The sound of the city dying was not a roar—it was a slow, deliberate exhale. Walls collapsed with a groan like rusted organs tearing apart, streets split open into gaping jaws, and the sky above churned with that same impossible storm—its clouds still carved into the faint lines of sheet music, every lightning strike hitting in perfect rhythm.
I ran, not because I thought I could escape, but because standing still meant being swallowed whole by the opera of collapse.
The fractured pocket watch in my hand was warm again—too warm. My palm stung, and when I looked, I realized it wasn't just light leaking from its cracks. It was bleeding. Dark, oil-like blood seeped from the jagged edges, dripping down my wrist and vanishing into my skin as though my veins welcomed it.
A scream cut through the storm. Not human. It was the sound of an instrument forced into a note it was never meant to play.
Ahead, the street opened into the ruined courtyard of the opera house. It had been majestic once—marble arches, tall windows, and a stage that could command an entire city's attention. Now, every column was cracked, and thorned roses of black crystal bloomed up its steps. I had seen them before… in the dreams.
And the roses were growing. Fast.
Each time a lightning strike hit, the thorned petals trembled, and new blooms forced their way from the stone, the sound of their growth like splintering bones.
I should have turned back.
Instead, I stepped forward.
The storm darkened, the blood-red moon vanishing behind a curtain of shadow. The ground shook as the opera house doors—taller than any man—swung open.
Inside, the air pulsed.
And something whispered my name.