March 2025.
A sky of concrete hangs over the city. The streets smell of cold rain, metallic dust and old grease from fast food restaurants that refuse to die. Lucius Silvis lives, or rather vegetates, in this world of neon light, faceless noise and stale time.
He is 26, but his eyes are decades old. They have seen more than most men could ever imagine. His youthful face is a canvas painted with the shadows of his past, a silent narrative of the horrors that lurk beyond the mundane facade of the urban sprawl.
The morning begins as usual. He wakes up in a room that smells of solvent and stale tobacco. The wallpaper is peeling off the walls like burnt skin, revealing the sadness of the plaster beneath. The only color is the yellow stain of nicotine that has seeped into the fabric of his curtains. The room is a tomb of forgotten dreams and discarded lives, much like the alleyways outside his window.
He reaches for his caffeine pill, popping it into his mouth without a sip of water. It's a daily ritual, a silent battle against the weight of his existence. The bitter taste lingers, a grim reminder of the artificial means he uses to stay afloat in a sea of apathy.
The digital clock on his bedside table blinks erratically at 08:08, a numerical stutter. He watches the numbers flicker with a strange fascination, his thoughts spiraling into the cold abyss of meaningless repetition. It's not just a time, but a symbol of his entrapment in a cycle of despair.
The apartment above him drips. The incessant rhythm of water droplets echoes through the ceiling, a macabre metronome that punctuates his waking moments. It's a symphony of decay, a relentless reminder that even the sturdiest structures succumb to the ravages of time. Each drop is a silent scream, a testament to the neglect that seeps into every corner of the building.
The neighbor below screams into the void of the city. Her cries are raw, desperate, a primal release that pierces the fabric of the city's indifference. They used to echo in the stairwell, reverberating through the walls and into his soul. But now, they're just background noise, a sad melody that's become a part of the urban symphony. No one comes to her aid anymore, the cries have grown too familiar.
...
In the oppressive afternoon, Lucius Silvis emerges from his apartment. The door creaks shut behind him like the final note of a mournful hymn. The stairs are slick with the same rain that now coats his boots, a cold embrace from the city he can't escape. The air outside is thick with the scent of wet concrete and the acrid tang of pollution. People scurry about in the streets, their faces obscured by hoods and masks, their eyes as lifeless as the puddles they step over.
He avoids their glances, his gaze skimming over the urban landscape like a wandering shadow. In his long, black coat, he becomes one with the shadows, a silent sentinel moving through the city's veins. His eyes are the only things visible, ice gray orbs that seem to look through the very essence of the world around him. They are the eyes of a man who has seen too much.
As Lucius walks, a homeless man huddled in a doorway, surrounded by a mountain of damp cardboard and plastic, locks eyes with him. The man's beard is a wild tapestry of gray and dirt, and his eyes burn with an intensity that seems almost supernatural. He mumbles something, his words lost in the growling of the city's guts.
Lucius said nothing and walked on. His boots echoed in the alleys, the rain had stopped, leaving a film of water that reflected the ghostly faces of the buildings above him.
As he reached the subway station, the air grew heavier, thick with the scent of damp earth and stale breath. The lights flickered, casting eerie shadows that danced on the wet ground like silent specters. Descending the stairs felt like descending into the bowels of the city itself, a place where the lost souls of the night congregated to whisper their secrets.
As he arrived at the bottom, the platform was a tableau of despair. The light of the coming subway pierced the darkness, a serpent of illumination that coiled through the tunnel. It was a beacon of hope that seemed to mock the desolate scene it approached. The tracks gleamed with the promise of escape, a silent siren's call that whispered sweet nothings of oblivion.
The sadness in his eyes grew heavier, a burden that no caffeine pill could ever lift. He paused, his boots echoing in the silence of his decision. His gaze fell to the tracks, the rusted metal a stark contrast to the gleaming rails. The smell of the city's bowels was suffocating, a stench that seemed to embody the pain of a million forgotten lives.
With a deep breath that seemed to carry the weight of his soul, Lucius dropped impulsively onto the tracks. His body hit the cold, hard ground with a thud that seemed to resonate through his very being. The world above grew distant, the cacophony of the city fading to a muffled murmur. The only sound was the steady rumble of the approaching train, a metronome that counted down his final moments.
Then complete silence, probably the only time in his life.
The images that flooded his mind were stark, a stark contrast to the grimy world above. He saw himself as a small child, his mother's laughter a symphony that filled their cramped apartment. Her eyes sparkled with life and love, a stark contrast to the lifelessness that now haunted his own. They played together in a room filled with light, a stark contrast to the shadowed alleyways of his current existence.
Then, like a switch had been flipped, the scene shifted to darkness. She was there, hanging from a rafter in their home, her eyes open but unseeing. The light had left them, leaving only the cold, empty sockets that reflected his own horror. He was only ten, too young to understand the depth of the pain that could lead to such an end, too old to ever forget the sight that had been burned into his memory.
The images of his past continued to unfold like a grisly tapestry. His father, once a man filled with warmth and laughter, now a hollow shell. The bottle had claimed him, turning him into a monster that stumbled through their lives, leaving destruction in his wake. The once-joyful sounds of their home now replaced with the shattering of glass and the harsh whispers of despair.
Schoolyard faces flitted by, a blur of cruel smiles and taunts. The other children had sensed his isolation, his otherness, and had pounced upon it like vultures on a carcass. Their games had been twisted into a living hell, each recess a battleground where he learned the bitter taste of defeat. The teachers had turned a blind eye, deaf to his silent pleas for salvation.
He saw the faces of his few friends, their eyes now distant, their laughter replaced with the cold indifference of adulthood. The bridges they'd burned in their youth had never been rebuilt, leaving him stranded on an island of solitude. The rare moments of warmth from a forgotten past felt like whispers from a lost civilization, echoes of a time when he'd known what it was to feel truly alive.
And then, complete silence again.