Rain fell in jagged sheets over the rooftops of South Nocturnia, coating the rusted shingles and iron chimneys in cold silver. Beneath the dripping overhang of an abandoned cathedral, Speen sat alone. Or at least, he appeared to.
His shadow stretched in unnatural ways — rising when it shouldn't, pulsing softly like it breathed. It shifted again, and Speen flinched. The voice had been quiet for days. Now it was humming again, whispering names he didn't recognize and numbers that made no sense.
"Seventeen. Hollow vein. Thirteenth bell toll."
He pressed his palms to his ears.
"No," he muttered. "You're not real. I'm real. I'm in control."
The shadow darkened, slick and pulsing, and spoke again — not in words, but in sensation. Regret. Hunger. Joy. Blood.
Speen stood abruptly and stormed inside the cathedral. Stained glass shattered underfoot, crunching like ice. The pews were rotted, the altar cracked. But the walls? The walls had changed.
They were marked.
He stepped closer, running a gloved hand over the carvings. Symbols — etched deep into stone with something far stronger than a human hand. Spirals and hooks, eyes without faces, bleeding circles.
"Black Parade," he whispered.
The symbols weren't just art. They were calling cards. Ritual sigils. Cult scripture.
Suddenly the shadow surged upward, stretching toward the ceiling. It formed shapes — people chained together, bodies floating in the air, and a towering woman made of rope and smoke. Her mouth sewn shut. Her eyes endless.
"Mother of Chains," the shadow said in a voice that was not Speen's.
He stumbled back, heart hammering.
Just then, his communicator buzzed. Cam's voice crackled through:
"Speen. We're regrouping. Something's happening. Government buildings, warehouses… Someone's targeting old Hawkins tech."
"Yeah," Speen breathed. "I know who."
Elsewhere: In a Forgotten Bunker
John stood in front of a sealed door deep beneath Nocturnia's surface. The metal was scorched, ancient. Symbols like the ones Speen had seen glowed faintly around the edges — except these were older. Worn smooth by time.
He'd followed the signal from the destroyed annex here. A place even the city's official blueprints didn't acknowledge.
He placed his hand against the door and felt something stir beneath his skin.
You were born from us.
The words weren't audible, but they burned in his chest like truth.
Behind him, the silence broke. A soft click of boot on stone. He turned, hand raised, ready to shift into obsidian.
It was Derek.
"You followed me," John said, eyes narrowing.
Derek didn't deny it. "You've been… off lately."
John hesitated. "I think there's something inside me. Something that hears them."
"The Black Parade?"
John nodded.
"They're not just stealing tech," he said. "They're rebuilding something. I don't know what yet… but I think I've been part of it longer than I realized."
Derek's cybernetic eye whirred softly. "You tell the others?"
John's voice dropped. "Not yet. Not until I know what I am to them."