The city had never known true quiet.

  Even in the dead of night, life pulsed through its veins—car horns blaring in frustration, neon signs buzzing against the hum of electricity, distant sirens wailing like mechanical ghosts. Street vendors shouted over the rhythmic chatter of pedestrians, the scent of grilled meat and spices mingling with the fumes of gasoline and decay. Cracked sidewalks bore the weight of countless hurried footsteps, and the flickering streetlights painted shifting shadows along narrow alleyways.

  But now—nothing.

  The world had turned silent.

  No footsteps. No voices. No life.

  Yet, he knew better. Something was still here, lurking just beyond the reach of the flickering neon glow. Hidden in the suffocating darkness, watching. Waiting.

  His breath came in ragged gasps as he sprinted through the abandoned street, his shoes slamming against broken pavement. His side burned—a wet, sticky sensation spreading across his ribs. Bleeding. Didn't matter. Stopping meant death.

  A neon sign buzzed above him, struggling to hold itself together. The letters flickered erratically, but the message was clear:

  NOWHERE TO RUN.

  His heart slammed against his ribs.

  A noise—soft, unnatural—slithered from behind him.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Don’t look back.

  He forced his legs to move faster, lungs burning. The city, once alive with chaos and motion, felt hollow—emptied by something unseen, something hungry.

  Ahead, the glow of an open store cut through the darkness. A phone shop.

  His last chance.

  No footsteps. No voices. No life.

  But he knew better. It was still out there, hidden in the suffocating darkness, waiting. Watching.

  His breath came in ragged gasps as he sprinted through the abandoned street, shoes slamming against cracked pavement slick with rain. The air clung to his skin—humid, heavy, thick with the faint metallic tang of blood. His side burned—a wet, sticky sensation spreading across his ribs. Bleeding. Didn’t matter. Stopping meant death.

  A neon sign flickered overhead, buzzing faintly against the quiet. Its faded red letters barely clung to life, but the message was clear:

  NOWHERE TO RUN.

  His heart slammed against his ribs.

  A noise—soft, unnatural—slithered from behind him.

  Don’t look back.

  His pulse roared in his ears as he forced his legs to move faster, lungs straining with each ragged breath. The city around him felt hollow, stripped of sound and life. Glass shards crunched beneath his shoes as he stumbled past abandoned storefronts—windows shattered, displays overturned, mannequins staring from the darkness like silent witnesses.

  Ahead, the glow of an open store cut through the gloom. A faint electronic hum drifted from within—a phone shop.

  With a desperate burst of energy, he threw himself inside. The door’s chime rang out, sharp and hollow against the still air, as if mocking his escape. His knees hit the cold tiled floor, breath coming in shuddering gasps as he scrambled behind the counter, pressing his back against the cool metal.

  The faint scent of plastic and faint electrical ozone clung to the air. Monitors on the shelves flickered with looping advertisements—bright colors and smiling faces distorted by static.

  His fingers fumbled for his phone, slick with sweat and blood. The screen was fractured, barely holding together. Had to leave something behind. Had to say something.

  With shaking hands, he opened the camera. Hit record.

  “If you’re seeing this… My dream had been achieved.”

  His voice barely carried above a whisper. Blood dripped onto the screen, splattering across the glass.

  “It has everything it needs. You truly are the perf—”

  The air shifted.

  A breathless stillness settled over the room.

  Slowly, he looked up.

  A figure stood at the far end of the store. Its silhouette stretched unnaturally against the dim light—tall, thin, head tilted at an impossible angle. Its grin stretched too wide. Black, glassy eyes reflected the faint glow of the monitors.

  It didn’t move.

  It didn’t have to.

  A crushing pressure seized his throat, invisible hands clamping down like iron.

  The phone slipped from his grasp, revealing the number 0 on its back. The screen flickered.

  Recording stopped as a blinding bright light replace the scenery.