Chapter 1 — The Pull
Aren Hale was sixteen, exhausted, and somehow born with natural purple hair.
He was thirty minutes past the end of his shift.
The gas station lights hummed overhead as he reorganized a shelf that didn't need reorganizing anymore. The mess had already been cleaned up — the chips restacked, the candy refaced, the knocked-over display fixed.
But Aren stayed busy anyway.
At the front counter, Mr. Kim counted the register for the third time.
The rain outside had slowed to a mist, tapping lightly against the windows.
"Aren," Mr. Kim called without looking up, "you can't stay here forever. The rain's barely pouring anymore."
His voice was sharper than usual.
Aren slid another candy bar into place. "I'm just finishing up."
"You finished up twenty minutes ago."
Aren glanced over.
Mr. Kim stood stiffly behind the counter — tired eyes, thinning hair, apron slightly crooked. Usually patient. Usually calm. The closest thing Aren had to a second father.
Tonight, something felt… off.
It wasn't just irritation.
It was heavier than that.
Aren frowned slightly.
For a brief second, he saw it.
Something dark — like oil diluted in water — seeping faintly from behind Mr. Kim's shoulders. Not smoke. Not shadow.
It moved.
It twitched.
And it seemed to be looking at him.
Aren blinked.
The store looked normal again.
Mr. Kim sighed. "Your mother's been wondering where you disappear to every night."
"I'm right here," Aren muttered.
Mr. Kim didn't respond. Just returned to counting.
Aren swallowed.
This had been happening more often lately.
Dark shapes clinging to people. Flickers in reflections. Movement where nothing should move.
No one else reacted.
Which meant either he was seeing something real…
Or he was losing it.
He grabbed his bag from the break room.
"Lock up after me," Mr. Kim said.
"Yeah."
Aren stepped outside.
He left the gas station at exactly 9:03 p.m.
Like always.
Plastic bag in his left hand: one pack of Airhead strips, one pack of AA batteries. His mom's text had come at 8:47. He'd read it at 8:48. No point rushing. Double shift again. She wouldn't be home until morning.
The rain had softened into a steady drizzle — enough to make every step feel heavier.
Aren kept his hood up. Only one drawstring still worked, and the fabric sagged damp against his neck.
He walked with his shoulders loose, pace carefully average. Not too fast. Not too slow.
Easy to ignore.
That was the point.
He was halfway down Carver Street when he heard it.
A faint hiss.
Like air leaking from a punctured tire.
Then a low, wet crunch — like something stepping on soaked cardboard.
Followed by a muffled cry.
Aren slowed.
Looked left.
The alley between the laundromat and the pawnshop was dark, but the streetlight caught enough.
A kid — maybe fourteen — hoodie too big, backpack still on — pressed against the brick wall like he was trying to melt into it.
Something crouched in front of him.
It resembled the dark essence Aren had seen before.
But this one had shape.
Dog-like. Too many legs. Limbs mismatched. Skin stretched tight over uneven bone.
Its face was almost human.
A woman's.
But the mouth was too wide. Teeth wrong.
Eyes glowing a dull, empty gray.
The kid's voice shook. "Please… don't…"
Aren's stomach twisted.
To be honest. He wanted to walk away.
If he kept moving, he'd be home in six minutes. Shower. Eat. Sleep. Wake up. Work again.
Routine would continue.
Nothing would change.
The creature lowered its body.
Lunged.
The kid screamed.
The plastic bag slipped from Aren's hand before he made the decision consciously. Batteries scattered across wet pavement as he stepped into the alley.
"No!"
The word cracked out of him.
The creature froze, head snapping toward him.
Those gray eyes locked onto his.
Aren's chest tightened — not just fear.
Something deeper.
A pull.
Like someone had hooked the inside of his ribs and yanked.
He pressed his palm to his sternum.
"What is happening to me…"
The hum he'd been ignoring for days surged violently.
The creature turned fully toward him.
Behind it, the kid sobbed. "Please help me!"
"Run," Aren said.
"I can't— my leg—"
The creature lunged again.
Aren's right hand came up instinctively — palm out.
Something answered.
Green-gold light split through the air from beneath his fingernails.
Not a beam.
Threads.
Thin as spider silk. Bright as new roots pushing through soil.
They shot forward and wrapped around the creature's front legs.
Aren gasped as the force nearly pulled him off balance.
The threads jerked.
The creature slammed into the brick wall.
The alley shook.
"What—?"
He flung his hand reflexively, and the creature whipped sideways again, crashing into a dumpster.
The kid ducked, barely avoiding it.
"Don't hurt her!" the kid shouted.
Her?
The threads trembled.
Aren stared at the creature more closely.
Beneath the twisted shape — beneath the bone and wrongness — something human flickered.
The pull inside his chest deepened.
The creature shrieked and lunged again.
The pavement split at Aren's feet.
Thicker green-gold roots erupted upward and wrapped around the creature mid-leap, pinning it against the wall hard enough to crack brick.
Silver liquid sprayed outward.
The creature screamed.
Aren flinched.
"Stop—!"
The threads tightened.
The scream changed.
It wasn't rage.
It was pain.
"I said stop!"
This time, the threads listened.
Instead of constricting, they pulsed.
A soft, steady green-gold glow.
The silver liquid stopped spraying.
It began to pull inward.
The creature convulsed.
Its mismatched limbs snapped back into alignment. Bones shifting. Skin weaving smooth. The too-wide mouth shrank. The gray eyes flickered.
Color returned.
The dog-like shape collapsed inward — not into nothing — but into a single human form.
A woman.
Mid-twenties. Soaked in rain. Breathing hard.
The last of the silver Threads rewound into her skin like veins returning home.
What remained was not a monster.
Just a person.
Slumped against brick.
Alive.
The alley fell silent except for the rain.
Aren stood frozen.
The roots dissolved into light and sank back into the pavement.
The glow faded from his hands.
The kid stared between Aren and the woman.
"You… fixed her."
Aren didn't know if that was the right word.
The woman coughed weakly.
Confused.
Human.
Aren's chest still hummed.
But it no longer felt violent.
It felt certain.
He stared at his hands.
They trembled.
"Go home," he told the kid quietly. "Call someone."
The kid nodded and ran.
Aren looked down at his scattered batteries.
One rolled in a slow circle before falling still.
He let out a shaky breath.
"Well… that's new."
He pulled his hood lower and stepped back into the rain.
Behind him, the woman stirred faintly.
Somewhere deeper than the city, beyond brick and asphalt and rain,
it was if the world shifted.
It had felt him.
And it was listening.