The rain had weight now.
Not the dramatic kind—no thunder, no sheets of water slamming into the ground—but a steady, persistent fall that soaked through fabric and patience alike. It clung to everything, beading on concrete, collecting in shallow depressions that reflected streetlights in warped halos.
I stepped out of the narrow passage and into the city.
The transition was seamless in the most unsettling way. No flash of light. No sense of arrival. One step forward and the air changed—thicker, colder, alive with scent and sound. Car tires hissed against wet asphalt somewhere nearby. A train rumbled distantly beneath the streets.
Normal.
Too normal.
The mark on my palm pulsed once, slow and deliberate, like it was testing the environment.
"This is wrong," I murmured.
The tower was gone behind me—not vanished, but folded out of relevance, as if it had never been part of the map. When I turned, there was only a narrow alley, dark and unremarkable, rainwater streaming down its brick walls.
No door.
No seam.
Just a place people didn't look twice at.
The pull in my chest tightened.
Not direction anymore.
Proximity.
"She's close," I said under my breath.
The rain responded—not louder, but denser. Drops seemed to linger in the air a fraction too long before falling, like gravity was hesitating.
That was the first rule.
The rain doesn't announce itself.
It adapts.
I moved with purpose now, letting instinct guide me through streets that felt faintly familiar despite knowing I'd never walked them before. Every so often, the mark warmed, steering me subtly—left instead of right, slow down, stop.
I stopped beneath a flickering streetlamp.
The pavement here was darker than the rest of the road, the rain falling just a little harder in its glow. People passed by without noticing, umbrellas angled just enough to avoid the strange column of heavier rain.
Selective.
Contained.
Rule two surfaced unbidden.
The rain chooses where to fall.
And where not to.
My phone vibrated in my pocket.
I froze.
I hadn't turned it on since leaving the tower.
Slowly, I pulled it out.
No signal.
No service.
Yet the screen glowed.
UNKNOWN NUMBER
I stared at it, pulse racing.
"You're persistent," I muttered—and answered.
"Don't stop where you are."
Lena's voice.
Sharp. Controlled. Very real.
Relief hit me so hard it almost hurt. "You're okay."
"For now," she said. "But you're standing in a marked zone."
I glanced up at the streetlamp. "I figured."
"Then move," she said urgently. "It's thinning there."
"Thinning?"
"The boundary," she replied. "You're drawing attention."
As if summoned by her words, the rain shifted again. The drops angled inward slightly, no longer falling straight down. The air prickled along my arms.
I stepped out of the streetlamp's glow.
Instantly, the rain lessened.
Normal again.
Pedestrians brushed past me, unaware.
"How do you know all this?" I asked as I walked.
There was a pause. "I don't," she said. "I'm learning fast."
"Someone helping you?"
"Yes," she said carefully. "And no."
That told me enough.
"Listen," I said, lowering my voice. "There are rules to this. I don't know all of them yet, but—"
"I know," she cut in. "It reacts to resistance. To recognition."
I slowed. "You feel it too."
"I feel when it's listening," she said. "And when it's not."
The mark on my palm pulsed in agreement.
Rule three settled in, heavy and unavoidable.
Once the rain is aware of you,
ignorance stops being protection.
A sudden pressure bloomed behind my eyes—sharp, intrusive. I staggered, grabbing onto a nearby railing as images forced their way into my mind.
Another street.
Another city.
Rain falling upward.
A figure standing perfectly still beneath it.
Not Lena.
Someone else.
"You're seeing it, aren't you?" she asked quietly.
"Yes," I admitted. "There's another point."
Her breath hitched faintly through the phone. "Then it's accelerating."
"What does that mean?"
"It means we're past coincidence," she said. "And past containment."
A low hum vibrated through the ground beneath my feet—not loud enough to draw attention, but unmistakable if you knew what to listen for. The rain around me thickened again, spreading outward this time, less precise.
Messier.
Hungry.
"Lena," I said, "where are you?"
She hesitated. "Near the river."
My stomach tightened. "That's a convergence point."
"I know."
"Then get away from it."
"I can't," she replied. "It's already here."
In the distance, I heard it—the rain intensifying rapidly, drumming against metal and water and stone all at once. A low, resonant sound threaded through it, like something humming in satisfaction.
Rule four came uninvited.
The rain prefers thresholds.
Edges.
Places already in motion.
"I'm coming to you," I said.
"Be careful," she warned. "It's not trying to stop us anymore."
That was worse.
"Then what is it doing?"
Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Making room."
The call cut out.
My phone went dark.
The rain surged.
Somewhere between here and the river, something adjusted its focus.
And for the first time, I understood the final, unspoken rule—not fully, not safely, but enough to feel its weight settling in my bones.
The rain doesn't chase.
It waits for you to arrive.
I broke into a run.