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The city breathes.

Elias Crowe hears it in the pulse of traffic, the rhythm of distant sirens, the whisper of wind funneled between the high-rises. He feels it underfoot, the shuddering heartbeat of subway trains vibrating through cracked asphalt. Even in his darkness, the city is alive.

But tonight, it feels different.

The air is thick with a presence he can’t name. A wrongness, pressing in like unseen hands against his skin. He grips his cane tightly, feeling the faint tremors in the metal shaft. It’s reacting. There’s something near.

He slows his steps, listens. The usual city sounds—cars, laughter, the occasional breaking bottle—have dulled. Instead, a new noise slithers into the silence.