The city was never kind at midnight.
Shadows stretched long across the sidewalks, swallowing the flickering glow of weak streetlamps. The shops were closed, their shutters rattling softly in the wind, and the air smelled of gasoline and something faintly metallic—like rust or blood.
Amara clutched her backpack tighter to her chest as she stood at the curb, her legs heavy with exhaustion. Exams were finally over, and the last bus had left an hour ago. She had told herself she could walk, but every sound behind her felt like footsteps, every shadow a figure waiting for her to stumble.
So when the battered yellow taxi rolled to a slow, rattling stop beside her, she almost didn't think twice.
The driver didn't look at her. His face stayed hidden beneath the rim of a greasy cap, head bowed, hands locked on the wheel as though the car were already in motion. The engine coughed like a dying man.
"Uh… city center," Amara murmured as she slid into the back seat. Her voice was hoarse from lack of sleep.
The driver said nothing.
He just pressed the accelerator.
Amara frowned, glancing at the rearview mirror. The driver's eyes should have been visible in the glass—but the mirror only reflected her own pale, tired face.
Maybe it was tilted. Maybe he was just one of those drivers who hated talking. Fine.
She pulled out her phone to distract herself, but the battery had slipped into the red: 2%. No data. No call. Dead weight in her hand.
The taxi rattled through the empty streets. At first, everything looked normal—the rows of shuttered shops, the occasional drunk staggering home, the sharp turns of streets Amara had walked a thousand times before.
But after a while, she realized something was off.
They hadn't passed the bridge.
They hadn't passed the roundabout with the old statue.
Instead, the roads seemed to twist endlessly, looping back on themselves.
"Excuse me," Amara said, leaning forward. "This… this isn't the way. You missed the turn."
The driver didn't reply. His hands gripped the wheel tighter.
Her throat dried. "Did you hear me?"
Silence.
And then the car slowed.
Amara felt her skin prickle as the door on the far side of the back seat creaked open.
No one had touched it. She hadn't seen anyone outside. Yet someone slid in beside her, moving like liquid shadow.
Her heart stuttered. She couldn't make out a face. Only the shape of a body—tall, lean, wrapped in dark clothes that seemed to absorb the light. The figure sat perfectly still, head bowed, as though waiting.
Amara scooted closer to the door. Her fingers twitched near the handle, but it was locked.
The air inside the taxi grew colder. She could see her breath fog faintly against the glass.
Finally, the figure spoke. Its voice was a whisper that curled into her ear, intimate and chilling.
"Amara."
Her name.
Her full name.
She hadn't told the driver. She hadn't told anyone.
Amara's stomach dropped. "How—how do you know my name?" she whispered.
The figure turned its head slightly, but there was no face beneath the hood. Only emptiness.
The taxi's headlights swept across a street sign. For a split second, Amara thought it might help her get her bearings. But the letters weren't letters anymore. They were symbols—jagged, curling marks that writhed as though alive.
Her phone buzzed weakly in her palm. One last notification before the battery gave out.
The screen showed a text.
From her own number.
"You should not have entered."
The phone died.
The car drove on.