As we reflect on our time together up in Starkholm, it becomes evident that each of us carried our own burdens and identities. Martin delved into existentialism, forging a philosophical foundation that defined his existence. Meanwhile, I found purpose in my duty, always striving to uphold my responsibilities. Liza's unwavering faith served as her guiding light through the darkness that enveloped us, while Zhanna grappled with her inner demons, succumbing to her vices. It may sound like a tale of confinement or imprisonment, yet the reality of our situation was far more sinister. Our unity fractured as we embarked on separate paths, with Martin retreating to the desolate realm of Darkspire, leaving the rest of us behind. Trapped within the confines of our own abodes, deprived of freedom and connection to the outside world, we were subject to the whims of our captors, medicated into submission. It was within these walls that I witnessed Martin's descent into tremors, a stark manifestation of his inner turmoil. Returning to the oppressive grasp of the Darklands seemed like a painful rebirth, a harsh reintroduction to a world that had grown even colder in our absence. Despite my yearning for a different outcome, regret and guilt weigh heavily on my soul, a burden that refuses to dissipate. Yet, amidst the looming shadows that threaten to engulf us, I cling to the hope of finding solace and peace, a sanctuary in the midst of impending darkness.- Bryce Talhiem

  Every time I lie in this spot, I end up thinking about how I got here. Maybe I should explain. My body’s stretched flat across this bed—if you can even call it that. It’s a plastic?sheeted, plastic?cushioned slab designed to make sure nobody gets too comfortable. The frame underneath is harder than a priest pretending he’s not distracted by the busty blonde during confession. Right—Father. Anyway.

  It all started a few nights back. Or maybe it started in childhood, but that’s a whole different mess, so let’s skip ahead to the immediate problems. I’d just moved back to Darkshore, and man… it was wild.

  The place hadn’t changed much, but somehow everything felt different. The air still smelled like sea salt and diesel. The streetlights still flickered like they were running on borrowed time. But the people? They looked at me like I was a ghost who’d forgotten he was supposed to stay dead.

  I didn’t come back for nostalgia. I came back because I didn’t have anywhere else to go. And because, deep down, I knew Darkshore had a way of dragging the truth out of you—whether you were ready for it or not.

  So there I was, lying on that awful bed, staring at the ceiling like it owed me answers, trying to figure out where the whole thing really began. Maybe it was the night I stepped off the bus. Maybe it was the moment I saw who was waiting for me. Or maybe it was the first sign that something in this town had shifted while I was gone.

  Whatever it was, it didn’t take long before things got strange. I’d moved to the window, watching through the glass. There in the cab, something caught my eye. Maybe it was just glare from the reflection, but the sky looked like it was twisting in on itself, peeling away from our fair city like it had somewhere better to be. Hard to say if it was real or just the kind of trick your mind plays when you’re running on too little sleep and too many bad decisions.

  I bummed a smoke in the back of the cab and tried to spark up some conversation.

  “See the Moose at the game last night? Deckers were two?to?one odds,” I said, hoping it sounded local enough to pass. A little breadcrumb, something a hometown driver might latch onto.

  All I got was a grunt. Not even a proper one—just a low, noncommittal sound that could’ve meant yes, no, or that he wished I’d shut up and let him drive. The man kept his eyes on the road like it was the only thing in the world worth looking at.

  The city rolled by in streaks of neon and sodium light, the kind of colours that make everything feel slightly unreal. Darkshore always had that effect on me—like it was half?dream, half?memory, and I was never quite sure which part I was standing in.

  The cab hit a pothole big enough to swallow a hubcap, and the whole frame rattled. The driver didn’t flinch. I figured if the sky really did fold in on itself, he’d probably just grunt at that too.

  Still, something about that moment stuck with me. The twisting sky. The silent driver. The way the streets felt like they were holding their breath. It was the first sign that coming back to Darkshore wasn’t going to be simple. Not this time.

  You take in the cab the way people do when they’re trying not to think too hard about the road ahead. The interior had that lived?in look—edges worn smooth by years of hands, elbows, and long shifts. I found myself studying the little details: the sun?bleached photos tucked into the visor, the ones of family members smiling like they didn’t know the world could be cruel. I should probably sound less impressed, considering what our government puts people through, but this guy had served. You could see it in the way he held himself, the quiet discipline, the tired pride.

  There was an old black?and?white photo clipped to the front of the cab, someone from his unit—young, sharp?jawed, standing in front of a tent with a rifle slung low like it was just another limb. Underneath it, half?hidden behind a nodding dashboard doll, I caught a glimpse of a folded retirement letter. The edges were soft from being handled too many times. Maybe he kept it there as a reminder of what he’d survived, or what he’d left behind. Hard to tell with men like him; they carry whole histories in silence or grunts more likely.

  Outside, the city drifted past in slow, uneven frames. We rolled by an old loft I used to know—back when the place was a haven for musicians, drifters, and anyone who needed a couch and a bottle. The windows were boarded now, the paint peeling like old scabs. I remembered nights up there, smoke curling toward the ceiling, someone strumming a guitar out of tune, everyone pretending the world wasn’t as sharp as it really was. Seeing it like that made something in my chest tighten, like the past had reached out and tapped me on the shoulder.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  The cab kept moving, the driver still silent, the sky still doing that strange twisting thing overhead. And for a moment, I wasn’t sure if I was heading toward something new or circling back to something I’d never really escaped. We’d passed Nichole’s old place and something in my body reacted before my mind caught up. A slight tremor starts in my left hand, the one i’d kept buried in my pocket like it’s hiding a secret. The vibration ran up my arm in a thin, electric line—subtle, but real enough that you wonder if the driver noticed i grit my teeth visibly in a flicker of a moment i couldn’t contain. If he did, Sir Gruntsalot kept his poker face. He just stared ahead, jaw set, eyes fixed on the road like the world outside the windshield was the only thing that mattered.

  The cab rolled on, humming over the cracked asphalt, and the past started pressing in around the edges. I kept thinking about what happened back then. It wasn’t Tommy’s fault—we all knew he couldn’t swim. Everyone knew. That didn’t stop the guilt from settling in like damp air, clinging to the inside of my ribs. Darkshore had a way of doing that: taking old memories and sharpening them until they cut.

  Nichole’s loft slid by in the corner of my vision, the windows dark, the brickwork sagging like it had given up pretending to be anything other than tired. Once upon a time, that place had been alive—music leaking through the walls, laughter echoing down the stairwell, the smell of cheap wine and cheaper incense drifting out into the street. Now it looked like a mausoleum for better days. Seeing it again made the tremor in my hand feel less like a glitch and more like a warning.

  The driver cleared his throat—just once, a low rumble—but didn’t say a word. Maybe he felt the tension in the air. Maybe he’d seen enough passengers lost in their own ghosts to know when to keep quiet. The way the clouds parted as we turned onto Brukridge Avenue felt almost ironic. Not poetic, not symbolic—just the kind of cosmic joke Darkshore liked to play. They didn’t drift or thin out like normal clouds. They peeled back, like someone had taken hold of the grey industrial ceiling over the city and pulled it open with both hands. One moment we were under the usual dome of gloom—factory smog, diesel haze, that permanent bruise?coloured sky—and the next we were sliding out from under it into something brighter, cleaner, almost unreal.

  It hit me harder than I expected. I hadn’t seen a sky like that since Nichole, Tommy, and the rest of us were kids and we’d sneak out this way. Back then, stepping outside the city limits felt like crossing into another world. There was an old shed in the garden behind Nichole’s place—half?rotted, leaning like it was tired of standing—and we’d gather the usual suspects and play detective. Strange noises, weird lights, rumours about Darkshore’s “shadow spots.” Kids’ stuff. Weird, wonder?filled, and somehow more honest than anything adulthood ever offered.

  Now, looking at that sky again, the nostalgia hit like a slow punch. Once we cleared the last row of factories, the whole horizon opened up. The sky wasn’t just brighter—it was alive. A deep, vivid orange spread across the west, glowing like the sun had set fire to the clouds from underneath. Streaks of gold cut through it, sharp and clean, like brushstrokes dragged across a canvas still wet. Higher up, the orange faded into a soft, luminous peach, then into a pale blue so clear it felt impossible after the city’s grime. The clouds themselves looked sculpted—edges lit up in molten light, centres dark and heavy, like they were holding secrets. Every colour seemed amplified, as if the world outside the dark zone had been waiting to show off the moment we crossed the line.It was breathtaking in a way that made my chest tighten. Not because it was beautiful—though it was—but because it reminded me of a time when the world felt bigger, stranger, and full of possibilities we were too young to understand. The cab kept rolling, the driver still silent, the sky still blazing above us. And for a moment, I wasn’t sure if I was heading toward something new or being pulled back into something I’d never really left behind. As I swung the cab door shut behind me, the driver leaned across the seat and fixed me with a tired, expectant stare.“You know the rules, don’t you?” he grunted. “Can’t very well let me drive off into the Dark Zone. Governor Kallish’s orders.”

  He pushed the door open wider with his elbow, his gut spilling out from beneath the steering wheel. If he really was the same sharp?jawed soldier from the photo taped to the dashboard, time and hunger had done their work. The uniform in the picture looked like it belonged to someone else entirely. I hesitated, the cold air biting at my throat. “What do you mean?” I asked slowly. “Is that old order back?” The driver snorted, a sound halfway between a laugh and a cough. “Back? It never left. Folks just stopped listening. Now the governor’s cracking down again. Curfew lines, patrol checkpoints, no one in or out after dusk unless they’ve got clearance.” He tapped the cracked radio on his dash. A faint hiss of static leaked through the speaker—no music, no voices, just the empty hum of a world that had forgotten how to speak. “Dark Zone’s been shifting,” he added. “Swallowing streets that used to be safe. People go in, they don’t come out the same… if they come out at all.” The wind carried the smell of burnt metal and old rain. Somewhere far off, a siren wailed and then cut short. I tightened my coat and stepped back from the cab, the driver’s eyes following me like he already knew which choice I was about to make. I’d heard the stories drifting down from the capital—some contractor taking on the Bureau, filing challenges, refusing orders, walking into offices no one walked into anymore. It sounded like a joke, the kind of thing people whispered when they needed hope more than truth. Still, the thought made me smirk as I headed toward the front porch.

  My navy?blue jacket snapped in the wind, the fabric stiff with cold. My medium?length brown hair kept sweeping across my face, and my eyes—already strained from the fading light—narrowed against the last glare of the setting sun. Behind me, the cabbie trudged along, scanning the porch and windows like a man hunting for shelter rather than hospitality.

  Autumn leaves clung to my boots, wet and stubborn, crunching under each step. The air smelled of damp wood and the faint metallic tang of distant fires. As we reached the door, I glanced back at him.

  “So you’re looking for a sofa for the night, I’m guessing?” I asked.

  He shrugged, shoulders heavy, breath fogging in the cold. “A sofa, a floor, hell—even a warm corner. Anything beats driving back alone.”

  The sun was sinking fast, bleeding orange into the treeline. I knew he couldn’t return to the checkpoint by himself now—not with the Dark Zone creeping outward, swallowing streets that used to be safe. The rules weren’t superstition anymore; they were survival.

  He shifted his weight, boots scraping the porch boards. “Didn’t plan on stayin’,” he muttered. “But the roads… they ain’t what they were this morning.”

  I rested my hand on the doorframe, feeling the chill of the wood. The house loomed quiet, the kind of quiet that made you wonder what it remembered.

  “Yeah,” I said softly. “Nothing is.”