Mrs. Mutahaar sat alone at a small, weathered table a few paces away from Indu and her friends. The gap between them felt like a quiet chasm, filled with unspoken words and distant shadows. Her hands rested on the cool surface, fingers curling around the rim of a chipped cup, as she gazed at the moon hanging overhead.
Mrs. Mutahaar, a dedicated trainer of women in entrepreneurship, firmly believes in women's empowerment. She dedicates her time and energy to inspiring and guiding women to unlock their potential, break barriers, and build their own paths to success. Her passion lies in fostering independence, confidence, and resilience among women, knowing that empowering one woman can ripple outward to transform entire communities.
Mrs. Mutahaar's phone buzzed.
Not the polite kind of buzz—the kind that vibrates through tabletops and rattles loose cutlery. This was the kind that made her neighbor's chihuahua, Tofu, yelp like it had been stepped on. The screen lit up with a name that wasn't a name so much as a typo that stuck: "BhabhiNo1."
She sighed, flipping the phone open with her thumb, she refused to upgrade; "Smartphones are for people who think emojis count as therapy". The message was a wall of text in all caps, punctuated by crying-laughing emojis and at least three misspellings of "important." "APAMONI PLS HELP MY SIS IN LAW THINKS THE FRIDGE IS WHISPERING TO HER AGAIN????"
Mrs. Mutahaar cracked her knuckles, a sound like popcorn in a microwave and typed back: "Tell her to unplug it. If the whispers continue, it's either demons or your mother-in-law. Either way, light some incense."
"life's like those stairs—when Hawa comes out, it's all over to start from the beginning again. The ones in Sub ST, third step missing, ninth groaning like a widow's lament. You climb anyway, grip the railing sticky with decades of palm sweat and bad luck, because what's the alternative? Lie down and let the roaches claim you?"
"Hawa—that hot, whispering bitch of a wind—she'd just laugh and scatter your bones down the steps anyway. So you climb. Even when the metal bites your fingers raw. Even when the landing smells like piss and defeat. You climb until your lungs scream, until the Hawa loses interest and moves on to ruin someone else's laundry."
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Mutahaar stared at the moon— "that cracked porcelain bastard"—and thought of her husband's voice, rough as unpolished teak, "You're my moonlight in my darkest room." She exhaled through her nose, watching the words dissolve into the humid night. The moon didn't care. It hung there, split like a walnut shell, leaking silver onto the rooftops of Sub ST. Somewhere beneath its glow, her husband snored in their bed, one arm thrown over his face like a man shielding himself from verdicts.
Inside Colony Heights, Bijoy rubbed the rope-burn on his neck. Moonlight pooled on the chipped linoleum—cold silver, indifferent. The fan blade's bent shadow stretched across the wall like a crooked finger. He kicked it. Metal clattered. Downstairs, Mrs. Das's weeping seeped through pipes. Bijoy wiped sweat-slick palms on his shirt. Stitches popped. Fabric sighed. He grabbed the rope again. Frayed ends tickled his palm. This time, he'd tie it to the balcony railing. Fourth floor was high enough.
Across the alley, Lithop's balcony light flickered on. Her silhouette sharpened behind lace curtains—knobby shoulders hunched over a steaming cup. Bijoy froze. Old bitch saw everything. He waited, breath held, until her light snapped off. Darkness dragged down her window whole. His fingers trembled. The rope slipped.
Across Luna City, the trees shuddered. Not the polite rustle of leaves in a breeze, but a full-body convulsion, branches snapping like brittle bones. The air smelled wrong—not like ozone before a storm, but like the inside of a just-opened tomb, damp and metallic. Streetlights flickered, their glow thinning to a sickly yellow, as if the bulbs were starving.
Pesta came with her rack. Not the medieval kind, but something leaner—a dentist's chair jury-rigged with bicycle chains and frayed IV tubing. She parked it outside Lev's crib and clicked her tongue against her teeth, a sound like a cockroach's legs snapping. Little Lev, unbeknownst of who visited the family, slept sound.
His breath smelled of warm milk and apricots. The mobile above him spun lazily—wooden stars, a felt moon, a single black crow dangling from fishing wire. Pesta adjusted her gloves, the kind butchers use when deboning rabbits and hummed a nursery rhyme in reverse.
Her fingers hovering over his pulse—a flutter like moth wings against glass. The crib smelled of talcum powder and something darker, something wet-earth and copper-tang. Pesta inhaled deeply. "Ah," she sighed. "Newborns always taste like snow."
Across the room, the family's antique radio crackled to life without being touched. A voice emerged between bursts of static—a man pleading in a language that hadn't been spoken since cities burned by torchlight.
Lev stirred. His tiny fists clenched.
Pesta smiled. Her teeth were very white. "Shhh," she whispered, "the bad dream's just beginning."
Outside, the moon finally split—a clean fracture down the middle—and the inhumanly screams started shortly after.
Isabella Valente wasn't thinking about bread—her lips parted as she pressed them softly against his, a whisper of breath between them. The words tasted like cherries stolen from a churchyard tree—sweet with sacrilege. "These vampires don't dance with their food unless they plan to savor it slowly."
Alex's fingers tightened around her waist through layers of silk and deception. "Good thing I'm not on the menu," he lied smoothly.
The chandelier above them shuddered.
Pesta's nail hovered above Lev's forehead like a guillotine blade catching moonlight. The crib smelled of sour milk and something older—damp earth, rusted hinges, the kind of quiet rot that starts in forgotten corners. Her glove creaked as she flexed her fingers. "Let me see," she murmured, not to the child, but to the air itself—the way you'd coax a feral cat from under a porch. "Nah," she decided after a pause, her breath frosting the crib. "You'll die peacefully."
Across the room, the radio gasped awake—a burst of static, then a woman's voice singing in reverse. The wallpaper peeled itself back in slow curls, revealing layers of older patterns beneath: violets, then skulls, then a faded map of a city that didn't exist anymore.
Meanwhile, at Hotel Gluttony, Indu's roti had achieved sentience.
"Fuck this," Zoya announced, stabbing it with her fork. The roti oozed something suspiciously amber. "It's evolving."
Laleh slapped a spoonful of dal onto Indu's plate with the finality of a judge's gavel. "Eat. Starvation makes the walls talk."
Outside, the moon finally split sideways—not a crack, but a clean slice, as if someone had taken a knife to a melon. The halves didn't fall. They hovered, dripping luminescent pulp onto the rooftops below.
A drunk stumbled out of an alley, blinking up at the celestial bisection. "Huh," he said, and promptly vomited into a storm drain.
Back in Valente Manor, Across town, Pesta licked Lev's forehead—a quick, clinical swipe. "Hm," she said. "You taste like snow and bad decisions."
The crib rattled.
"Not today," Pesta murmured, wiping Lev's forehead with her sleeve. The fabric came away smelling of ozone and spoiled milk. "Your number's still drying in Death's ledger. Smudged ink." She tucked the blanket tighter, her fingers lingering on the stitches where his mother had sewn tiny moons into the hem. "Lucky boy. Unlucky world."
"I'll visit you tomorrow again," Pesta murmured, pressing a gloved finger to Lev's tiny lips. His breath smelled like curdled milk and lightning strikes. "Your luck depends on that."
Pesta adjusted her gloves, the faint glow of the split moon casting long shadows behind her. The battered bucket hung loosely from her hand, its battered metal reflecting the sickly yellow streetlights. She paused at the alley's edge, glancing back at the silent, sleeping city—its breath shallow, secrets buried beneath layers of decay and forgotten memories.
With deliberate steps, she turned away. The air grew colder, thick with the scent of betrayal and unspoken truths. Somewhere in the distance, a lone crow cawed, piercing the night with its mournful cry, tracing her retreating figure.
As she moved through deserted streets, her footsteps echoing softly, she carried with her the weight of countless nights—each one a silent prayer, each one a silent curse. The bucket, now a humble vessel of secrets and shadows, swung gently at her side.
And in the quiet hush of Luna City's dying light, a voice seemed to whisper:
"In shadows deep where silent waters flow,
Death stands silent, with his perpetual bow,
A gentle thief that steals both joy and woe,
And lays all hearts to rest in silent glow.
No force can tame his cold, unyielding hand,
Nor break the chains of fate's eternal band,
For as the night doth follow dawn's first light,
So must we yield to death's eternal night.
Yet in his sleep, the soul finds sweetest peace,
A boundless voyage where all sorrows cease,
And in that sleep, our fears shall find release—
For death's embrace is but our soul's sweet lease."