The sky was a dirty shade of amber, heavy with the breath of dying machines. From the highest spire of District Thirteen, one could see the smog swirl like bruises across the horizon. Beyond that—only silence and the ruins of the old world.
Kane leaned against the rusted railing, his coat fluttering in the wind that smelled faintly of metal and ozone. The city below buzzed with its usual noise—vendors yelling, scavengers bickering, guards patrolling with rifles slung low. But above it all, he could feel it again. That faint vibration in his skull, like the hum of invisible strings being plucked one by one.
The Whisper.
It had been growing louder every night since he turned seventeen.
And tonight, it sang.
Kane rubbed his temple and muttered, "Not now. I've got enough problems."
The voice didn't answer—not in words, anyway. Just a flicker of something at the edge of his vision. A pale figure standing in the street below, unmoving despite the crowd brushing past. Its face was hidden behind a white mask, smooth and featureless except for a single black line drawn where the mouth should've been.
Kane blinked—and the figure was gone.
He exhaled through his teeth. "Great. I'm hallucinating again."
He made his way down through the levels of the tower, the air thickening with soot and heat. District Thirteen was a vertical maze—hundreds of layers stacked atop one another, stitched together by hanging bridges and flickering neon signs. The poor lived below, in the smoke-choked dark. The rich lived higher, but not high enough to escape the smell of rot.
Kane worked in the Reclamation Yards, where they tore apart remnants of the old world—twisted drones, ancient steel, even bones sometimes. The work was miserable, but the pay was just enough to buy a week's worth of bread and a place to sleep that didn't drip acid rain.
When he reached the Yard, the foreman was already shouting.
"Oi, Kane! You're late again!"
"Blame the trains," Kane said, tossing on his gloves. "They stopped mid-line."
The foreman spat. "They always stop mid-line. Move your ass. Sector D's pile ain't gonna strip itself."
Kane sighed and picked up his crowbar.
He'd been doing this for five years—digging through scrap heaps for parts that still hummed with forgotten energy. Sometimes he found relics. Sometimes he found corpses. Both fetched a price, if you knew who to sell them to.
He was elbow-deep in rust when he found it.
A mask.
Black porcelain, smooth as glass. No eyes, no mouth. Just a faint spiral carved into the forehead—a mark he didn't recognize, but somehow remembered.
The moment his fingers brushed it, the Whisper roared.
—You've found me.
Kane jerked back, stumbling over metal. The mask pulsed faintly in the grime, veins of light crawling beneath its surface.
"Who's there?" he hissed, scanning the shadows.
The Whisper had a voice now—soft, patient, almost curious.
Do you remember the night you died?
Kane froze. "...What?"
You were seven. The flood. The fire. The hands that pulled you from the river—those weren't human, were they?
His stomach turned cold. "Stop talking."
Then stop listening.
The light faded. The mask went still again, lifeless. Kane crouched, staring at it. His hands trembled as he picked it up and slipped it into his satchel. He didn't know why—but something in him whispered that throwing it away would be worse.
Much worse.
By the time the shift ended, the storm had arrived. The streets were nearly empty, the usual neon washed out by sheets of yellow rain. Kane walked fast, keeping his head down, until the noise began again—this time not in his mind, but in the world itself.
Metal shrieking. Screams. Gunfire.
He turned a corner and froze.
A patrol was being torn apart in the open square—men in black armor thrown like rag dolls by something that shimmered in and out of sight. It wasn't human. Too long, too thin. Its limbs bent wrong, and its body flickered like broken glass.
A Specter.
Kane had seen one only once before, from far away. Monsters born from corruption—souls that drowned in their own madness until they became the things that haunted the streets at night. They were the reason the city had walls, the reason no one ventured beyond the perimeter.
He ducked behind a collapsed vending stall as the creature screeched, a sound that stabbed through his ears. One of the soldiers tried to shoot; the bullets phased through the thing like smoke.
The mask in Kane's satchel began to glow again.
—Put me on.
His pulse spiked. "What? No!"
Do it, and you might live.
Another scream tore the air. Kane peeked over the debris—one soldier left, crawling, blood streaking behind him. The Specter bent low, its jaw unhinging wider than a man's head.
Kane didn't think. He grabbed the mask.
It was cold—then burning. He pressed it to his face, and the world shattered.
The storm froze in place. Every drop of rain hung suspended midair. The square was silent, painted in shades of gray.
Kane stood in the stillness, heart hammering. His breath came out in fog, even though there was no air to breathe. He looked down—and saw the faint thread connecting his chest to the creature's. A thin silver line, pulsing.
The Whisper spoke again, clearer now.
This is the Veil. The space between what is seen and what is real. You stand on the edge, and edges cut both ways.
Kane tried to move. His body felt weightless. The Specter turned toward him, and in this frozen world, its face was no longer twisted—it was human. A woman's, pale and hollow-eyed.
She mouthed something.
Help me.
Then the thread snapped.
The sound came rushing back—thunder, wind, screams. Kane fell to his knees, gasping, as the Specter's body dissolved into smoke that drifted toward him, seeping into the mask.
When he tore it off, the square was empty. No bodies. No blood. Just rain.
He stumbled home through the alleys, the mask clutched in his hand. His reflection in a puddle looked wrong—the eyes too dark, like something was watching from behind them.
When he finally reached his door, the city sirens were wailing. A cold, mechanical voice echoed through the streets:
[Attention citizens of District Thirteen. An unregistered anomaly has been detected. Evacuation protocol pending]
Kane stood still in the doorway, soaked and trembling. The mask whispered once more, faint and almost tender.
Welcome back, Vessel.
He didn't sleep that night. Not because he couldn't—but because he didn't want to close his eyes and see what waited behind them.