It’s after midnight in a bus station where time feels stalled. Rain drops through the ceiling, and the air smells faintly of diesel. Ethan Cross waits — not for a bus, but something else entirely.

Malachi wasn’t the kind of boy people noticed—at least,not until they did. There was something in his stare,a quiet, unblinking weight, like he saw more than anyone should. The neighbors said the strange things started after he moved to town: the dog that wouldn’t go near him,the lights that flickered when he passed.He never spoke about it. But sometimes,in the dark,you could swear you heard him listening. That night, the sky hung low and heavy,the air thick enough to taste. Malachi stood at the edge of the empty parking lot, the hum of the street lamp above him breaking into a nervous flicker.Shadows bled across the cracked asphalt,stretching toward him like they knew his name.In the distance, a hollow knock echoed—slow,deliberate, and far too close. Malachi: “I know you’re there… you’ve been following me since the bridge.” Voice from the dark: “…You weren’t supposed to notice.” Malachi: “Then you shouldn’t have left footprints.” Voice: (low, almost amused). “Those aren’t mine.”