Chapter 1
MORGAN
The alarm on my phone buzzed insistently from the nightstand, pulling me out of a sleep that had been anything but restful.
I reached over and silenced it without opening my eyes, the familiar weight of exhaustion settling in like an old friend.
Mornings were always like this, a slow drag from dreams that lingered too long into the daylight.
Last night's had been vivid again, fragments of a vast hall with stone walls that seemed to breathe, and a metallic hum that vibrated through my bones.
I shook it off as I sat up, rubbing at my eyes.
Dreams were just dreams, no matter how real they felt in the moment.
No point dwelling on them when there was coffee to make and a shift to get through.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed, the wooden floor cool under my feet, and padded into the tiny kitchen of my apartment.
The place was nothing special, a one-bedroom on the third floor of a building that had seen better days, with peeling paint in the hallways and a landlord who only showed up if the rent was late.
But it was mine, and in a city like this, that counted for something.
I flicked on the coffee maker, listening to the gurgle as it started up, and glanced out the window at the street below.
Gray skies hung low, promising more rain, and the usual morning rush was already underway: people hustling to bus stops, cars honking their way through intersections.
Everything looked normal, but there was an undercurrent these days, a tension that hummed through the air like static before a storm.
The news had been full of it for weeks now, this string of killings that had everyone on edge.
I grabbed my phone and scrolled through the headlines while the coffee brewed.
Another body found last night, this one in an underpass on the industrial side of town.
The details were sparse, as always, but the pattern was the same: a single wound, clean, deep and deadly.
A sword, of all things. In a city where muggings usually involved knives or guns, the idea of someone wandering around with a blade like that felt archaic, almost ridiculous if it weren't so terrifying.
No witnesses, no clear motives, just bodies turning up in forgotten corners.
The police were calling it a serial thing now, urging people to travel in groups after dark, but that didn't stop the rumors from spreading.
Online forums were exploding with theories, everything from a cult ritual to LARP-er on bathsalts.
I'd overheard a couple of neighbors talking about it in the lobby yesterday, their voices low, like saying it out loud might summon the killer himself.
I poured my coffee black, strong enough to cut through the fog in my head, and took a sip, leaning against the counter.
The killings had changed things, subtly at first, but noticeably now.
People didn't linger on the streets the way they used to; shops closed earlier, and the bars had that extra layer of caution in the air.
I'd started carrying pepper spray in my bag, not that I thought it'd do much against someone swinging a sword, but it made me feel a little less exposed.
Still, life went on. Bills didn't pay themselves, and panicking wouldn't help.
I finished my coffee, rinsed the mug, and headed to the bathroom to get ready for work.
The cafe where I worked was a fifteen-minute walk from my apartment, through a neighborhood that mixed old brick buildings with newer high-rises trying to gentrify the place.
I pulled on my coat, locked the door behind me, and stepped out into the damp morning air.
The streets were busier than usual for this hour, people clustering at crosswalks, eyes darting more than they should.
I fell into step with the flow, weaving around a group of office workers chatting about the latest news.
"Heard they found another one," one of them said, a woman with a thermos clutched in her hand.
"Sword wound again. What kind of psycho uses a sword?
" Her friend shook his head, muttering something about the city going to hell.
I kept my distance, not wanting to get pulled into the conversation, but their words stuck with me.
It was the bizarreness of it that got under my skin, the way it didn't fit the usual urban nightmare.
Work was the usual grind, a small coffee shop tucked between a bookstore and a laundromat, the kind of place that attracted regulars and the occasional tourist. I tied on my apron and got behind the counter, the familiar rhythm of steaming milk and grinding beans pulling me into the day.
My coworker, Lena, was already there, her dark hair tied back in a messy bun, scrolling through her phone with a frown.
"Morning," she said without looking up. "You see the news?
Another body. This one's close, like ten blocks from here. "
I nodded, starting on a latte for the first customer in line. "Yeah, I saw. Underpass near the warehouses. Creepy as hell."
She set her phone down, leaning on the counter.
"It's freaking everyone out. My roommate won't even go out after eight anymore.” We worked side by side through the morning rush, chatting in between orders.
She was easy to talk to, one of the few people I actually liked spending time with, even if our conversations rarely went deeper than work gripes or city gossip.
"You okay walking home alone later?" she asked at one point, wiping down the espresso machine.
"I can hang back and give you a ride if you want.
My shift only ends half an hour before yours. "
I shrugged, handing a to-go cup to a harried-looking man in a suit. "I'll be fine. I've got pepper spray and a mean right hook. Besides, statistically, I'm more likely to get hit by a bus than skewered by some nutjob with a Renaissance fair fetish."
I appreciated the offer, but I hated feeling like I needed it. I'd always been the type to handle things on my own, pushing through whatever came my way. Depending on people just led to complications, in my experience.
Lena snorted, handing off a drink to a customer. "Always the optimist. Just... be careful, okay?”
The morning blurred into afternoon, orders coming and going, the cafe filling with the smell of fresh pastries and the low hum of conversation.
But even here, the tension seeped in. A couple at a corner table kept glancing at their phones, discussing the killings in hushed tones.
"They say the wounds are always precise, like the guy knows what he's doing," one of them whispered.
"No struggle marks sometimes. It's like he just appears out of nowhere.
" I tuned it out as best I could, focusing on the tasks at hand, but it lingered, that sense of the city holding its breath.
On my lunch break, I stepped out for some air, walking a block to the small park nearby.
The air was cooler than it should have been for midday, a chill that seemed to come from the ground itself, seeping up through the cracked pavement.
I sat on a bench, unwrapping a sandwich from the cafe, and watched the pigeons pecking at crumbs.
The park was bordered by an old stone wall, overgrown with ivy, and something about it always made me pause.
Today, as I looked at it, a flash of familiarity hit me, unbidden and strange, like I'd seen those exact vines twisting in that pattern before, in a place I couldn't name.
It wasn't a memory, exactly, more a sensation, a tug at the back of my mind that made the world feel slightly off-kilter.
I blinked, and it was gone, leaving me staring at ordinary stone.
I'd had moments like this my whole life, places or objects that stirred something I couldn't explain, a coldness that wasn't just temperature or a whisper of sound no one else heard.
I used to mention them when I was younger, but people just looked at me funny, so I'd learned to keep it to myself.
Probably just an overactive imagination, or maybe I needed more sleep.
I finished my sandwich and headed back, brushing off the unease.
The rest of the shift passed without incident, but by the time I clocked out, the sky had darkened early, heavy clouds rolling in.
The walk back felt longer than usual, the streets emptier now that the workday crowd had thinned.
I kept my pace steady, eyes scanning the sidewalks ahead, a habit I'd picked up lately.
The news reports played in my head, those sword wounds standing out as the most inexplicable part.
Who even owned a sword these days? It made the whole thing feel less like random violence and more like something intentional, a message no one could read.
Halfway home, I passed the old church on the corner, its spire cutting into the gray sky.
I'd walked by it a hundred times, but today something felt…
off. My skin prickled, a shiver running down my arms that had nothing to do with the wind.
For a split second, as I glanced at the arched doorway, an image flickered in my mind: blood on stone, a low chant echoing in the distance, grief so sharp it stole my breath.
It vanished as quickly as it came, leaving me standing there, heart pounding for no good reason.
I shook my head, forcing myself to keep moving.
Tired, that's all it was. The killings had everyone jumping at shadows, including me.
I picked up my pace, focusing on the familiar route: turn left at the bakery, cross at the light, home in sight.
By the time I reached my building, the unease had settled into something quieter, a nagging sense that something was watching me.
I unlocked the door and stepped inside, the warmth of the apartment a small relief.
I kicked off my shoes, made a quick dinner of pasta from the fridge, and settled on the couch with my laptop.
The online chatter about the killings was everywhere, forums full of speculation and fear-mongering.
I scrolled for a bit, then closed it, not wanting to feed the anxiety.
Instead, I put on a mindless show, letting the background noise fill the space.
As evening deepened, I got ready for bed, brushing my teeth and changing into pajamas.
The dream from last night hovered at the edges of my thoughts, that humming metal and the vast hall, but I pushed it aside.
Sleep came slowly, the city sounds filtering through the window: distant sirens, the occasional car horn.
When I finally drifted off, the dreams returned, more insistent this time.
I was walking through shadows, the air heavy with the scent of rain and something metallic, like blood or iron.
A figure stood at the edge of vision, too distant to make out, but I felt its gaze on me, steady and unblinking.
I woke with a start sometime in the night, the room dark and still, my heart racing.
The clock said two a.m., and outside, the street was quiet.
But as I lay there, staring at the ceiling, a new sensation crept in, subtle at first, then sharper: the feeling of being watched, not from within the apartment, but from somewhere out there in the night.
I got up, peered through the blinds, but the street was empty, just shadows and the glow of streetlights.
Nothing there. Still, the prickling on the back of my neck didn't fade.
I double-checked the locks, told myself it was paranoia from all the news, and went back to bed.