The rain had been a threat for hours, a low, bruised sky pressing down on the city’s lower sectors, and now it delivered. Cold, thin drops slicked the peeling asphalt, turning the alley into a black mirror reflecting the weak, sodium-vapor glow from a broken streetlamp. Every breath I took tasted like wet concrete and the faint, sweet decay of fallen leaves rotting in unseen gutters. It was late autumn, alright. The kind where the cold sunk into your bones and stayed there, a permanent resident.
My hands, already scraped raw from wrestling with a rusted grate, clenched into fists. I could still feel the phantom vibration from the last time I’d tried to jimmy it open, the metallic whine that had set my teeth on edge. The grate had won. Always did. This whole damn city felt like it was winning, slowly, methodically, against anyone stupid enough to keep fighting it.
Behind the grate, nothing but darkness, thick and ancient. The kind that ate light, even the faint beam from my handheld unit. They called it the ‘Shroude’ – the lingering, invisible byproduct of the Collapse, some kind of energy residue that dulled senses, twisted electronics, and, worst of all, seemed to amplify all the wrong thoughts. Mine, specifically.
It had been two years since the Collapse, or since *my* collapse, depending on who you asked. The lines blurred. Every creak of the city, every distant wail from the upper districts, was a reminder. Every gust of wind through the skeletal trees sounded like a name I no longer allowed myself to whisper. A name that brought the burn behind my eyes, always.
I kicked at a loose brick. It skittered across the wet ground, disappearing into the puddles. Pathetic. Just like me. Out here, chasing scraps, when I should have been… I don’t know. Anywhere but here. With anyone but myself. My worn jacket, once a decent olive green, was now a tapestry of grime and oil stains, doing little to ward off the chill seeping into my shoulders.
My stomach gave a low rumble. Empty. Again. The last meal had been a packet of nutrient paste, tasting like chalk and desperation. Survival in the lower sectors wasn’t glamorous. It was a constant negotiation with rust, shadow, and the unnerving silence that sometimes fell, thick and heavy, like a shroud. The real Shroude.
“Having fun with that?”
The voice. Low, almost a rumble, but clean. Too clean for this alley. It cut through the patter of rain, through the frantic thrum of my own pulse. I flinched, spinning around, my hand instinctively going to the flimsy utility knife tucked into my belt. Pointless against… whatever this was.
Ashworth. Of course. Standing there, at the mouth of the alley, leaning against a graffiti-scarred brick wall, as if he’d simply manifested from the shadows. He always did that. Just *appeared*. No footsteps, no tell-tale scuff of expensive boots on wet pavement. He was a silent predator, or maybe just incredibly good at not being noticed until he wanted to be.
He wore a trench coat, dark, heavy wool, untouched by the grime that coated everything else. His hair, dark as wet earth, was slightly damp, but not plastered down. His eyes, though. They were the color of storm-churned sea, and they were fixed on me with an intensity that made my breath catch in my throat. Not predatory, exactly. More… observant. Like I was a specimen under a microscope.
“Fun’s a strong word,” I managed, my voice rougher than I wanted. “Wouldn’t you say? Given the current… aesthetic.” I gestured vaguely at the damp, miserable alley. My hands, still in fists, were shaking. I shoved them into my pockets, feeling the lint and stray bits of scavenged wire.
He pushed off the wall, a slow, deliberate movement that somehow commanded the space. My eyes tracked him, every muscle in my body tensing. He wasn’t big, not like a brawler, but there was an underlying strength to him, a coiled stillness that promised impact. He moved like water over stone, almost noiselessly.
“Depends on your definition,” Ashworth said, his lips curving into a ghost of a smile. Not a friendly smile. More like he found something mildly amusing, and that something was me. He stopped a few feet away, close enough that I could smell the faint, clean scent of… something. Rain, maybe. Or old books. Nothing like the reek of this place.
“And what’s your definition, Ashworth? ‘Spending quality time observing others fail miserably’?” I shot back, forcing a lightness I didn't feel. My heart was thumping against my ribs, a trapped bird wanting out. This was stupid. I should just walk away. But I couldn’t. Not with those eyes on me.
He chuckled, a low, soft sound that resonated deep in my chest, a weird, unsettling thrum. “Something like that. Or perhaps, ‘intervening before absolute failure becomes… irreversible’.” He glanced at the grate, then back at me. “You’ve been at that for an hour. It’s reinforced. Even if you got it open, there’s nothing but a collapsed drainage tunnel beyond.”
My face burned. Heat rushed up my neck, a tell-tale flush. He always saw too much. Knew too much. It was infuriating. “And you’ve been… watching me fail for an hour? What kind of hobby is that? Bit bleak, even for this city.”
“Someone has to watch,” he said, his voice dropping, taking on a heavier tone. The amusement in his eyes faded, replaced by something unreadable. “Things have a way of disappearing out here. People too.” He took another step, closing the distance between us, and I felt a prickle on my skin, like static electricity. I wanted to step back, to create space, but my feet felt glued to the slick ground.
“Are you offering to… babysit?” I scoffed, trying to inject more bite into my tone, but it came out a little wobbly. My breath hitched. He was too close now. I could see the tiny flecks of amber in his stormy eyes. The sharp line of his jaw. The way his dark hair fell just so, almost touching his collar.
“Consider it a public service,” Ashworth replied, a hint of his dry wit returning, but it was overlaid with something deeper, a quiet current of intent. He raised a hand, slowly, not quite reaching for me, but the gesture alone was enough. My muscles tightened, bracing for a touch that didn’t come. Instead, his gaze flickered to a dark stain on my jacket, near my shoulder.
“You’re bleeding,” he said, his voice flat. “Must’ve caught yourself on something when you were… failing.”
I looked down, a wave of self-consciousness washing over me. A thin, dark line ran from a tear in the fabric, welling slowly. I hadn’t even felt it. Just another indignity. “It’s fine,” I muttered, trying to shrug him off, but his eyes were still on it, an unnerving focus. He had this way of making everything about me feel… amplified. Every ache, every flaw, every frantic pulse.
He stepped even closer, and this time, I couldn't help but flinch. My hand flew up, a useless, defensive gesture. He stopped, but the proximity remained, a heavy weight in the humid air. “You’re not fine,” he contradicted, his voice soft, almost a whisper, and for a terrifying second, it felt like his words were inside my head, rearranging things, making me agree. It was the whisperer thing, I knew it, but still it unnerved me to my core. It felt like a subtle violation.
“Don’t tell me what I am,” I snapped, my voice cracking slightly. I hated the tremor. Hated that I couldn’t control it when he was around. It was like my body had a mind of its own, an unwelcome conspirator with him. My chest felt tight, a sharp, familiar pain flaring beneath my ribs. A phantom limb, reaching for what was lost.
“I just observe,” Ashworth said, his gaze unwavering. He moved again, not towards me, but past me, towards the grate. My head snapped around, watching him. He reached out, not to pry, but to simply touch the cold, rusted metal. His fingers brushed over the surface, and a faint, almost imperceptible shimmer seemed to ripple across the grate. A barely-there hum, like a tuning fork. Then, with a soft *clink*, the heavy lock, which had defied me for an hour, simply… disengaged.
My jaw dropped. I stared at the lock, then at him, then back at the lock. “What… how did you…?”
He turned, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips. “I told you. Things have a way of disappearing. Sometimes, they just need a little… encouragement.” He looked at me, a challenge in his eyes. “You going in, or just going to stand there and stare at the impressive craftsmanship of the city’s forgotten drainage system?”
I felt a jolt, not just of surprise, but of something else. Something raw and electric. He hadn't just opened the grate; he'd opened something in me. A sliver of hope, maybe. Or a sliver of annoyance. Hard to tell the difference sometimes. “Don’t rush me,” I said, though I found myself moving, stepping towards the now unlocked grate, peering into the inky blackness. It still looked like an abyss, but now, it was an accessible abyss.
“Careful,” Ashworth murmured, and his hand, before I could react, was on my lower back. Not a push, not a grab, just a firm, warm weight against my spine, steadying me. The sudden contact sent a shockwave through my entire body. Every nerve ending flared. I sucked in a sharp breath, the air cold in my lungs. My entire awareness narrowed to that point of contact, a burning heat through my thin jacket. It felt possessive, anchoring, utterly unexpected.
I froze, my body rigid, a deer caught in headlights. I could feel the faint tremor in my own hand where it gripped the edge of the now-open grate. The raw, jagged wound of my past heartbreak felt suddenly exposed, laid bare by the sheer, overwhelming presence of him. It wasn’t just physical contact; it was an intrusion, a silent declaration that he saw every crack in my carefully constructed facade. And somehow, my body, betraying every instinct, leaned infinitesimally into his touch.
“It’s fine,” I repeated, a hollow sound. My voice was tight, barely a whisper now, echoing his own earlier words. My face, I knew, was probably burning. I stared into the darkness, not really seeing the tunnel, but seeing instead the impossible intimacy of his hand on my back, the undeniable pull toward something I wasn’t sure I was ready to face. I didn’t know if I wanted to pull away or lean in further, my mind a tangle of frantic warnings and a terrifying, inexplicable yearning.
He removed his hand just as slowly as he’d placed it, the sudden absence of heat a cold ache against my skin. The air felt thin again, hollow. I risked a quick glance over my shoulder. Ashworth was still there, his expression unreadable, those storm-grey eyes still fixed on me. But this time, I saw something else, too: a flicker of something ancient, something that recognized the chaos within me. The rain picked up, a drumming crescendo against the alley walls, but the loudest sound was the frantic beat of my own heart, reverberating in the quiet space between us.
The tunnel was a maw, promising only more shadows and the lingering scent of damp earth, but a part of me, the part that had been numb for so long, felt a sudden, terrifying flicker of something akin to warmth. He had ignited it, this quiet, relentless man. And I, battered and broken, found myself hesitating at the edge of the darkness, not from fear of what lay within, but from the unsettling truth that I didn't feel quite so alone anymore.