The sirens were the first thing. Their mournful wails stretched and twisted through the night, sinking into the bones of the world like poison in water. Inside the bus, the young man sat motionless, a statue of restless nerves and half-remembered horrors.
His dark curls, clipped close at the sides but longer and rebellious on top, shifted with the shallow tremble of his shoulders. Those curls were jet black like spilled ink on parchment, brushing faintly against his scalp where the razor had bitten clean.
His eyes, a stormy mix of hazel and deep brown, flitted nervously over the empty seats before him. They were eyes that had seen too much, eyes that burned with a quiet fire beneath heavy lids.
At 6 '3", and dark brown skin, he was a tower of tension and silent strength, his tall frame wrapped in a worn leather jacket that hid more than just muscle.
Along the right side of his torso, a sprawling African tribal tattoo snaked beneath the jacket's hem, etched into his skin like a secret language. It traced from shoulder to rib, a black river of meaning and memory that pulsed beneath the surface like a living thing.
The bus rattled on through the mist, and in the quiet between the echoes of the sirens, a voice whispered—
"We know why you are here."
It was not his voice. It was something older, something colder, lurking just beneath the edge of consciousness. It caressed the edges of his thoughts like a shadow coiling around a candle flame. The entity spoke without sound, words sliding directly into his mind, filling the dark corners no one else could see.
"You won't run from this place, will you?"
The young man clenched his jaw. He refused to speak aloud. This thing—this dark passenger—was a presence both bane and twisted guide, a companion that bore his secrets but shattered his peace.
"Are you afraid they will find you? pushah .. Please, you left so much behind."
Memories came like shards of broken glass, jagged images flashing in his mind's eye. The woman's face, soft but haunted, a ghost from a past he both feared and craved. Children laughing near a fire hydrant, their joy sharp and brittle as cracked ice. And then—always—the cold barrel of a gun, pressing into the soft flesh of his temple.
"You were a king… and now…look at you."
BANG.
The shotgun's crack shattered the silence, rippling through the haze of memory and waking alike.
"Useless"
His heart slammed against his ribs, the rhythm of terror thrumming in his veins. The gun was cocked again, the metallic click sharp as the grind of stone against bone.
BANG. BANG.
Somewhere, distant yet near, a woman's sobs broke through the night, raw and hollow.
"Don't look back"
The dark entity murmured.
"Not yet."
The bus slowed, tires whispering against cracked asphalt. The young man's breath hitched as the vehicle came to a stop.
"Kid," the driver said, his voice rough, pulling the young man from the dark. "This is it. End of the road."
The man's hand was firm, shaking the boy gently but insistently. The young man gathered his belongings, a black Mik-e backpack, worn and fraying, and a scuffed carry-on suitcase that had traveled too far.
The bus was nearly empty, save for the driver's wide shadow and the soft hum of old engines cooling in the night.
Outside, the air was sharp and cold, mist wrapping the world in a damp embrace. The driver opened the door, and the young man stepped down into the mist like a man walking into a dream he feared he could not wake from.
"You take care now," the driver said, voice low and strange, almost like a warning or a prayer.
"Yeah," the young man whispered,
"You won't"
The doors closed with a soft thud behind him, and the bus rumbled away, the ghostly outline of a white hound on its side fading into the fog.
The bus stop was a ruin. The plastic roof, cracked and battered, sagged under the weight of years and neglect. A jagged hole tore through one side, letting the cold drizzle slip inside. Rust streaked the metal frame in angry lines like bleeding wounds. The wooden bench beneath was warped and soaked, and he sank down with a heavy sigh.
"You don't belong here."
The voice slithered into his mind, a snake in the grass.
He looked up, eyes catching the trees that hemmed the road to his right. Their twisted trunks vanished into the thick fog, leaves rustling faintly like whispered secrets. The night was alive with soft sounds, squirrels rustling through dead leaves, an owl's distant hoot that never quite stopped.
The laughter of coyotes echoed somewhere far off, eerie and mocking, a call from the wild that was both threatening and welcome.
To his left, the forest fell away to a rocky shoreline. The sea churned unseen beneath the fog, its salty breath cold and sharp in the air. Waves crashed quietly, relentless, beneath a sky swallowed by cloud.
Mist thickened, curling around his boots, climbing his legs like icy fingers.
"Yeah… I hope so," he muttered, the words hollow and swallowed almost immediately by the fog.
Liar, You came here, you know the cost.
The entity was close now, a presence that pressed against his skull like a vice.
He could feel the tattoo beneath his jacket, the black ink tracing stories of ancestors long dead, bloodlines wrapped in war and survival. The ink pulsed faintly, a heartbeat beneath skin, a reminder that he carried history—and curses—with him.
They wait for you. The ones who cast the shadows long before you stepped foot here.
The young man forced himself to stand, his tall frame cutting a lonely figure against the mist-shrouded road.
His eyes caught a flicker of light—neon, struggling and flickering like a dying heartbeat—under a lone streetlamp. Colors bled and danced across the wet pavement, casting strange, twisting shadows that seemed to crawl like living things.
The sign pulsed again, stubborn against the night:
WELCOME TO FORKS, WASHINGTON, USA
You will see soon enough.
He did not want to see. He did not want to be here.
But the dark thing in his mind whispered with cruel certainty:
You will never have a home