Makun stood and shouldered his sports bag. A cracked public clock nearby read 6:47 PM, Monday evening. The pier district lay to the east, maybe a forty-minute walk.
He was on his way to meet the veiled woman at the market, ready, and hoping not to land in trouble the way he had last time with Zack York. He hoped she would get what she wanted from the exchange, too. He had gambled at Old Town, it was true, but having read the book, he knew it had been worth it.
The dream had come back on Sunday night, on the cot at Hope's Rest: the chains, the glass, the slow tapping on the other side, counting. He woke on Monday more drained than when he lay down, and he knew from long experience what kind of day it would be.
The book gave him nothing more either; it seemed he needed more spiritual energy to reach the rest. But he hadn't been idle. He spent the whole morning observing the particles, experimenting and watching how they moved around him and through him, trying to understand their patterns.
Then he went online and searched for spiritual energy, mystic abilities, seeing particles in the air. The results were garbage: AI-generated nonsense, clickbait like Unlock Your Third Eye in 7 Days! and See Auras With This One Weird Trick!, threads full of people role-playing as mystics, fake testimonials, scam courses at $499. One website claimed you could awaken spiritual sight by staring at the sun for thirty seconds every morning; another said all you needed was lavender oil and positive affirmations.
He closed the browser. The real world was hidden, deliberately, and the internet was flooded with distractions to keep it that way. Still, he was satisfied. At least now he knew that real knowledge wasn't something you found online.
Afterward, he worked on his questions. She had promised him three answers, which was another way to get information, and he needed it badly. The most urgent things he had to know were how to start walking the path and how to choose a route. But spending his questions on only those seemed like a waste.
The book had given him a brief, shallow understanding of the Veil, The Deep and the Mystic world, but to get to the bottom of his situation he needed more. Who were the families in control? Who was responsible for the Suppression, and how did they manage it? Only by understanding that could he find out who was behind his ruin.
That was no easy task in Naija City, an old and nearly abandoned town. After the disasters and conflicts that swept the world from late 2026 to 2029, everything had changed: wars, economic collapse, climate disasters and a mild AI dystopia that reshaped the world.
Because of the crises still going on, huge numbers of people migrated from dangerous places in search of safety in other countries, and the United States took in so many that its old structure couldn't hold. Under the new president, a young woman who had risen to power during the chaos, a great deal changed. The fifty states as people had known them were reshaped, with borders redrawn, cities reorganized and resources redistributed.
Naija City was one of those changes. It had once been an industrial hub and a port, but when the new administration prioritized coastal megacities and technology centers, Naija was left behind. Funding dried up, infrastructure crumbled, and anyone who could leave did.
What remained was a patchwork of old factories, decaying apartment blocks and forgotten neighborhoods, a place where people ended up when they had nowhere else to go. The government barely acknowledged it existed. Police were scarce, schools had closed and hospitals were underfunded. Naija had become a ghost in the system, ignored, avoided and left in shambles.
In a place that neglected, Makun couldn't even begin to imagine finding the connections that would show him how the world really ran, let alone in his daily life. Even in the mystic circle, Zuri was the only mystic he had met here. True, he hadn't really looked. But still.
He didn't even know how the Night Market worked. Were its people from Naija City, or did they come from other places, all connected to one hub like something out of a video game? That was why the three questions mattered so much.
The streets shifted as he walked. The diner district gave way to older buildings, cracked sidewalks and faded signs in languages he didn't recognize, and the air began to smell of salt and fish and rust. He passed a corner store with bars on its windows, where a group of men sat outside smoking. They didn't look at him. Good. He kept his head down and kept walking.
He activated his Sight as he went, and the particles appeared, faint golden threads weaving between the buildings. He had practiced all day, and he was better now at following their pull. On Friday night the energy had dragged him along, overwhelming and confusing, and he had stumbled through Old Town like a drunk chasing ghosts.
Now it was different. He could feel the currents, the way the particles flowed, where they gathered and where they thinned. The energy wasn't pulling him anymore; he was following it and guiding himself. It felt natural, like learning to ride a bike, shaky at first and smoother with practice. The threads led east, toward the water and the pier district, and Makun followed.
Fifteen minutes in, a stray dog darted out of an alley and barked once, sharp and loud. Makun jerked back, and his heel caught the lip of a raised sidewalk crack. He stumbled, arms windmilling and the bag swinging wide, and didn't fall, but his left foot came down hard in a shallow puddle of something dark and oily. Cold liquid soaked through his shoe and into his sock. He stopped and looked down. The puddle was filthy, motor oil mixed with rainwater, maybe worse.
It was the same shoe, the left one, where Zack's blood had dried days ago, on a day that had started the way those days always started. Of course. He shook his foot, and oil dripped off it with a faint, awful chemical smell. The dog barked again and ran off, and Makun sighed and kept walking.
The further he went, the quieter the pier district grew: warehouses shut tight, loading docks empty. He found a bench beside an old shipping container, sat down and set the bag beside him. He would wait here, and at midnight he would find the market, pay what he had promised, ask his three questions, and hope the veiled woman had answers.