The rain had stopped just long enough to let the city's smell breathe.
Velvora, in its full neon-lit glory, smelled like burnt oil, overcooked ambition, and broken air fresheners. Asher Blackwood walked with purpose—and by purpose, we mean he walked in a straight line while thinking deeply about noodles and whether ghosts could get tax deductions.
Rachel led the way through a crammed alleyway known as "Spine Street." No one really knew why it was called that. Some said it was shaped like a spinal cord. Others swore a gangster once used real ones for décor.
Either way, it was a quiet night.
Too quiet.
Asher said that out loud.
Rachel stopped mid-step. "Why would you say that?"
"I'm just saying. This street's usually full of angry pigeons and illegal foot massage vendors."
Rachel narrowed her eyes. "Don't jinx us."
"I don't believe in jinxes," he replied confidently, just as a flaming hover scooter crashed into a dumpster three feet from them.
A man wearing a kimono and rollerblades shot out from the alley, screaming, "TELL TONY I'M NOT PAYING FOR HIS GHOST INSURANCE!"
Then silence again.
Rachel pinched the bridge of her nose. "This city is a fever dream."
-----------------------------------------
Velvora's Most Secret Ramen Shop
They reached a rusted door wedged between a cyber-pharmacy and a barbershop that exclusively catered to bald men. Rachel tapped a sequence into a keypad shaped like a pork bun.
A metallic voice chimed:
"Welcome to Noodledrome. Violence is permitted only after dessert."
Inside was dim lighting, old jazz records, and the smell of umami so strong it could make a grown man cry. Several booths were filled with odd clientele—detectives, off-duty necromancers, a literal cat in a trench coat, and what Asher was pretty sure was a haunted mannequin on a date.
"Same booth as always," Rachel said.
They slid into a corner booth under a flickering lantern. The menu was holographic, and the waiter was a floating drone wearing a paper hat and a grudge against life.
Asher scanned the ramen options:
Soul-Stealer Special
Nuclear Broth Apocalypse
Mild Beefy Sadness
He picked the last one. It spoke to him.
"So," Rachel said, sipping tea, "what's the real reason you're twitchier than usual?"
Asher leaned in. His voice dropped low. "Something's changing in the city."
"That's vague."
"I've been having… weird dreams. Flashes of things I've never seen before. Rituals. Faces with no eyes. A voice calling my name from the bottom of a lake I've never been to."
Rachel raised a brow. "So… normal Velvora dreams."
"I'm serious," he whispered. "And there's something else. Ever since that alleyway fight with the Hex Dealers last month—something's been... off inside me."
Rachel leaned forward, studying him. "Define 'off.'"
Asher looked down at his hand. "I blacked out during a mugging last week. When I woke up, the alley was covered in scorch marks. No fire, just… heat. The air was warped. And the mugger?"
"…Missing?"
"Worse." He looked up. "He was inside out."
Rachel dropped her chopsticks. "Okay, that's new."
The ramen arrived, steaming and savory. They started eating. Asher tried to enjoy it. He really did.
Until the lights flickered.
Then dimmed.
Then shifted—subtly, like something in the air had turned heavy.
The jazz scratched to a stop.
A whisper echoed from somewhere behind the kitchen door. Not a voice, exactly… more like wet breathing.
Rachel stiffened. "That's not on the menu."
The kitchen door opened.
Nothing came out.
Asher stood up slowly. He could feel it—the same pull from his dreams. A presence.
He walked toward the door, against Rachel's protests, past terrified staff and ramen slurpers frozen in mid-noodle.
Inside the kitchen, it was empty—except for a small, handwritten note sitting on the cutting board.
He picked it up.
"Asher Blackwood. You are not yet ready to remember. But they do.
— The Fourth Memory"
Before he could even breathe, the note caught fire in his hand and vanished in a puff of cold smoke.
------------------------------
Back in the booth, Rachel glared at him.
"Okay, what was that?"
"I think someone's messing with me."
"Yeah, the universe."
"No," Asher said, more serious than before. "This is connected to my powers… my past. Someone's watching me. Leaving crumbs. And whatever 'The Fourth Memory' is…"
He glanced back at the kitchen.
"…It knows me."
[End of Chapter 1]
Preview of Next Chapter:
Chapter 2 – Ghost Taxis and Grumpy CultistsAsher chases a lead through Velvora's oldest district, where whispers travel faster than vehicles. A late-night ride in an allegedly "possessed" taxi leads him to an underground archive—and a cult that really hates lactose intolerant people.