Public transportation was one of the pillars of modern society.
Every day, millions moved from one place to another, flowing through stations and vehicles like flocks of migrating birds. Offices, factories, universities, apartments—each destination another cog in a vast and invisible machine.
It worked beautifully.
Silas hated it.
For all its convenience, public transportation forced him into proximity with thousands of strangers. Their exhaustion, their irritation, their quiet desperation—it all leaked outward, filling the crowded spaces in smells no one could escape.
As if he didn't already have enough of his own.
And yet he was one of them. Just another person turning the gears.
The metro rattled through the underground tunnels beneath Prague, its rhythmic metallic clatter echoing through the carriage. Rainwater streaked the windows in long gray trails, distorting the occasional lights flashing past outside.
Silas sat near the end of the wagon, shoulders slightly hunched, staring without really looking. The day had drained him.
Returning from a job he didn't particularly like, he felt moody in the dullest way possible—too tired even to properly resent it. The kind of fatigue that made emotions feel distant and slow.
He had never fit into the molds laid out before him.
School. Career. Ambition.
He had tried, of course. Everyone did.
At some point, though, he had stopped searching for something better and simply... moved forward.
Got a degree.
Found a job.
Rented a flat.
Dated occasionally.
Traveled once a year.
Started investing.
Even opened a retirement plan.
From the outside, his life probably looked reasonable. Functional.
Responsible.
But Silas knew the truth.
He was unhappy.
Not dramatically. Not in a way that demanded attention.
Just quietly.
Like a constant background noise.
He didn't belong here.
Well…
Anywhere, really.
Still, there wasn't much choice but to keep going. Modern life had its obligations.
The metro lurched slightly as it slowed through another terminal.
Silas barely noticed.
Outside, the evening had turned colder, the rain steady and thin. Eventually, the train began moving again.
Silas blinked and shifted slightly in his seat. Something felt… off.
He raised his head slowly. The wagon was empty.
He frowned.
A moment ago there had been several people—students, a tired couple, someone scrolling endlessly on their phone. Now the carriage sat silent.
Only the hum of the train filled the air.
Strange.
The lights from a passing terminal flickered through the windows again, briefly illuminating the interior in pulses of cold white.
Empty seats.
Empty aisle.
Silas felt a small knot form in his stomach. A strange premonition crept over him.
Not fear, exactly. Just the quiet sense that something was about to happen.
Finally, his dull mood began to recede. He straightened slightly, scanning the carriage.
Nothing.
No movement.
No sound except the steady rumble of wheels on track.
Still…
The feeling didn't leave.
It grew.
From vague unease to something sharper. Something uncomfortable.
Silas stood abruptly.
"Yeah… no."
His voice sounded small in the empty wagon.
He rubbed his temple—a habit when something bothered him.
"I'll just… get off early."
The next station wasn't his destination, but that hardly mattered.
His feet tapped nervously against the floor as the train slowed again.
The brakes screeched softly. The doors slid open with a mechanical sigh.
Silas stepped out quickly, suppressing the sudden urge to run.
The platform was slick with rainwater that had blown in through the entrance.
His foot hit a shallow puddle.
And slipped.
"—shit!"
He crashed onto the floor with a painful thud. Pain flared across his palm. Something sharp had nicked his hand.
Silas hissed and rolled onto one knee, using his uninjured hand to push himself upright.
Blood welled from the cut and began dripping down his fingers.
Drip.
Drip.
Each drop landed in the puddle beneath him. Ripples spread across the surface.
Silas stared.
His reflection wavered in the disturbed water.
Messy hair.
Pale face.
Brown eyes.
The blood spread slowly through the puddle, dissolving into the rainwater like red ink.
For some reason, the sight held his attention.
The reflection darkened.
Turned red.
A chill crawled along his spine. The air suddenly felt colder.
Silas swallowed. His breathing quickened.
The world felt wrong.
Very wrong.
He tried to stand again, but his legs buckled.
He fell backward onto the wet platform with a startled grunt.
And then he saw it.
Everything had turned red. Not just the puddle.
The entire station.
Walls.
Ceiling.
Floor.
All of it soaked in shades of crimson, as if reality had been filtered through some infrared lens.
Silas rubbed his eyes frantically.
"No… no, no…"
But the color didn't change.
Because deep down, he already knew. It wasn't his vision. The world itself had changed.
Something cold brushed his shoulder.
Silas froze.
No.
It hadn't just brushed him. It had already been touching him for some time.
He had only just noticed.
His heart began hammering.
Slowly—painfully slowly—he turned his head.
Every instinct screamed at him not to.
His mind refused to form the image fully, as if protecting itself from what his eyes were seeing.
But fear filled the gaps.
A thing clung to his shoulder. A viscous mass of dark red flesh. Its body writhed like a sack of wet organs, several rolling eyes embedded across its surface. Tentacles lashed outward in erratic jerks, grappling blindly at anything they could reach.
Thick liquid dripped from it.
Dark.
Sticky.
Blood-like.
Silas felt the tentacle wrapped around his shoulder pulse faintly.
And suddenly he understood.
It was feeding.
Something was being pulled from him—something other than blood.
Vitality.
Warmth.
Life.
Cold numbness spread slowly through his body.
Silas tried to scream, but nothing came out.
His limbs refused to move. His thoughts slowed.
Then something snapped.
A single realization.
I'm going to die. The idea detonated inside his mind.
All the quiet frustration he had carried for years surged upward.
All the compromises.
All the silent endurance.
All the meaningless routines.
And this was how it ended?
Here?
Like this?
For nothing?
Wrath erupted through the numbness.
"Get—OFF!"
His arm moved before he could think. He slapped the tentacle away with all the strength he had left.
The creature shrieked. Its horrible maw split open, vibrating violently as it revealed a hollow black center inside.
Silas didn't stay to look.
He jumped to his feet in a single desperate motion and ran.
Up the station stairs.
His legs moved faster than he thought possible, driven by pure adrenaline. The tunnels stretched ahead of him, long and red and wrong.
For a moment they seemed endless.
Then suddenly—
Air.
He burst out of the station and stumbled into a narrow alley. A dark red alley.
Silas slowed, gasping for breath.
Rain fell in thin streaks around him.
Except it wasn't rain.
It was thicker.
Darker.
The walls of the buildings were drenched in blood.
It flowed down brick and concrete in slow viscous streams, pooling along the ground before draining into a gutter that gurgled quietly.
Silas stared in horror.
Every step he took splashed. He tried to find a clean spot to stand.
There wasn't one.
Then—
From deeper inside the alley—
He heard something move.
The unmistakable creak of wood echoed through the alley.
Silas froze.
Slowly—very slowly—he turned his head.
A rocking chair sat near the back wall of the alley. It hadn't been there a moment ago.
An old woman sat in it. She rocked gently back and forth, the wood groaning softly with each movement.
Everything about her was crimson.
Crimson dress. Crimson shawl. Crimson gloves. Even the thin strands of hair pulled into a bun looked faintly red beneath the bleeding light.
She watched him. A strange smile stretched across her face.
Silas recoiled instinctively.
The monster in the station had terrified him.
But this woman—
This thing—
Was worse.
Far worse.
He swallowed.
His mouth had gone completely dry.
His mind screamed at him not to speak.
His lips moved anyway.
"Wha—"
The word twisted in his throat.
"...Who are you?"
The old woman's grin widened. Far wider than a human mouth should stretch.
Silas felt cold needles run down his spine. His knees nearly gave out.
"Who?" she repeated.
Her voice was deep and wrong, like several voices layered together. Her head tilted sideways at an unnatural angle.
"Why, I'm aHorror, dearie."
The word hit him like a hammer. His heart skipped.
For a moment, Silas forgot how to breathe. Every instinct screamed the same command.
Run.
Disappear.
Wake up.
This had to be a nightmare.
"So young," the voice whispered suddenly.
Right behind him.
Silas' eyes widened.
At some point the rocking chair had stopped moving.
At some point the woman had disappeared.
At some point she had crossed the alley.
He hadn't seen any of it.
Her breath brushed the back of his neck.
"So… fresh."
His body refused to respond. He couldn't move.
Couldn't turn.
Could barely think.
A cold finger traced slowly along the side of his neck.
"A Walker?" she murmured, almost thoughtfully.
Her tongue brushed his skin.
Silas shuddered violently.
"No…"
Her voice carried faint disappointment.
"A Wanderer still."
Walker.
Wanderer.
The words echoed in Silas's mind.
He didn't understand them.
"You don't know a thing, do you?" she said with quiet amusement.
His silence answered for him.
A terrible anticipation filled his chest.
He was certain now.
He was going to die.
"Don't be so terrified, little sheep," she murmured.
Her hands slid along his arms with disturbing gentleness.
"I prefer my meals… slowly cooked."
Her fingers tightened slightly.
"It enhances the flavor."
Silas forced air into his lungs.
"M… meal?"
She moved in front of him.
Too fast for his eyes to follow.
Her hand closed around his throat.
"You," she said pleasantly, "are prey."
Her smile widened.
"And I am the hunter."
For a moment, Silas almost gave up.
His body trembled.
His mind struggled to hold together.
He might have disgraced himself right there.
Then the woman laughed softly.
"Calm down, little sheep."
Her grip loosened.
"I was only having a taste."
She leaned closer, examining him as if he were livestock.
"I won't eat you now."
Her nose wrinkled slightly.
"Who would want such a malnourished thing?"
Her smile returned.
"I need to fatten you up first."
The image of that smile burned itself into Silas's memory.
"I'll give you a tiny push," she continued.
Her voice turned wicked.
"Help you properly Walk."
She released his neck.
Something dropped lightly against his chest. Silas instinctively grabbed it.
A small red gemstone hung from a crude thread. It glittered faintly in the crimson light.
"It's a small gift from Grandma," she said.
Her voice had changed again.
Now it sounded fully cruel.
"You should look for your kin."
"Real Walkers."
Silas heard the words, but his attention remained fixed on the gem. It was warm. The only warm thing in this terrible place.
The stone pulsed faintly. Almost like a heartbeat. Something deep inside him stirred.
The gem felt…
Hungry.
"Delicious, isn't it?" Grandma said softly.
"But don't eat it, little sheep."
Silas blinked and forced himself to look up. The questions in his mind multiplied rapidly.
Why give him this?
Why not kill him?
What were Walkers?
Why call him Wanderer?
"I see those questions," she said playfully.
"Not completely stupid after all."
Silas said nothing.
"You should look for answers in the Shadow," she continued.
"Ask your own kind."
She nodded toward the gem.
"You can use my little gift to pay for it."
Silas hesitated.
Then, quietly—
"Where?"
For the first time, he felt something like courage push through the fear.
Her eyes gleamed.
"Through your own shadow."
She leaned slightly closer.
"Under the shade of the tallest tree."
The words sounded simple.
But they felt heavy with meaning.
Grandma straightened.
"Well then."
Her smile returned once more.
"Go now, little sheep."
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"Grow strong."
Her eyes gleamed with anticipation.
"And come back for the slaughter."
The words pierced straight through him. Reminding him exactly what she was.
Grandma clapped her hands once and the crimson world collapsed instantly.
Silas stumbled backward.
"Hey! Watch where you're going!"
A man in a work uniform shoved past him.
Silas blinked rapidly.
The alley looked normal.
Rain fell quietly.
Concrete walls.
Dim streetlights.
No blood.
No horrors.
For a moment he wondered if he had imagined everything. Then his fingers tightened around the gemstone. The bruises on his neck throbbed painfully.
No.
It had been real.
Very real.
Still dazed, Silas wandered through the city streets. The usual evening chaos surrounded him—cars, conversations, distant sirens—but none of it seemed important anymore.
Hours passed before he reached his apartment.
He could have taken the metro.
He didn't.
He walked instead.
Partly because he needed time to think. Mostly because he was afraid of seeing that red world again.
Eventually he reached his building. Everything that followed felt mechanical.
Climb the stairs.
Unlock the door.
Remove work clothes.
Shower.
Eat something.
Yet somehow—
The world felt sharper, more real.
Silas flinched at every sudden sound. He kept glancing over his shoulder, and avoided closing his eyes for too long, afraid the world might turn red again when he opened them.
But beneath the fear—
Something else grew.
A quiet excitement.
For the first time in his life…
He wanted something.
He wanted to understand.
The monster.
The Horror.
Walkers.
Wanderers.
His gaze drifted downward.
His shadow stretched across the floor beneath the apartment light.
He stared at it.
It might have been imagination, but the shadow looked… thicker.
Darker.
More defined.
Silas didn't look away.
Didn't blink.
Something inside him whispered.
Look deeper.
So he did.
The shadow spread slowly across his vision.
Darker.
Denser.
Deeper.
The room around him began to shift.
But Silas kept his focus on the shadow.
Falling into it.
And then—
His perspective changed.
Light and darkness surrounded him. Shadows everywhere.
And for the first time in his life—
Silas Ederton had willingly taken a step beyond the first realm.