The sirens didn't scream.
They hummed.
Low and steady, like the city clearing its throat before speaking. The sound slid through the streets and into my apartment, vibrating faintly in the glass. It wasn't urgent. It didn't need to be.
Everyone already knew what it meant.
I stood by the window, lantern in hand, watching the sun sink behind the buildings. The light stretched thin, orange bleeding into gray, then into something dull and lifeless. Shadows pooled in corners long before they should have.
The lantern grew warm.
Not hot.Expectant.
"I'll be home," I muttered to myself, grabbing my jacket. "I'm already home."
The words felt wrong as soon as I said them.
I locked the door and stepped into the hallway. The lights flickered as I passed. Someone else's door closed softly further down, the sound careful, deliberate.
No one was lingering.
By the time I reached the street, the sky had darkened another shade. Shops were already shuttered, metal grates pulled down with a finality that made my chest tighten. A delivery truck idled briefly, then pulled away fast, tires screeching slightly as if the driver was in a hurry to be gone.
I adjusted my bag, the lantern pressing heavy against my side.
The main route home was blocked.
A temporary barricade had been erected across the intersection—metal fencing, reinforced panels, flashing amber lights. Two uniformed guards stood watch, rifles slung low, faces tense.
I slowed.
"This wasn't here this morning," I said, more to myself than anyone else.
"Curfew lockdown," one of the guards said without looking at me. "Move along."
"I live that way," I replied, nodding past the barricade. "Just a few blocks."
The guard finally looked at me.
Then at my bag.
His expression changed.
Subtly. But enough.
"No," he said.
"What?"
"No one passes after sunset," the second guard added. His hand rested near the grip of his weapon, though he didn't raise it. "Orders."
The lantern warmed sharply, like a warning.
"I'm not asking to stay out," I said, forcing my voice to stay level. "I'm asking to go home."
The first guard hesitated. For just a second, his eyes met mine.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "You can't bring that inside."
My throat tightened. "Bring what?"
He didn't answer.
The siren's hum deepened.
Behind me, doors slammed shut. Windows went dark. The street emptied with unnatural speed, like a stage clearing before a performance.
"I'll hide it," I said. "I swear."
The second guard shook his head. "It doesn't work like that."
They turned away from me together.
The barricade lights flashed red.
I stood there for a long moment, staring at the closed path, at the city I'd lived in my whole life now refusing to acknowledge me.
"Please," I said.
No one responded.
I backed away slowly.
The streetlights flickered.
One went out.
Then another.
The hum of the sirens faded, replaced by something quieter. Heavier. The sound of the night settling into place.
I moved.
Not toward home.
Away.
Side streets twisted into narrower paths, buildings leaning closer together as if to listen. My breath fogged faintly in the cooling air. The lantern burned steadily now, no longer hidden, its light cracking the darkness just enough to show me what waited ahead.
Nothing.
That was worse.
I heard the gates close behind me.
Not literal gates — not steel or iron — but the sound of finality. Locks engaging. The city sealing itself shut.
The sound carried.
Something else heard it too.
A scrape echoed from somewhere down the alley ahead. Slow. Measured. Patient.
I stopped.
The lantern pulsed.
The shadows stretched toward me, testing distance, measuring space. Windows above me were dark. Curtains drawn tight. People were inside, holding their breath, pretending the night wasn't happening.
I was alone.
I turned back.
The barricade was gone.
Not removed — replaced.
Darkness filled the intersection where the guards had stood, thick and unmoving. Light from nearby streetlamps refused to enter it, bending away like it feared contamination.
The lantern flared.
I understood then.
The rule wasn't just don't be outside at night.
It was don't be outside when the city decides you don't belong.
Something shifted in the darkness ahead.
Tall.Thin.Waiting.
I tightened my grip on the lantern as the night closed in from all sides.
Behind me, the city did not open its gates again.