Chapter 1
Ira wakes to the familiar sound of rain pounding the tin roof of her tiny studio apartment. The air is damp, the night still young. Groggily, she pulls herself off her mattress on the floor and drags herself to the window, opening it wide to let the fresh air in. The rain softens the sounds of the city's hustle and bustle and calms her troubled mind. The neon lights of the street glow dully in shades of pink, purple, and blue. She yawns, stretching her fisted hands toward the sloping, moldy ceilings.
She staggers to the bathroom and blearily flicks on the light. It's dank and yellow in here. She studies the old fixture above as she brushes her teeth.
Need to update that soon. Maybe it would help me feel better.
But now, she needs to eat. And she's late for work.
She throws her long, stringy dark hair into a clip and pulls on a hoodie, hastily shoving her feet into her well-loved white trainers.
Ouch.
She grimaces. It's always hard to slide them on with her long nails.
My shoes aren't looking so hot. She notes to herself. I'll have to buy a new pair soon.
Then, a snarky follow-up thought: With what money?
No time to worry about that now. She's hungry, and she's late.
She barrels down the thickly carpeted stairs of her apartment complex, the familiar scent of mold gracing her nostrils. On the last step, she places her oversized hands firmly on either wall and clears the final two steps — same as she always does. She shoulders the glass door open, closes it quickly behind her, and listens for the latch to click into place before leaving.
She shivers, shrinking deeper into her hoodie. The rain soaks through quickly, droplets gathering and trailing down her face. She doesn't mind. She kind of likes the the way it feels.
She walks up to the rusty bike rack, avoiding her reflection in the storefront window. She hates the way she looks — always has. Her hair is a dull shade of black. Her nose is just a little too big to be pretty. Her lips are thin, pale, and remind her of a dead fish. When her expression is neutral, her cheeks seem sunken, corpse-like. When she smiles, her cheeks pull up asymmetrically, making her face appear swollen and her nose even bigger. Even her eyes — a warm and soulful brown — feel too small for the rest of her features, and one is noticeably droopier than the other. Not to mention the strange red colour they seem to turn after she cries.
She shakes her head, snapping herself back to the present.
Who cares if I'm hideous? There are more important things.
Plus, she'd been working hard not to think too much about her appearance lately, and it had been working. She'd been feeling a bit better. That's what she'd keep telling herself, at least.
Rain continues to soak through her hood as she scans a wet finger on her scooter lock. The familiar green light flickers on, and the lock clicks open.
Good. It had been giving her trouble lately — one less thing to worry about.
She pulls her hood tightly around her face, backs the scooter out of the rack, kicks the footstand back with a soaked sneaker, and sets off down the street, in the bikelane, of course.
The familiarity of routine allows her mind to wander, and she welcomes it. She always dreads leaving her tiny apartment — but every time she gets on the scooter and starts riding, feeling the fresh air hit her face and fill her lungs, she feels better. Every time. Even when the rain pelts her skin and chills her to the bone, like it is now. The thought of warm ramen soup lights warms her chest. She leans forward on her scooter, speeding up.
When she arrives at her destination, she parks her scooter and locks it quickly, ambling up to the door. For a moment, she pauses to admire the dilapidated storefront, its lights dimly flickering inside.
She grins to herself. Her favourite place in Noctreign.
Umami Hollow.
Chapter 2
Ira shoulders the door open aggressively, an entry bell clanging noisily above her.
A familiar face stands behind the counter, busy fulfilling orders with four slender, blue-grey hued arms. She looks up when she hears the bell, examining the girl with twinkling, dark eyes rimmed with feathery long lashes that nearly reach her cheeks.
"Ira! You're late!"
Ira grins.
J. Her favourite person in Noctreign. A tall fairy hybrid — J was as striking as she was kind. Her narrow face and elegant bone gave way to her most striking feature — large, black eyes that were at least three times larger than that of a human.
"Hi. I know, I'm sorry. Just really didn't feel like working today." Ira grumbles.
J snorts.
"I didn't mean late for work. I meant late for breakfast. Who cares about work?"
Ira laughs softly, some of the tension in her shoulders releasing.
Breakfast. At midnight. Everyone in Noctreign is nocturnal. That's kind of the city's whole thing. Hybrids, deep-dwellers, creatures from shadowed corners of the continent — they all find something comforting in the hum of neon and the cover of night. The humans who move here… they're usually misfits. Or freaks. Or exiles. Ira doesn't know which category she fits into. Maybe all of them. Maybe none.
J pulls out a chair for Ira at a small two-person table and sets down a steaming bowl of ramen with all the fixings, along with a tall glass of juice. Chinese lanterns sway gently from the ceiling, casting a warm orange glow.
"Eat. You're too skinny."
She says this to Ira every day. And honestly, she's not wrong. Ira basically lives on ramen.
Ira sinks into the chair and eyes the oversized delivery bag slouched in the corner of the restaurant. She groans. She really doesn't feel like working tonight.
"Think it'll be busy?" she asks through a mouthful of noodles.
J nods from behind the counter, already half-buried in the flood of orders lighting up the screen above her.
"Always is."
Ira doesn't know how to feel about that. On one hand, it's good — for J, and for her. Once she's out on deliveries, the hours blur. Between the adrenaline and constant movement, it's the only time she doesn't have space to spiral. No existential dread. No looking in the mirror too long. Just motion.
But the work itself is... what it is. Relentless. Underpaid. Unfulfilling. And every morning, when she crawls back onto her mattress, body aching, she knows another night's just around the corner.
Ira shovels down the last of the ramen, trying to make up for lost time. Before she knows it, the moment of peace is over, and she's back on her feet, helping J pack up the first round of deliveries. She immediately regrets eating so quickly. The ramen sloshes uncomfortably in her belly as she shoulders her delivery bag and sets off for her shift.
But J is a calm presence, a hard worker, and Ira matches her pace. At least this part of the job gives her something to hold onto. A sliver of purpose. She won't let J down.
"Bye Ira." J calls out after her and she approaches the door, packed up and ready to go.
"See ya J."
Once outside, Ira straps up her bag to the back of her e-bike and sets off at top speed. Rain pelts her face as she weaves through vehicles and creatures alike. A giant minotaur with soaking chocolate fur roars deeply in annoyance as she narrowly misses him. A group of male lizards cat call her as she passes them, smoking and lounging lazily on their back two legs in the cool night air.
Ira ignores them all and continues to rush, bearing down on her scooter, willing it to go faster. She grins to herself. As much as she may hate her job, her life, herself, when she's on her scooter, flying through the streets, she feels free. She lives for this shit.
Chapter 3
After a long night, Ira kicks off her soaked shoes in the doorway and collapses onto her beat-up mattress. Another shift of deliveries, completed.
And for what?
She lies there for a while, staring up at the ceiling fan as it turns in slow, uneven circles. Eventually, she sinks into a restless sleep.
The sleep is long, dreamless. When she wakes, her eyes fix on the same peeling spot on the wall. Her thoughts go dark, fast.
Is this it? Is this all life really is?
She knows this state well. She's been here before. Countless times. Constantly, even. She's sat in support groups, rooms filled with mismatched chairs and too-bright lights, listening to other creatures talk about this... condition. That's what they called it. Just a condition. Not real. Just her brain distorting things. Morphing reality into something sad.
But how could it not be real when it feels like this?
Every time it returns, it drags her under like it never left. Like it owns her. Gives her amnesia — makes her forget she was ever anything else.It convinces her that this — this heaviness, this stillness — is all there ever was, and all there ever will be. But she's never gotten used to it. Not really. She refuses to let it be her normal.
Determined, she wills herself to get up and go outside, even as her brain screams at her to stay put. That it's pointless. That nothing will change.
But she'd made a promise — one she still clings to. Seven years ago, before her mother died, she swore she'd fight the thoughts. That she'd never try what she'd attempted that night again.
The memory moves across her mind, wet and heavy like the rain. Waking up in the hospital after trying to hack through her veins — just to end the monotony of it all. Her wrists, wrapped in comically thick gauze. Her mother sitting at her bedside, eyes red, face tired.
She and her mom had never been close. They were two people who could not have been more different. Her mother had grown her inside her. Had birthed her. She'd been born from her blood. And that meant something. To her, at least.
She'd made a promise.
Ira holds her dark, clawed hand up to the spinning light of the ceiling fan.
Her mother's ring.
It's the one thing she has left to remember her by — a deep ocean hued sapphire set into the middle of a silver band, with delicate spindles curling out from the center. Sometimes, Ira swears they move.
She never takes it off.
She gazes down at her hand, eyes locking onto the ring. The silver strands begin to dance. The sapphire swims as tears form in her eyes.
Time to get outside.
Beyond that, it's her day off. Time to get to the ocean.
She pulls on her still-damp coat — chilled and clinging to her skin uncomfortably — and steps out into the rain, unlocking her scooter with stiff fingers that barely notice the cold.
The whole city slouches toward the sea. Cracked roads and moss-eaten alleys all funneling downward into the open jaw of the coastline, like everything is trying to return into the deep — the ocean waiting patiently to swallow the city whole.
Good. I hope it does, she thinks, smugly.
She races downhill, the wind screaming in her ears, the scent of brine and rotting kelp hitting her nose like a slap. She exhales — not quite relief, but close.
Behind her, a massive jungle looms — lush, ancient, pulsing with magic. It hums at the edge of her senses like a memory she can't quite name.
Ira leans low over her scooter, urging it faster. Away from the forest. Toward the water.
Rain pelts her face, soaking her hair, her sleeves, her bones. She doesn't care.
Here, now — she's free. Too fast for the trap of her mind to close around her.
Her stringy hair streams behind her, whipping in the wind, exposing the sharp, pointed ears she tries to pretend aren't there. Even in Noctreign — a city of hybrids, misfits, and monsters — Ira's bloodline is a question mark. Her mother, entirely human, had looked at her newborn daughter with fear in her eyes from the start.
The other kids used to call her Kludde. Said she must have been born of one. Only half-joking, Ira had always felt. But she'd never believed it. The only similarities were the ears — and the way her eyes sometimes glinted red for no reason at all.
And of course, she'd always had an eerie affinity for water.
But a Kludde? Those were the stuff of myths.
Her train of thought is interrupted as her scooter makes contact with the damp, bumpy sand covering the beach. So lost in thought, she's already reached her destination.
No one else comes out here when it rains. Most creatures in Noctreign fear the sea, call it cursed, say it swallows things that aren't meant to be found. Say it whispers your name when no one's listening.
Ira's never heard it whisper.
But she wouldn't mind if it did.
More water for her. More space to disappear.
She drops the handlebars and begins stripping off her wet clothes. She removes her shoes last, carefully tucking her socks inside them, then sprints to the shoreline and dives in.
Whatever's broken inside her, it disappears in the sea.
Her clawed hands slice through the current, and her oversized feet churn the water like fins. On land she moves like she's too much, feels like she's too much.
In water, she's precision.
She swims into the black, icy depths, eyes wide open. The cold takes her breath away — and with it, everything else.
Kelp tendrils drift around her like fingers. Bioluminescent plankton swirl in her wake, flickering like stars. The deeper she goes, the more the light bends and breaks, until the world becomes a cathedral of motion and silence.
Once, she'd sworn she'd seen a mermaid down here — at least, something like one — with translucent skin and eyes too ancient to belong to a human. But that had been a while ago.
Usually, it's just weed sprites. Tiny, cursed things with leaf-thin wings and teeth like sewing needles. They're known for ruining lives — causing madness, theft, heartbreak, long after their victims re-surface.
But when Ira swims by, they scatter.
Like they know something about her she doesn't.
Good. Let them be afraid.
As time passes, and she enjoyed the thoughtlessness of the water, she notices something pale flickering below, deep on the ocean floor.
She pauses, floating in the deep sea. Watching.
A small, ghost-white creature hovers just above the ground — round and trembling, like a blown-glass blowfish. Its body glows faintly, and its huge eyes blink slowly. It looks young. Alone. Frightened.
Where's your mother? Ira thinks to herself.
She floats toward it cautiously, her dark hair blooming around her like seaweed. The creature doesn't flee.
Instead, it watches her. Intently. As if beckoning.
It burrows into the sand suddenly — only partway — and resurfaces again. It nods to her. A soft flicker of movement. Like an invitation.
She hovers there, holding her breath, long limbs anchoring her in the soft undercurrent.
Again, the fish digs. Pauses. Looks at her.
Then digs again.
A tunnel begins to form in the sand. Small, narrow, only just wide enough for it to slip inside. But as Ira watches, the creature begins to swim in tight, fast circles around the entrance — stirring the silt, churning the water.
The tunnel grows.
And grows.
Wider.
Deeper.
Until—
She gasps, choking on saltwater, and kicks to the surface in a panic. She breaks through with a violent breath, water streaming down her face.
A tunnel.
It had opened a tunnel.
A tunnel that had exploded into a captivating red light.
One that seemed to call to her by name.
A tunnel large enough for her to fit through.
She floats there, stunned, rain hammering her skin.
Where does it lead?
Should I go?
Of course not - even I can't breathe down there.
But as the thoughts fly through her mind, she knows she's already made the decision.
Maybe I'll drown, she thinks. Maybe it will finally be the end. At the very least, I'll feel something.
But there's something else at play. She can feel it. A pull — low and ancient and aching in her belly, like a tether that's been waiting for her to notice it.
The truth is, she can't keep living like this. Day after day of damp apartments and meaningless deliveries and hollow smiles. Something has to break.
Whether it's death or… whatever this is, she'd rather that than one more day of fruitless monotony.
So she fills her lungs with one last breath.
And she dives.
Chapter 4
To her surprise, the fish is still there, waiting for her just beneath the surface. He seems excited to see her again, circling the tunnel's mouth with renewed vigour.
She smiles at him — or tries to, at least. She is under water after all. Without much hesitation, she dives headfirst into the tunnel. Frightened? Absolutely. Viscerally. But she's made her choice, and is determined to get as far as she can before her oxygen runs out.
The tunnel is dark and sandy. The walls ripple like folded fabric. It's just wide enough for her to swim through without scraping her arms. Red light glows around her.
Ira kicks steadily, arms reaching forward in long strokes. Swimming as fast as her body allows. It feels as if she was made for this.
Her heart begins to race in response to the close quarters but she makes a decision then and there: no panic. Not now. She'll keep going until she reaches air, or until her body gives out, one way or another. There's no going back.
Seconds blur into minutes. Minutes blur into something longer. She has no way of telling time down here.
Shouldn't she be gasping by now? Shouldn't her lungs be screaming?
She's not breathing — that part's clear. But the tightness in her chest, the ringing in her ears, the black spots behind her eyes… none of it comes. Instead, she feels calm. Steady. Like her body has entered a trance. The rhythm of her strokes, the pull of the current, the silence — it lulls her. Almost hypnotic. She feels…good, even.
Suddenly, the tunnel plunges downward then bends up sharply, giving way to a surface. She breaks through with a quiet splash, taking a huge gulp of air.
Darkness.
Thick, oppressive, earthen darkness. The red light is gone. The air smells like wet stone and old blood.
Now she's scared.
This she hadn't expected. Drowning, sure. But this — trapped in a lightless tomb?
Worse.
She hauls herself forward out of the water on her hands and knees, the ground slick and uneven beneath her palms. She has no idea what is in front of her. She uses her hands to feel around her, to try to get her bearings. What feels like muddy rock presses in on all sides of her. It's what feels like tiny enclosure. Rage flickers in her chest — at the fish, at herself, at the whole damn thing.
What was the point of this? To lead her here — to rot in a cave? Alone?
But there's no turning back.
So she crawls.
The black swallows her whole. She opens her eyes wide, wider, willing them to see something, anything — but there's no light, not even a hint of it. Just the sound of her breath, the squelch of her knees, the endless tight press of muddy walls.
Time slips away. Her body moves forward without permission, driven by survival instinct alone.
Then — a glimmer.
At first, she doesn't believe it. A flicker of red, barely there. A hallucination, maybe.
But it grows.
And grows.
And grows.
A low, warm red begins to stain the walls ahead of her. Real light. Not imagined. Not madness.
Heart racing, she drags herself faster, elbows and knees rubbing against wet clay. She needs out. She needs air. She needs to see.
The tunnel narrows again, but it doesn't stop her. She flattens herself, inching forward, arms pulled tight to her sides. The glow deepens as she rounds a final bend, slick hair clinging to her face.
And then — she sees it.
A pool. Lit from the underneath with that same red hue.
It fills the cavern with light and Ira can finally see her surroundings. She is in a large cavern, the walls, the floor, the steps — all the same warm brown (from what she could tell at least), carved out of natural clay. The whole space feels shaped, intentional. Like something lives here. Or once did, long ago.
The pool waits ahead of her, still. Its water is clear but tinted brown, like old tea. Smooth, earthen steps lead down into it and rise again on the opposite side, over a squared, clay lip.
She stares at the ledge beyond the water.
She can't see what lies up there. But the only way forward is through the pool, and there's no turning back now. The air feels charged. Like the world's about to shift again.
Things are happening fast, but also so very slow.
She takes a step towards the pool.
Chapter 5
"You sure you want to do that?"
A voice — deep, velvet, mocking — cuts through the stillness behind her.
Ira wheels around.
A man is leaning casually against a rusty red pillar. He's small — may five feet. His skin glows faintly in the cavern light, a shade of alabaster marble. A black tunic clings to that skin, revealing a sliver of a defined chest. He's built, but the shape of his body seems to be forged from utility, not brute force. His facial features are…Ira struggles to find another word in her mind other than beautiful. Androgynous. Delicate. Strong. A messy mop of chestnut-black curls frames his face.
He's prettier than me. Ira muses to herself.
But it's his eyes. His eyes that she truly notices. They make it difficult for her to notice anything else at all, if she's honest. Large for his face, they're an indigo shade of deep blue, moving like waves breaking the surface when observed from below. Something about them seem oddly familiar to her, but she can't quite place it.
Ira has never been so relieved to see anyone in her entire life.
The stranger cocks his head slightly, as though reading her mind just then, and a crooked smile spreads across his lips. It reveals a set of straight, white teeth that are just a bit too sharp, too canine.
Still gorgeous, though. Ira notes to herself.
"I wouldn't, if I were you," he adds, nodding towards the pool. "That water doesn't like to be disturbed by strangers." His grin widens into something that doesn't quite reach his eyes. Ira can't read his expression. It's not concern, but it's not malice.
It's curiosity, Ira realizes, and it's not kind. The kind of curiosity that a cat has while playing with a mouse before it makes the kill. Perhaps she shouldn't be feeling relieved to see him after all.
She doesn't speak. Just stares at those eyes a little longer, thinking.
"Yours aren't bad either," His voice echoes softly again through the chamber.
When Ira doesn't respond, he tilts his chin up and clarifies, "Your eyes."
Ira takes a step back.
Is he reading my mind? If he is, he ignores the question.
"I've never seen eyes that shade of red before. Any idea where you got that…charming trait?"
His tone is mocking.
The comment snaps her out of her trance, though.
Red? Her eyes were brown. Always had been. A dull, hazy, brown. Usually bloodshot, but that was as red as they got. She rushes towards the pool, peering into its surface to catch a glimpse of herself in the still water.
She barely recognizes the reflection staring back at her.
Her face looks narrower. More predatory. Her cheeks more hollow, eyes more sunken than before. Her long black hair is matted, tousled, caked with dirt, still damp from the tunnel. Her skin is streaked with dried red mud. Rusty.
But it's her eyes she notices immediately — and he's right.
They're glowing. Red. Wild. Weird. Wrong. The red glows faintly, like lava moving under a molten crust.
Suddenly, she realizes how exhausted she is. How frightened. How alone. Annoyance flares up in her chest, the affinity towards him gone. She wants to go home, not play strange games with a stranger in a cavern.
"Who are you?" she demands as she whirls back around. Her voice is shaking with adrenaline.
"Who Iam is none of your concern at the moment," he says lightly, as though anticipating the question. "The question I'm more interested in at the moment is: what are you?" His voice has a strange cadence — clipped, precise, old.
Formal.
Must come from money, she thinks to herself quickly — and then scolds herself. He's not real. You're hallucinating. Why are you thinking about money when you're obviously having a psychotic break?
Ira narrows her eyes, her gaze hardening in a challenge towards the stranger. "Are you real?" She asks him. Even figments of your imagination could provide her with some answers, she hope.
Something shifts in his face then. A flicker, passing over it like a shadow.
"Of course I'm real." He says at last. "My name is Cobalt," as though deciding an introduction would be best. "And yours?"
She hesitates, then: "Ira." Hallucination or no, she'll humour it.
"Pleased to meet you, Ira," he says smoothly. "I apologize if this is a rude question where ever your from but again I ask, what are you?" Cobalt begins pacing slowly, walking the perimeter of the cavern with his hands behind his back.
"Why do you keep asking me that? Why does it matter?" Her voice a challenge.
He ignores her question, then begins to walk towards her.
"What. Are. You?" he repeats, taking a step forward with each word, his hands no longer behind his back. His eyes are beginning to glow faintly now, too. His teeth seem to lengthen. He looks hungry. Or is that in her head?
She backs up with each step he takes forward. The pool is uncomfortably close behind her now. Her body tenses.
Ira's heart pounds. Hallucination or no, her instincts tell her honesty feels like the safest option. "I… I don't know," she shrugs. "I don't know who I am, or what I am, or where I am, or what any of this is. I just know that you're not real. None of this can be. And that, honestly, I'm over it. I just want to wake up. I have…work tomorrow."
Work. Somehow, despite everything happening, she still groans interally at the thought of it.
Silence fills the cavern. His head cocks to the side again, staring. Seconds stretch out into a minute. Ira just sighs, her breath comedically loud.
As though coming out of a trance of his own then, Cobalt says casually, "I assure you this is real," adding, "Unfortunately."
He changes course and walks toward the edge of the pool, leaning down on his haunches as he gazes into it.
"Unfortunately?" she echoes as she edges towards him. "Why unfortunately?"
He kneels and lowers a hand into the pool. Slowly. Deliberately. Gently. She notices his hands then. Slender. Lean. Strong. Accentuated by a beautiful large ring that sits on his right pinky.
"You're standing at the doorway to hell." He says to her idly, making a gesture in the water.
It reacts instantly to its touch. It ripples, as if shivering with pleasure, then begins to move, parting into two tall, fluid walls forming a narrow corridor across the cavern. The path glows faintly red — like bioluminescence, soft and pulsing.
"I'm sorry. Hell? Hell isn't real."
His face is unreadable as he stares forward, lost in thought. "I assure, you it is."
Ira softens a little as she watches him. There's something so…sad about him.
"Ok, fine. I'll humour you. If this is the doorway to Hell, then what are you? Its keeper or something?"
He pauses. "That's a story for another time. Right now, we need to figure out how you even got here. And how to get you out."
Relief floods her.
Thank god.
She realizes then that no matter what happened, whether this was real or not, she would follow him. He was like an anchor in this bizarre fever dream and she knew in her body, her best shot to wake up, or to get out.
Cobalt presses his small, soft lips together in a line of quiet resolve, concentrating. A sudden calm wraps around her. The water itself feels… protective. Like it's inviting her in.
"Shall we?" Cobalt asks, his velvet voice barely louder than the shifting current.
"You want me to go in there? With you?"
"Of course I do." He says calmly. He's looking deeply at her eyes.
"I thought you said you were going to get me out. I don't want to go further in."
Ira sweeps her gaze over him then and notices something. Something eerie. It's his pinky ring. Deeply set in the silver craftsmanship sits a ruby. It's glowing. Red. The same exact shade as her eyes.
She glances down at her own hand, then.
Her mother's ring glows too — soft, steady. Blue. Cobalt blue. The same exact shade as his.