A sharp chill ran down Keiran's spine as the cold water splashed against his back. He stirred, groaning as consciousness returned, his mind sluggish, his body aching from the stiff, frozen ground beneath him. The distant hum of the city wove through his half-awake thoughts—muffled conversations, the rhythmic clatter of uneven footsteps, the occasional hiss of steam escaping from vents high above. His breath came out in short, shivering gasps, faint white clouds forming before dissolving into the night air.
The alley was dark, suffocated by shadows that stretched along the worn brick walls, their damp surfaces slick from the night's cold drizzle. Somewhere nearby, a streetlamp flickered, its weak glow barely penetrating the thick gloom. This alley, this narrow, forgotten crack in the city, was a place meant for ghosts—places where people like him existed unseen, tucked away from the warmth of real homes and real lives.
Keiran shifted, feeling the damp cardboard beneath him crumple further. His thin, threadbare shirt clung to his skin, offering little protection from the night's relentless chill. His pants, torn at the knees, did little to shield his legs from the icy ground. And his feet, bare and numb, ached with every slow movement.
Somewhere just beyond the alley's mouth, a couple passed by, wrapped in thick coats lined with fur, lost in their own world. The man's voice was low, smooth, carrying a casual amusement as he whispered something to the woman beside him. Her laughter, light and breathy, mixed with the distant hum of a passing vehicle. Then—
Splash.
A boot landed in a shallow puddle near the alley's edge, sending a spray of freezing water onto Keiran's back.
His body jerked awake fully now, the shock of cold forcing a sharp hiss from his lips. He sat up slowly, rubbing his arms to force some warmth back into his limbs. His fingers, stiff and nearly useless from the cold, barely responded.
The couple never noticed him. They didn't even glance his way.
Keiran let out a slow breath, forcing himself onto his feet. His legs trembled under his own weight, his muscles screaming in protest from a night spent curled on the frozen ground. The air smelled of damp stone, rotting wood, and the faint metallic tang of rust—a scent he had grown used to.
He needed to move.
He needed to find something to eat.
Keiran shuffled toward the end of the alley, each step slow and heavy.
The alley spilled into a massive city square, a world both vast and caged, where towering structures and buildings top of one another loomed over narrow streets and winding paths.
The architecture was neither fully modern nor truly medieval—a strange fusion of steel and stone, cobblestone streets crossed with paved roads, and great iron pillars supporting looming walkways that cast deep shadows over the city below.
At its heart stood the clocktower, an iron beast frozen in time.
Its skeletal frame stretched high into the sky, dark against the faint glow of the city. The enormous hands pointed to 2:56 AM, unmoving. Workers stood at its base, their silhouettes shifting as they labored over rusted gears and frozen mechanisms, their tools clanking in the quiet night. Despite their efforts, time refused to move forward.
Beneath the tower's looming shadow sat a fountain, its waters reflecting the flickering glow of the streetlamps. At its center, a statue of a man stood atop a pedestal, carved from dark stone, his expression eerily blank. The inscription beneath him had been worn away by time, the words lost to the years. The water flowed in smooth ripples, but even its surface seemed weighed down by something unseen.
People moved like ghosts through the square—workers, merchants, wanderers. Some hurried past, eager to escape the late hour's chill, while others lingered in small groups, their hushed voices blending into the murmur of the restless city. A few lone figures leaned against the walls, shrouded in long coats, their eyes scanning the crowd like vultures waiting for something—or someone.
Keiran dug his hands into his pockets, fingers brushing against the small weight of two cresis. His stomach clenched at the thought—barely enough for a meal, but enough to keep him moving.
His gaze landed on a café at the corner of the square. Its name, written in faded letters, read:
Aboli's Café.
A place of warmth, of food.
Keiran didn't hesitate.
A small chime rang as he stepped inside, and the warmth struck him immediately.
The air inside was thick with the scent of bread, spiced broth, and something sweet baking in the back. The café wasn't lavish, but it was alive. Even at this hour, it buzzed with a quiet energy.
Rich men lounged at the front, their fine coats draped over their chairs, their silk ties loose, their fingers adorned with rings that gleamed under the dim lanterns. Women surrounded them, their laughter light, practiced—a sound made for show, not amusement. They leaned in close, their hands brushing against the rich men's arms, their lips curling into careful, teasing smiles.
In the corners, lone figures sat in silence, lost in thought. A man in a grease-stained uniform rubbed at his temples, his meal barely touched. Another sat hunched over a steaming cup, his tired eyes staring at nothing.
Keiran stepped up to the counter, pressing his two coins onto the aged wood.
"Something for two cresis," he muttered.
The cashier, a man whose face was worn with exhaustion, barely spared him a glance.
"One bread with a small bowl of soup, table twelve."
Keiran nodded, moving toward his seat.
As he sat, his eyes wandered—then stopped.
Across the room, a man in a black leather coat sat surrounded by women, his expression unreadable. The laughter at his table felt forced, the women clinging to his presence with a hunger that had nothing to do with love.
Keiran barely noticed the waiter placing food in front of him until the voice cut through his thoughts.
"We value our customers, sir," the waiter said in a neutral tone. "Please, if you would not mind, do not stare."
Keiran muttered an apology and focused on his meal.
The bread was hard, but warm. The soup was thin, but it filled his stomach. It was enough.
Then, movement.
The man in the black coat was leaving.
And at his now-empty table, his coat remained.
Keiran hesitated only for a moment.
Then, with swift precision, he snatched the coat and slipped out the door.
The air outside was colder now, but the weight of the coat was a strange comfort. It was too big for him, hanging past his knees, but it felt… right.
His fingers slid into the coat's deep pockets—
And then he felt it.
Something hidden in the lining.
Carefully, he pulled it free.
A card, twice the size of a normal playing card.
At its center was the face of a Joker, its wide grin stretching unnaturally. But something was off. Where the usual 'J' should have been, a fire symbol burned in its place.
And beneath the Joker's face, in deep, blood-red letters, was a single word:
Burn.
Keiran wondered what the card meant, turning it over in his fingers. The eerie Joker's face, the fire symbol, and the word Burn scrawled beneath it sent a strange unease through him. But now wasn't the time to dwell on it. With a quiet sigh, he tucked the card back into the inner pocket of the coat and pulled it tightly around himself, shielding his body from the cold night air.
As he turned to his right, his gaze fell upon a mirror and wash basin set up outside a butcher's shop. The shop's iron sign swayed gently in the wind, creaking as it hung from its rusted chains. Behind the fogged glass of the shop, a butcher in a stained apron could be seen, lazily sharpening a cleaver under the dim glow of an overhead lamp.
Keiran stepped toward the mirror, his bare feet silent on the damp cobblestones. The wash basin was old, chipped at the edges, with water so cold it sent a sharp sting through his fingertips. He splashed it over his face, wincing as the icy liquid shocked his system awake. Droplets clung to his skin, rolling down his cheeks and dripping from his chin as he finally took a good look at himself in the reflection.
His dark, black eyes stared back at him, void of warmth or meaning, almost hollow. His messy, unkempt hair framed his pale, tired face, making him look even more ghostly under the dim alley lights. And now, with this oversized black coat draped around his shoulders, he looked even more like a stray shadow wandering the streets.
Beyond the mirror, the city stretched out like a restless beast—narrow alleys winding like veins, flickering gas lamps casting pools of light, and buildings that loomed overhead in strange, mixed architecture of metal and stone. The square was still alive despite the hour—workers moving crates, merchants closing their shops, tired laborers rubbing their sore muscles as they prepared for another long night. The air smelled of damp stone, burning oil, and something faintly metallic.
As Keiran took a breath and prepared to leave the alleyway, a movement in the corner of his vision caught his attention.
Two men.
They stood at the alley's entrance, watching him.
Both wore long black coats, similar to the one he had just taken, and matching dark hats pulled low over their faces. But unlike the wealthy men in the café, these two weren't dressed in fine silks or tailored clothing. Their coats were worn, creased with use, and the faint glint of metal at their belts with a tint of blood splattered across hinted at something far more dangerous than coin purses.
Keiran's muscles tensed.
The two figures took a step forward, their polished boots clicking softly against the cobblestone. Their faces were visible now—sharp features, cold expressions, and eyes that seemed to gleam with silent intent. They weren't just passing by.
They were coming for him.
Keiran barely had time to react before—
Boom!
A gunshot split the air.
Pain exploded in his leg, and the force sent him collapsing onto the wet ground. His breath hitched as a sharp, burning sensation spread through his thigh, warmth pooling beneath him as his vision blurred at the edges.
His head spun, the world tilting as he fought to stay conscious. Through the haze of pain, his eyes flickered toward the clocktower in the distance.
2:56 AM.
Still frozen in time.
As darkness crept into the corners of his vision, the last thing he saw was workers at the base of the tower, struggling to repair it, their tools clanking against the frozen gears.
Then—nothing.
Silence.