The city lay under a pale, silver moon. The streets were quiet, empty except for the occasional stray cat or flickering lamp. He moved through the alleys as he always did, careful and aware, though tonight something felt different. The stones beneath his feet trembled faintly, just enough to make him pause. He had felt it before, but never this clear, never so insistent.
Shadows stretched across the walls, bending unnaturally in the moonlight. Water in a fountain rippled without wind. Even the air seemed to hum quietly, vibrating with something he couldn't name. He shivered and stepped closer to the fountain, instinctively drawn toward the rhythm, toward the subtle pulse beneath the world.
From the opposite side of the street, a woman approached. Her movement was deliberate, her posture calm but confident. Their eyes met for a brief second, and something flickered — warmth, a tug, a spark he didn't understand. Her hair fell over her shoulder, smooth and dark in the moonlight, and the way she carried herself made him pause longer than usual. She didn't speak, and she didn't smile. Yet the air between them seemed to shift.
"You feel it too," she said quietly, almost as if testing him. Her voice was low, steady, confident. Not a question, not a demand, just a statement.
He froze. He didn't know how she could know. He hadn't even thought the tremor out loud.
"I… I don't know what you mean," he said, though even as he spoke, his chest throbbed with warmth. Something inside him moved, alive and pulsing.
"Most don't," she replied, tilting her head slightly, as if reading him. "Few notice. Fewer still survive it. The world isn't as quiet as you think."
A soft sound came from the corner of the street, low and vibrating, almost imperceptible. He didn't recognize it at first, then realized it was a shadow curling oddly at the edge of the light. It felt alive, deliberate, watching. He stepped back instinctively, but the woman didn't flinch. She merely straightened, eyes still fixed on him.
"It's starting," she said simply. "You feel it, right? The pulse? That's the first tremor. Not everyone gets it. Not everyone survives it when it comes."
He didn't know what she meant. He only knew that the warmth in his chest had grown, sharper, insistent. Something stirred within him, a thread of potential, raw and undefined. He didn't understand it, but he could feel it, faintly tugging, asking for attention.
The shadow at the corner shifted again, curling and stretching. For the first time, he realized he wasn't just feeling the pulse — he was connected to it. Something in him had responded, something human and fragile, yet undeniable.
"Careful," the woman said, her gaze flicking to the shadow. "It watches. You can't ignore it. Not now."
The street fell silent again. The shadow lingered at the edge of vision, the fountain rippled faintly, and the lamps flickered. The pulse remained, a quiet heartbeat beneath the city, and he could feel it inside him, moving, waking, alive.
For the first time, he realized the city, the night, and even the air itself were not ordinary. And the first thread of something greater had begun to pull him along a path he didn't yet understand.