Rain had returned to Velvora, but like everything in the city, it was malfunctioning.
It drizzled upward.
Asher Blackwood stood under a flickering streetlight, umbrella useless, watching tiny droplets float skyward like lost jellyfish. His coat clung to him, damp and cold, and the note from the ramen shop haunted his mind like a cryptic pop-up ad.
"The Fourth Memory."
Rachel had insisted on tailing him from a safe distance.
"You're not exactly stealthy," he muttered into his collar.
Rachel, two rooftops away through a comms earpiece, replied, "And you're not exactly sane, so we're even."
He didn't argue.
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Velvora District 9: Where GPS Signals Go to Die
This part of town didn't show up on maps. It wasn't on tourist guides or criminal databases. You could only get here if you were lost enough.
And Asher was very, very lost.
An old payphone rang as he passed it.He stopped. Looked around.
It rang again.
Curiosity, being Asher's worst trait, kicked in.
He picked up.
"Do not follow the taxi with the yellow license plate."
Then a click.
Asher slowly put the phone back down. "I swear, if this is another viral marketing thing—"
A honk echoed through the fog.
A taxi pulled up, brakes screeching like a dying banshee. It was yellow.
Asher stared at the plate.
It read: G4-THZ.
"Oh come on," he said, stepping in.
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The Taxi Driver Who Smelled Like Formaldehyde
The driver didn't turn around.Didn't speak.Didn't blink.
Mostly because he had no eyes.
Instead, dark, empty sockets stared at Asher through the rearview mirror. Yet somehow, the cab moved, gliding like a phantom through the fog.
Asher cleared his throat. "You uh… do rideshare?"
The driver raised one finger.
A second later, a small bell rang above the dashboard.
Then the meter turned itself on—except instead of numbers, it showed a countdown:
10:00
Asher watched it tick.
09:59… 09:58…
"Cool," Asher muttered. "Definitely not cursed at all."
The city blurred by. Lights twisted. Buildings seemed taller, then too short. The sky darkened, despite it being afternoon. He felt like they were moving between versions of Velvora.
And then, just before the meter hit 0, the car stopped.
The door popped open.
Asher stepped out into a narrow alley lined with flickering neon signs, each glowing with strange, shifting symbols that didn't quite want to be read.
Behind him, the cab vanished.
Just like that.
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Cultists Who Hate Dairy Products (And Other Things)
The building ahead looked like a church that had fallen into a vat of techno-acid. Gothic spires met LED trim. Rusted bells hung from copper wires. A broken sign read:
"The Milkless Temple of the Bleeding Verse."
He stepped inside.
Low chanting filled the air.
Dozens of figures in mismatched robes knelt in rows, facing a pulpit where a woman stood with a carton of almond milk in one hand and a rusty knife in the other.
"Brothers! Sisters! Lactose is a lie!"
Cheers erupted.
Asher blinked. "I am definitely in the wrong cult."
But before he could leave, a voice rang out:
"Asher Blackwood. The Verse remembers you."
The crowd went dead silent.
He turned.
A figure walked out from behind the pulpit. Tall, wrapped in silk and shadows, wearing a bone-white mask that covered everything except one bloodshot eye.
"You were touched," the figure said, "during the Event you don't remember."
Asher's breath caught. "You know about the memory wipe?"
The cult leader nodded slowly.
"The Fourth Memory is a fracture in you, boy. You are leaking between timelines. You've tasted power not meant for linear minds. And something is—"
The leader suddenly stopped.
Their body went rigid.
Then they whispered, like something was puppeteering their voice:
"They found you.They're coming.Run."
The lights went out.
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Creepy Event #1: The Knockless Door
The temple rumbled. The chanting turned to screaming. Asher ducked as a blade flew past his ear and embedded into a pillar.
He bolted through a side hallway, heart pounding. He didn't know who they were, and he wasn't about to wait and find out.
Then he saw it—a door at the end of a corridor, glowing faintly.
He pushed it open—
And froze.
It was a mirror room.
Every wall reflected him.Except one reflection… didn't move.
Asher took a step forward.
The odd reflection grinned.
And knocked on the glass.
Even though he hadn't.
The mirror cracked—just slightly—and the reflection whispered:
"Still leaking, Asher."
Then it vanished.
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Outside: Rachel's 'Stealth' Involves Loud Kicking
Rachel caught up just as Asher stumbled out of the side exit, looking like he'd stared too long at Lovecraft's fridge.
"You alright?" she asked, panting.
"I just talked to a blind cabbie, a cult leader with a dairy vendetta, and my evil reflection."
Rachel stared. "Okay. I'm buying you therapy coupons."
They both looked up as the temple behind them let out one final, metallic groan—and then folded inward like a closing flower, vanishing from existence.
A single carton of milk rolled down the steps and stopped at Asher's feet.
[End of Chapter 2]
Preview of Next Chapter:
Chapter 3 – The Girl with the Paper SkinAn anonymous tip leads Asher to the city morgue, where a body marked as Jane Doe sits unnaturally preserved. The problem? She just blinked—and her skin is covered in ancient scripture written in his handwriting.