Ren stepped through the door.
The air was thick with heavy rainfall. Every inhale tasted damp and metallic, every hard swallow, Ren felt grit scrape the back of his throat as he looked out to the city before him.
The sky hung low and dark gray, a dense ceiling of clouds that pressed down over the streets. Rain fell steadily, a thin, relentless curtain that blurred the edges of the buildings and slicked the cobblestones with a black sheen. It hissed when it struck puddles, dripped from jagged eaves, and pooled in the gutters, running in inky streams that seemed to crawl along the cracks. Every sound—the splash of boots, the distant clatter of unseen wheels—was swallowed by the endless hiss of rain, leaving a pervasive, suffocating silence.
Stone buildings rose on both sides of the narrow street, blackened with age and exhaustion. Gothic arches leaned under the weight of aging. Some were cracked and crumbling, others impossibly tall, stretching up into the sky that offered no light. Windows held warm glow—some with warm candlelight, others with a liquid black shimmer that rippled like ink in water. Shadows clung to corners and alleyways, curling along the walls and pooling beneath roofs.
Everything in this city was soaked: stone, wood, metal, as though rain and ink were the ones in control of the environment.
SPLOSH
Ren's boots met slick cobblestone as he stepped forward.
The rain soaked him through in an instant, soaking the sleeves of his coat and plastering his hair to his face. He inhaled, feeling the chill settle into his lungs.
'This rain...I can't see anything here.'
He continued down the narrow alley, trying to figure out what this place really was.
And then—he heard it.
A sound sharp against the muted hiss of rain—a sob, trembling, ragged.
He squinted his eyes through the sheets of rain, but to no avail.
It was impossible to see in such a situation.
"Hello?" His voice carried down, almost swallowed by the rainfall. "Is someone there?"
A choked, human sound answered. A man sobbing somewhere just out of sight.
'Someone's crying? I should approach with caution not to startle him.'
The alley narrowed, and he saw the figure—kneeling along the cracked wall.
A black man in a well-tailored suit soaked through to his knees. His shoulders shook with sobs, face buried in his hands.
"Why?! Why did you take ma' boy? That wasn't..."
Ren stepped closer, cautious.
"Sir...what's wrong?"
The man's gaze snapped up, wide and wild. Ink poured down from them like dark waterfalls, streaming along his cheeks, over his nose, pooling at his chin before dripping onto the cobblestone. The ink didn't smear naturally—it seemed sentient, writhing and twisting, curling at the edges like serpents. His pupils were impossible to see beneath the dark tide.
A guttural scream tore from the man's throat. He stumbled backward, arms flailing, spattering the black liquid across the alley walls.
"Get...away from me!"
"Wait, calm down..." Ren instinctively stepped back. "I just want to—"
"How much more do you want from me?!"
"I..."
"Don't!" The man shouted, shaking his head. The ink surged faster, creeping up along his navy suit like roots of darkness. "I can't! Why'd you take him?! He's gone...Ma' boy's gone!"
"Please, calm down for a moment." Ren stepped forward. "Try to breathe..."
"Why didn't you take me instead?!" The man slammed a fist into the ground, the ink splattering, hissing where it hit puddles. "Why him?! I…I can't do this…I…I can't take it!"
Then, with a strangled sob, he pushed off the wall and ran into the rain's veil.
Ren gazed down at the spot the man wept, a pool of ink mixed with the rain.
'This ink...It was the same for Nocstella.' He kneeled down to examine it closer. 'That borrowed power...Seems like this is where the other resides...'
Ren rose, shaking off the chill that ran through him.
The rain plastered his gray hair to his forehead.
'Eva? Where is she? She said she would be by my side…No matter what…'
"I need you here…" He whispered, voice lost to the storm. "You said…that you'd be here."
The alley stretched ahead, narrow and oppressive, as he marched forward.
It smelled of old rain, rotting wood, and the metallic tang of ink.
'She's here...She promised me.'
The alleyway seemed endless, walls pressing in closer and closer, the rain relentless. His eyes scanned through the rainfall, searching for any sign of movement. Some sign of her.
'That man...there has to be others around.'
Finally, the alley opened onto a wider street, and Ren took it all in.
The main street stretched endlessly before him.
Buildings rose on either side, well-kept despite the endless storm—stone facades washed clean. Roofs were rigid and well-aligned; windows framed with polished wood, their panes unbroken, glowing amber from interior lights. Yet, even in their pristine order, there was a sense of age, of something eternal pressed into each brick and arch. Gothic towers and spires clawed skyward from the rooftops, impossibly tall, jagged silhouettes against the dense clouds. Their tips vanished into the clouds, and Ren could not tell where it ended.
The street itself was littered with the remnants of life interrupted: rummaged wooden crates, splintered barrels, and abandoned vehicles with shattered windshields and ink infested engine bays. A thin, oil-like film floated atop the puddles, reflecting the dim light of lanterns that swung uneasily from wrought iron posts.
People wandered along the street, slow and aimless, their figures hunched beneath the rain's weight. Their clothing was a strange anachronism: long coats, suspenders, pinstriped suits, fedoras, and dresses that grazed against the stone beneath them. They drifted past Ren without a glance, their gazes distant. Some carried small, broken bundles; others clutched nothing at all, letting their hands drag as if the rain might guide them.
Ren noticed how the blackened water soaked the hems of trousers, the edge of dresses, dripping into their shoes. Occasionally, one would pause, tilting their head to the sky as if searching for something that had long been lost. Their faces were streaked with rain and dirt; some bore faint, curling lines of black ink along their skin, tracing veins and tears alike. None spoke, none reacted to his presence—he was moving as a ghost among ghosts.