Location: Back alley near Delancey Street, Lower Manhattan
Time: 4:39 A.M.
Date: November 2nd, 2007
---
The grate rattled as Chad emerged.
He shoved it aside with a strength no boy his size should've had and crawled onto the cracked pavement like something half-feral. The cold air slapped his face, but it didn't sting. His skin was already too calloused, too changed.
Steam hissed from a manhole beside him.
The alley was wide but hidden between two shuttered warehouses, dumpsters stacked against chain-link fence. A loading dock loomed overhead. Somewhere, a streetlight buzzed, casting a hazy cone of yellow.
And then—
Flashlight beams.
They hit him like searchlights.
"Whoa! Hold there!"
Voices. Heavy boots crunching gravel.
Two figures rounded the corner—uniformed. NYPD.
One was tall and heavy-built, with a marine's gait and a steady posture. The other was lean, alert, a hand hovering near her hip.
Chad blinked.
He didn't know the word for officer, but he knew the uniform. He'd seen it before—once when someone was dragged from a squat house, another time when a dealer got stabbed over a fake roll.
The men in blue had always been far away.
Now they were here.
And Chad didn't know what to do.
He was covered in blood.
Not his.
Dirt stained every inch of him. His hoodie hung from one shoulder, his undershirt was ripped across the collar. His feet were bare, caked in mud and sewer grime.
He smelled like iron and rot.
And beneath it—something else. Something deeper. Pheromonal.
A scent that made the male officer take a half-step back without realizing it.
The female cop squinted.
"Jesus… kid?"
He flinched.
Raised one hand. Tried to speak.
What came out wasn't a sentence.
It was a broken half-noise. A wheeze.
His throat hadn't said more than a grunt in weeks. Maybe months.
He swallowed.
"D-dark… tunnel…"
The words crumbled. His mouth didn't know how to form them. His tongue was a clumsy muscle. His brain knew the image — but couldn't shape it.
He pointed.
Toward the grate.
Eyes wide.
Not with fear.
With something worse — understanding.
The male officer, Wynn, put a hand on his shoulder but didn't grip.
"Kid. Easy. You hurt?"
Chad looked at him. Blinked.
Then looked down at his own hands. Covered in blood. Dried now. Caked under the nails.
He didn't answer.
Didn't nod.
Just stood there, muscles taut, eyes darting between the alley, the shadows, the cracks in the street.
The female officer, Moretti, slowly knelt.
"You hungry?"
He didn't move.
She unzipped her side pouch and pulled out a protein bar. Banana flavored.
"Here."
She extended it gently.
Chad stared at it.
Then at her.
He took it.
Bit off the top half in one motion.
Chewed like it might vanish.
Moretti kept her voice calm.
"You don't have to talk. Just come with us. Warm car. No questions right now."
Chad looked behind him again.
At the tunnel.
At the place he'd lost. The creatures he'd spawned. The thing that used to be home.
He nodded.
Just once.
Wynn spoke into his radio.
"Unit 12, we have contact. Juvenile, male. Blood on him. Responsive but shaken. Bringing him in."
Chad followed them slowly.
No cuffs. No force.
But every step away from that grate felt like peeling off a layer of skin.
He'd lived in the dark too long.
Now the lights hurt.
But the car door opened.
The heat hit him.
And for a moment, just a moment—he felt small again.
Safe.
And then the door shut behind him.
---
Location: NYPD Cruiser – Lower Manhattan
Time: 4:45 A.M.
Date: November 2nd, 2007
---
The car was warm.
Too warm.
The heater hissed quietly. Police radio static crackled once every few seconds, breaking the silence between the officers.
Chad sat in the backseat, hunched low, chewing the protein bar in small, mechanical bites. His hoodie clung to his body like a second skin, blood-streaked and reeking.
Moretti drove. Wynn sat shotgun, watching Chad through the side mirror.
Neither spoke for the first five minutes.
Because the smell in the car wasn't just bad — it was wrong.
It wasn't just filth, or blood, or wet concrete.
There was something deeper in it.
Something animal.
Moretti cracked her window. Subtle. Just enough to pull in the early morning air.
She didn't say anything.
But Wynn noticed.
"Kid's been in the tunnels for a long time," he muttered.
"Yeah," she replied. "You can tell."
---
Chad didn't look at them.
His eyes were on the floor.
But his thoughts were somewhere else.
Because just under the quiet hum of the cruiser, a flicker danced behind his eyes.
> [+0.01 XP – Snotling Kill: Rat] [+1 SP Earned]
He blinked.
Then again.
> [+0.01 XP – Snotling Kill: Bird] [+1 SP Earned]
He shifted in his seat.
They were still alive.
And they were killing.
Every squeal in the dark. Every animal torn apart. Every accidental mauling…
The System gave it to him.
Like he'd done it himself.
His fingers twitched.
His back pressed harder against the door.
He didn't know whether to smile… or panic.
---
"Dispatch says they've had reports of missing animals near Canal," Moretti said casually. "Birds, alley cats. Someone even claimed a raccoon carcass was ripped in half like a watermelon."
Wynn didn't respond.
But Chad shifted again.
His hand twitched against his knee.
> [+0.02 XP – Goblin Kill: Possum]
He looked down.
Eyes wide.
He didn't understand all of it.
But he understood this:
> It's not over.
---
Location: NYPD 1st Precinct – Juvenile Interview Room
Time: 5:37 A.M.
Date: November 2nd, 2007
---
The room was small. Windowless. No clock. One table. Two chairs.
It smelled like cleaning fluid and tired breath. A single camera watched from the corner ceiling. The walls didn't echo. They absorbed. It was a room built for confession—or silence.
Chad sat in one of the chairs.
He hadn't moved since they left intake. He sat perfectly still, hands folded in his lap, legs tucked under the edge of the chair like he was afraid to touch too much space.
The overhead light buzzed. Fluorescent. Pale.
He didn't flinch.
Didn't look around.
Because he wasn't in the room. Not really.
He was listening.
To the System.
> [+0.01 XP – Snotling Kill: Rat]
[+0.02 XP – Goblin Kill: Bird]
[+1 SP Earned]
His fingers twitched slightly. Not visible. Just pressure. Awareness.
The notifications danced like static behind his eyelids—gentle but constant.
And he didn't want them right now.
He didn't want to be a threat. Not here.
> Hide.
He didn't speak it.
But the System obeyed.
The pop-ups dimmed. Folded inward.
Still tracking. Still growing.
But now, quiet.
And the world went still again.
---
Detective Elise Navarro entered.
No fanfare. No click of heels. Just quiet footsteps and a rustle of her coat. She wore civilian layers—wool over canvas. Pen tucked behind one ear. A notebook already open in her hand.
She glanced at him as she sat across the table.
Noticed the way his eyes tracked her for exactly one second before retreating to the table's edge.
> Pale. Underfed. Dried blood. No socks. Tension in the jaw. Calluses on the knuckles. Not malnourished — hardened.
She'd read the incident file. Already skimmed five short reports filed in the last two weeks:
One from sanitation: "strange noises, gutted raccoons."
One from a school janitor: "weird shadow kid watching the dumpsters."
A third from a homeless woman who swore she'd seen a barefoot child chewing a pigeon.
They all sounded insane.
Until now.
She set the folder down but didn't open it.
"You're Chad," she said.
He nodded.
"Can you tell me what happened tonight?"
Chad opened his mouth.
Then closed it again.
He blinked. His jaw twitched. Words wanted to come—but they stuck in his throat like glass.
He looked down.
Not from shame.
Not from guilt.
But because he didn't know how to explain.
His mind wasn't wired for this. Words were a tool he'd never been taught to use. He understood violence. Movement. Quiet.
But language? Language felt like a weapon that wasn't his yet.
He looked up again.
Then slowly pointed at the table. At the floor beneath it.
"Down," he whispered.
Navarro frowned slightly. "Down where?"
He hesitated.
Then pressed his hand flat to the metal table, like he was trying to feel the world under it.
"M-monsters."
It wasn't a scream. Wasn't dramatic.
It was said like a fact.
Like monsters were as real as rain.
Navarro leaned forward slightly, careful not to break the thread.
"You saw something? In the tunnels?"
He nodded.
Once.
She scribbled a quick note.
"Did someone hurt you? Force you down there?"
He shook his head.
Then nodded.
Then stopped.
She waited.
Didn't interrupt.
He looked at his hands.
The blood was flaking now. Dry. But still red.
His nails were torn from digging. His knuckles swollen from impact.
But he didn't seem afraid of what he'd done.
Only of what might come next.
Navarro's pen hovered.
Her instincts told her two things:
1. This wasn't a normal lost kid.
2. Whatever was "down there"… it wasn't just a bad dream.
But she didn't press. Not yet.
"Alright," she said softly. "We'll talk more soon. You're safe now, okay?"
He blinked at her.
> Safe.
He didn't speak the word.
Because he didn't believe it.
Because safe was a myth.
And in the tunnels beneath their feet, his creatures were still moving.
> [+0.03 XP – Goblin Kill: Raccoon]
[+1 SP Earned]
He didn't flinch.
He didn't smile.
He just sat.
And waited.
---
Scene: First Interview (Expanded)
Location: NYPD 1st Precinct – Juvenile Interview Room
Time: 5:37 A.M.
Date: November 2nd, 2007
---
The room was small. Windowless. No clock. One table. Two chairs.
It smelled like cleaning fluid and tired breath. A single camera watched from the corner ceiling. The walls didn't echo. They absorbed. It was a room built for confession—or silence.
Chad sat in one of the chairs.
He hadn't moved since they left intake. He sat perfectly still, hands folded in his lap, legs tucked under the edge of the chair like he was afraid to touch too much space.
The overhead light buzzed. Fluorescent. Pale.
He didn't flinch.
Didn't look around.
Because he wasn't in the room. Not really.
He was listening.
To the System.
> [+0.01 XP – Snotling Kill: Rat]
[+0.02 XP – Goblin Kill: Bird]
[+1 SP Earned]
His fingers twitched slightly. Not visible. Just pressure. Awareness.
The notifications danced like static behind his eyelids—gentle but constant.
And he didn't want them right now.
He didn't want to be a threat. Not here.
> Hide.
He didn't speak it.
But the System obeyed.
The pop-ups dimmed. Folded inward.
Still tracking. Still growing.
But now, quiet.
And the world went still again.
---
Detective Elise Navarro entered.
No fanfare. No click of heels. Just quiet footsteps and a rustle of her coat. She wore civilian layers—wool over canvas. Pen tucked behind one ear. A notebook already open in her hand.
She glanced at him as she sat across the table.
Noticed the way his eyes tracked her for exactly one second before retreating to the table's edge.
> Pale. Underfed. Dried blood. No socks. Tension in the jaw. Calluses on the knuckles. Not malnourished — hardened.
She'd read the incident file. Already skimmed five short reports filed in the last two weeks:
One from sanitation: "strange noises, gutted raccoons."
One from a school janitor: "weird shadow kid watching the dumpsters."
A third from a homeless woman who swore she'd seen a barefoot child chewing a pigeon.
They all sounded insane.
Until now.
She set the folder down but didn't open it.
"You're Chad," she said.
He nodded.
"Can you tell me what happened tonight?"
Chad opened his mouth.
Then closed it again.
He blinked. His jaw twitched. Words wanted to come—but they stuck in his throat like glass.
He looked down.
Not from shame.
Not from guilt.
But because he didn't know how to explain.
His mind wasn't wired for this. Words were a tool he'd never been taught to use. He understood violence. Movement. Quiet.
But language? Language felt like a weapon that wasn't his yet.
He looked up again.
Then slowly pointed at the table. At the floor beneath it.
"Down," he whispered.
Navarro frowned slightly. "Down where?"
He hesitated.
Then pressed his hand flat to the metal table, like he was trying to feel the world under it.
"M-monsters."
It wasn't a scream. Wasn't dramatic.
It was said like a fact.
Like monsters were as real as rain.
Navarro leaned forward slightly, careful not to break the thread.
"You saw something? In the tunnels?"
He nodded.
Once.
She scribbled a quick note.
"Did someone hurt you? Force you down there?"
He shook his head.
Then nodded.
Then stopped.
She waited.
Didn't interrupt.
He looked at his hands.
The blood was flaking now. Dry. But still red.
His nails were torn from digging. His knuckles swollen from impact.
But he didn't seem afraid of what he'd done.
Only of what might come next.
Navarro's pen hovered.
Her instincts told her two things:
1. This wasn't a normal lost kid.
2. Whatever was "down there"… it wasn't just a bad dream.
But she didn't press. Not yet.
"Alright," she said softly. "We'll talk more soon. You're safe now, okay?"
He blinked at her.
> Safe.
He didn't speak the word.
Because he didn't believe it.
Because safe was a myth.
And in the tunnels beneath their feet, his creatures were still moving.
> [+0.03 XP – Goblin Kill: Raccoon]
[+1 SP Earned]
He didn't flinch.
He didn't smile.
He just sat.
And waited.
---
Across the city…
A storm drain cover shifted.
Slowly. Cautiously.
The rusted metal scraped just enough to be heard by no one.
A single green eye appeared — round, wet, glinting like an emerald in sewage.
The goblin didn't breathe.
It sniffed.
Once. Twice.
Air—thick with soot, piss, perfume, bread, gasoline. Too many smells. Too fast. Too sharp. They stabbed at his nose, burned his throat.
Humies.
Everywhere.
The goblin blinked. Watched the world move.
Cars like growling beasts, sleek and armored. Lights flashing red and green and gold. Humans rushing in packs, like cattle without horns. Boxes lit with noise. Flying banners of color and blinking signs.
He stared at a dog on a leash and wondered why it didn't eat its master.
> No armor. No blades. No shriek. Soft.
He watched shoes splash through puddles and imagined snapping the ankles beneath them.
> Fast prey. Too many eyes. Too much open.
He squinted at a passing bus.
> Rolling fortress. Crushed goblin flat. Bad noise.
A horn honked.
The goblin flinched.
Pulled back half an inch. Almost hissed. Almost bit down on his own fingers to stay silent.
He counted the people.
One. Two. Seven. Ten. Fifteen.
More behind them.
> No cover. No tunnels. No dark.
He sniffed again.
Too warm. Too loud. Too watched.
And then… something in his chest tightened.
A pull. Like gravity. Like pain. It wasn't fear. Goblins didn't fear. Not the way humans did.
But they knew.
When the fight wasn't right.
When the shadows weren't deep enough.
He hissed through his teeth — a sound like boiling sap — and slid the cover shut above him.
The city swallowed the sound.
He crawled back down the shaft, knuckles brushing moss, toenails scraping slime. No shoes. No torch. Just him and the wet.
Back to the others.
To the Snotlings gnawing pipe grease.
To the Shaman painting sigils in bile.
To the tunnels where no sun had ever reached.
> Not ready.
> Not yet.
But soon.
He was watching.
And he was learning.
---