“I sit here alone in a hidden bunker set atop a mountain. Doll-like creatures rampage outside amid the snow, wandering through corridors beyond the lone steel door separating them from me. I am not lost in the irony of being confined to this room, for it is itself trapped within the very dimension we now inhabit—a prison forged by forces, natural or otherwise, that I have yet to understand.

In about a month, the automated steel bunker door will open again, and when that moment arrives, I will deal with it. For now, I have considered compiling my experiences thus far, and perhaps, if I ever leave this place, I can pass them along to help others in that damned city—the Abyss—that we all call home.

Rain… I miss it—not just any rain, but the rain of that accursed city.” My hand set the pen down briefly to drag a nearby cigarette, and I resumed the only arduous task remaining: surrendering to madness.

The universe was vast, its countless possibilities woven into a world teeming with people—a tapestry that birthed both mighty figures and those whose lives ended too soon. Everything was possible, but only for some.

Jaeger had lived amid turmoil his entire life, yet unlike most, he was fortunate enough to survive the endless strife. He wandered among ancient buildings, leaving behind only a wisp of smoke and the faint glow of a light at the edge of his lips.

Born with powers, though not the strongest, Jaeger was unable to join the dominant, power-driven organizations. His abilities were just enough to make people reluctant to associate with him—essentially, he was fucked.

Endless rain fell upon the lands; the sound of its patter had long ago become a constant white noise in the city. Jaeger listened, for he heard it where others had forgotten—a constant, familiar friend in a world of very few.

At 18, he had finally reached adulthood and was remarkably intelligent for his age. He devoured ancient texts, lost magic, and history—knowledge for which he was paid through the work he did.

Investigation was his calling. People commissioned him to uncover secrets they couldn’t reveal publicly. He knew many hidden truths, and in return, those in power left him untouched. After all, he also sold information if the situation justified it.

However, this came at a cost. If someone paid him to keep his secrets, another might try to force them out of him. At that moment, it seemed that everyone he had ever known was intent on doing just that. Secrets—devious and incorporeal—were a heavy burden to bear.

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The clatter of footsteps was masked by the endless patter of rain—a sound the city was known for. It wasn’t until an old man stumbled out of an alley and into my path that I noticed the rhythm was off. His clothes cascaded over the hard cobblestones, marked by years of neglect and the scorn of the lower city’s citizens. His decrepit visage was mangled and forlorn, yet a glimmer of hope flashed in his eyes when he looked at me. Something was off; I could feel it in the air—as if someone were standing before a graveyard while the door opened on its own.

Such feelings rarely came to me, but I wasn’t one to stand by. I walked forward and knelt beside him, cradling his head with one hand while the other examined his features.

“What happened? Is someone following you, old man?” I asked.

“No… no… please, just do me a favor. Take this book from me. I only want you to take it and never look back…” The man reached beneath his torn jacket, which barely covered his bony chest, and pulled out an ancient-looking book. He pressed it softly into my hand. “My name is Issiah Crowell, and I have sacrificed much to get this far. It’s ironic that in my final moments, I can’t think of anything witty to say.”

I looked up quickly. Down the alley from which he had emerged, several shadows loomed—about 200 feet ahead. They were unnaturally tall, possibly individuals with powers or transmutation magic, at least that’s what I guessed. Sometimes powers took odd forms, and sometimes they were unseen.

Issiah whispered as he pressed the book against my chest. I opened my mouth to speak, but I already knew I had been drawn into something far greater than my current understanding.

“Why?” was all I managed to ask out loud as I gently set his head down on the ground.

“…” The old man said nothing; his eyes closed and his breathing grew weak. As rain fell upon us, it pooled and spilled over, resembling tears. Yet, his face was peaceful.

I didn’t know what else to do. I looked at him, then up at the approaching figures, and let out a breath before disappearing around several corners at a quick pace. I never looked back, though I felt the old man was smiling somehow.

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The old man then rose from the ground and brushed himself off. A ghost-like figure materialized, hovering forth from the ground. It was robed and carried an intangible aura of ancientness, matching the aged face above.

“Yes… he will be the one. I can feel it…” the apparition murmured.

Issiah nodded solemnly before turning back down the alley. With a wave of his hand, he caused the two figures to vanish into thin air. Illusions, uncommon magic—the boy should have seen through it all.