The rain fell in thick, unrelenting sheets, an endless downpour that blurred the city into a ghost of itself. Xuan Jing leaned against the rusted railing of an abandoned rooftop, staring out at the crumbling concrete below, where flickering streetlights cast dim, sickly orange pools on the pavement. The faint glimmer of his cigarette illuminated the dark circles under his green grey eyes, tracing the lines of someone far older than seventeen.
The air was thick with the scent of ozone and dampness, muffling the noise from below. It wasn't a peaceful quiet—it was the kind of silence that followed tragedy, the eerie calm that reminded Xuan Jing of a wound scabbed over but still festering beneath.
He took a slow drag and then flicked the cigarette, the glowing ember spiraling downward before it was swallowed by the darkness. He felt a shiver run through his fingers, and it wasn't the cold—he was used to that. It was the sense of something moving through the dark, something older than the city itself, hungry for a purpose.
Xuan Jing pulled out the old camera from his grey jacket's pocket, the strap worn and fraying at the edges. He looked through the lens, not to capture the world but to see beyond it. A click, then the quiet shutter—the flash brightened the space in front of him for the briefest second.
And there it was, a reverb of what others could not see. The alley below twisted and warped, its walls bending to reveal a figure lingering in the dark—a shape vaguely human, though its face was featureless, an absence of light where eyes and a mouth should be. It watched him, motionless, a thing neither dead nor truly alive, hanging between this world and another. Its edges seemed to fade into the rain.
Xuan Jing sighed, slipping the camera back into his pocket. He wasn't a hero; that was clear enough, he actually hated them. This city had no room for heroes, only survivors, and he wasn't interested in saving anyone. Whatever the hell that thing was, it was just one of many, all feeding on the fear and desperation that hung over the crumbling old districts like smoke.
He turned and began walking, his black chelsea boots making soft splashes on the waterlogged roof, heading towards the half-broken door that led to the stairwell. He had places to be, and those things—whatever they wanted—weren't his problem. Not tonight, anyway.
The mask swung at his side, bumping against his hip, the hollow eye sockets occasionally catching the light. It was the only reminder he carried of the promises he'd made, of the reasons he used to have before he stopped caring. Xuan Jing pulled his hood up, the fabric hanging low enough to hide the tired defiance in his eyes and his shoulder length silver hair, and pushed the door open.
It groaned in protest, ringing through the empty stairwell, the sound swallowed by the steady drumming of the rain.