Easy. Tracked your cab's plates—friend in dispatch."
I lowered the board but kept distance. "How'd you know I'd come here?"
"Educated guess. You mentioned researching art heists once; this place pops up in those circles." He set down a bag—food, water, a first-aid kit. "Warehouse got hit hard. Two awakened down, but Lena escaped. She's regrouping."
I took a sandwich warily. "And the Weaver? I saw her during the merge. She felt me probing."
Marcus's face tightened. "She's real. Name's Elena Voss—OmniCorp exec, but deeper. Rumors say she was the first enhanced, her shadow fused with tech. Controls the reapers remotely."
We ate in silence, the mist outside thickening to fog. Kairo observed him, no hostility, which eased me slightly. "Why help me?" I asked finally. "What's your stake?"
He leaned back against a shelf. "Lost a source last year—colleague investigating OmniCorp. Found him hollowed, suicide note that didn't match his style. Shadows got to him first, fed his doubts till he broke. I owe it to dig."
Fair enough. We spent the morning planning. Marcus had files—printouts from leaks: OmniCorp's Shadow Project aimed at "behavioral optimization." Harvest shadows for data, implant suggestions. Tied to everything from election sway to consumer habits. Chicago was a test bed, dense population, diverse secrets.
Kairo stirred, projecting faint images on the wall: a map of hotspots, reaper patrols marked. "How's it doing that?" Marcus asked, eyes wide.
"We're linked tighter now." I focused, and Kairo revealed more—a schedule for a corporate gala tonight at the Art Institute. Voss would attend.
"Opportunity," Marcus said. "Infiltrate, gather proof."
Risky, but stagnation meant capture. We prepped: Marcus sourced disguises from contacts—a server uniform for me, press pass for him. By afternoon, we headed downtown, the fog lifting to reveal a crisp fall day. The Art Institute loomed elegant, lions guarding steps thronged with patrons.
Inside, the gala buzzed—elites in tuxedos, champagne flutes clinking. I blended as staff, tray in hand, Kairo concealed in my outline. Marcus mingled nearby, recorder hidden. Voss arrived fashionably late: tall, silver-streaked hair, dress like woven night. Her shadow moved unnaturally, tendrils invisible to most but clear to me—probing guests, harvesting whispers.
I circled closer, offering canapés. Up close, her eyes were sharp, calculating. Kairo tensed, urging caution. As she turned, our gazes met briefly. Recognition? I slipped away to a side gallery, heart racing.
Marcus joined me behind a sculpture. "Got audio—her chatting with donors about 'optimization phases.' Incriminating if decoded."
But alarms blared in my mind—Kairo warning. Reapers incoming. We ducked into storage, but the door locked behind us. Trap.
Voss's voice echoed over intercom, calm. "Intruders. Secure the perimeter."
Footsteps approached. Kairo merged fully, strength flooding me. I pried a vent grate, crawling in with Marcus behind. The ducts wound through the building, dust choking us. We emerged in a basement archive—rows of crated art, dim emergency lights.
"Exit?" Marcus whispered.
Kairo extended, mapping a path to sewers. But as we moved, shadows detached from walls—reapers' extensions, converging.
The fight was chaotic: Kairo clashed with them, dark forms twisting. I felt every impact—pain lancing through the bond. Marcus swung a crate lid, buying time. One reaper grabbed him, shadow coiling around his throat.
*Merge deeper,* Kairo urged. I let it consume more, vision sharpening. I lunged, disrupting the coil with a focused burst from Kairo. The reaper recoiled, human form staggering—a young man, eyes glazed.
We escaped through a grate to the sewers, stench overwhelming. Surfacing blocks away, we gasped in fresh air. Marcus coughed. "That was too close."
My phone— the burner—vibrated. Lena: *Gala was bait. Voss wants you alive. Why?*
Good question. Kairo whispered fragments: *Key. Your shadow holds thread to origin.*
Origin? The accident? I pushed it down. We holed up in a motel near O'Hare, exhaustion setting in. Marcus bandaged a cut on his arm. "We're in deep now."
"Yeah." But doubt crept: his timely arrivals, the perfect intel. Kairo sensed no deceit, but shadows lied too.
Night fell, city lights twinkling like distant stars. I lay awake, Kairo projecting visions—Voss in her penthouse, smiling at a screen showing my face. *Soon,* she mouthed.
The web tightened. Allies or pawns? I needed answers, but probing deeper meant risking the merge becoming permanent. What would I become then?
As sleep claimed me, Kairo's voice faded: *Truth weaves us all.*