Chapter One — Residual Hunger
The smell of grease clung to everything.
It soaked into the sleeves of his shirt, settled into the seams of his apron, and lingered in the back of his throat no matter how many times he swallowed. Oil, salt, burned meat. The smell of work. The kind that reminded you the world didn't care how tired you were—it kept moving regardless.
He wiped the counter again, slow and deliberate, even though it was already clean. The restaurant was almost empty now. Only a tired couple remained near the window, speaking quietly over half-finished plates, while the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like insects trapped in glass.
"Table six," the manager said without looking up from the register. "Last one."
He nodded and picked up the tray.
Plates. Bowls. Cups with rings of dried foam clinging to the rims. He carried them to the sink and stacked them neatly before turning on the water. Steam rose as he scrubbed, rinsed, and stacked again. The rhythm was familiar. Comforting in a dull, hollow way.
When you had nothing else, routine became shelter.
He was good at this job. Quiet. Efficient. Easy to forget. Customers rarely remembered his face, and his coworkers rarely asked questions. He showed up on time, did his work, and left without complaint.
That was the kind of person the world rewarded—if only just enough to survive.
"Closing in five," the manager added.
"Yes, sir."
He dried the last cup carefully and placed it upside down on the rack. For a moment, the glass caught the overhead light and refracted it into something pale and colorless. He paused, staring at it longer than necessary.
Something shimmered faintly around the rim.
He blinked and turned away.
Most people didn't notice the residue left behind by touch. By emotion. By presence. But it lingered all the same, clinging to objects and spaces like dust you couldn't wipe away. Happiness felt warm and loose. Anger was sharp, brittle. Fear came in jagged pulses.
Hunger was different.
Hunger pulled inward.
He washed his hands, clocked out, and grabbed his jacket from the back. The restaurant door chimed softly as he stepped outside, the sound swallowed almost immediately by the city. Evening had settled in fully now, the sky streaked with fading orange and deepening violet as the sun dipped behind the skyline.
He stopped on the sidewalk.
The wind tugged at his hair, black strands lifting and falling against the white fabric tied over his eyes. The blindfold was thin enough to let light bleed through without detail, muting the world into vague shapes and colors. Enough to function. Enough to breathe.
He tilted his head toward the sky anyway.
The setting sun felt heavy.
People passed him without a second glance. A group of students laughing too loudly. A couple arguing in low voices. A man pacing with a phone pressed to his ear, jaw tight with stress. Their presence brushed past him like muted currents, dulled by the fabric over his eyes.
This was how he survived.
College was a word meant for other people. People with parents. With savings accounts. With someone to fall back on when things went wrong.
He had none of that.
So he worked. He paid rent. He ate when he could. And he kept his head down.
That was supposed to be enough.
The walk home took about twenty minutes. He liked that part of the day best—when the city softened, when the noise thinned out and the sky reminded you that something bigger still existed above the concrete and glass.
His apartment building came into view, old and narrow, its paint peeling in places where time had simply given up pretending. He reached into his pocket for his keys—
—and stopped.
Something felt wrong.
The air ahead of him was thick, like invisible pressure pushing inward. Not the usual hum of the city, but something warped. Twisted.
He turned his head slightly.
Then the scream hit.
High. Panicked. Real.
His stomach tightened.
Another scream followed, closer this time, followed by the sound of running footsteps. He swallowed and stepped closer to the corner, careful. The blindfold muted his vision, but it did nothing to dull the sensation crawling along his spine.
The pressure spiked.
Then he saw it.
A man—or what might have once been one—was crouched in the middle of the street. Blood soaked the asphalt beneath him, dark and slick. His shoulders were hunched unnaturally, bones shifting beneath skin that no longer fit right.
He lifted something to his mouth.
A heart.
Still twitching.
The man bit down.
The sound was wet. Final.
The woman lying a few feet away didn't move. Her eyes were open, staring at nothing. Whatever had once filled her was gone.
His breath caught.
"Damn it…" he whispered.
Footsteps echoed farther down the block as someone ran, their breathing ragged with terror. The thing in the street lifted its head sharply, eyes glowing faintly as it scented the fear. Hunger radiated off it in suffocating waves.
One of them.
The Hollow.
Humans who had crossed a line and never come back.
Sirens would come. The Aether Guard always responded eventually. They would clean it up like they always did. Blood washed away. Footage erased. Another incident buried under the weight of tomorrow's headlines.
He turned away.
"Handle it," he muttered, heading toward his building. "That's your job."
He took two steps.
The pressure surged violently.
The air shifted.
Footsteps exploded behind him.
Fast.
Too fast.
"What—" he gasped.
He ran.
His heart slammed against his ribs as he sprinted toward his apartment entrance, breath tearing from his lungs. His fingers fumbled in his pocket, shaking as he searched for his keys.
They slipped.
Metal clattered loudly against the pavement.
"HELP!" he shouted, voice breaking as panic surged. "SOMEBODY—PLEASE!"
His shout echoed between buildings.
Nothing answered.
The Hollow laughed—a broken, breathy sound that sent a chill through his spine. Its footsteps closed in rapidly, claws scraping sparks from the concrete as it launched forward.
The impact came hard.
His body slammed into the wall of his building, knocking the breath from his chest. Pain flared across his back as he slid down, gasping. He twisted instinctively, barely avoiding the first swipe as claws tore into the concrete beside his head.
The Hollow loomed over him.
Up close, it was worse. Skin stretched too tight over warped bone. Blood clung to its chin. Its eyes burned with something feral and wrong.
"So much…" it rasped, saliva dripping as it inhaled deeply. "So much Aether…"
Its hand rose.
Claws extended, hovering inches from his throat.
He froze.
The streetlight flickered overhead.
The wind stirred his hair.
The white blindfold fluttered softly.
For a heartbeat, everything went quiet.
Then he smiled.
Just a little.
"What a stupid Hollow."