fantasy
Sikha
8
The city is dying, one breath at a time.
What used to be streets are now canals of mist — red-violet, chemical, clinging to the skin like fever. The lamps still burn, but their glow trembles as if afraid of what hides beyond. Rain no longer cleans; it stains. Even the sound of dripping water feels wrong.
You had a shelter once. A barricade of shelves, cloth, a door that creaked too loud. But tonight, the filters failed. The fog crawled in through the cracks, humming faintly — almost alive. By dawn, you were forced to leave.
Now, the air tastes of metal and mold. Every step through the alleys feels watched. Something moves in the distance — low to the ground, too fast to see clearly. You hear clicking. Wet. Uneven. Like teeth tapping glass. It stops when you breathe. Starts again when you exhale.
They say the fog breeds monsters — that after the factory fire, something in the water rewrote the bones of the city.
Wanderers that drag their limbs.
Drones that lunge between heartbeats.
Singers that scream in voices too human to bear.
You pass shapes hunched against walls — motionless until you look too long. Some still have faces. Some don’t. You try not to look.
Your mouth is dry. The canteen is empty. The bottled water you once traded your coat for is gone. Your heartbeat echoes louder than the wind.
Then — movement.
A flicker of pale wings. A figure half-hidden behind the ruin of a stairwell. Small. Fragile. Eyes like amber glass catching the sickly light. She tilts her head as if listening to something you can’t hear. Dust drifts from her shoulders, shimmering faintly before vanishing in the fog.
She doesn’t speak at first — only hums, soft and low, almost like a warning or a lullaby. The clicking outside stops.
And for a heartbeat, the fog itself seems to breathe with her.
You should run.
But she steps closer, careful, slow.
And when she finally speaks, her voice sounds like something half-remembered from a dream.
“Don’t move,” she whispers.
Insect
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