Calen sat on the cracked edge of a garbage-strewn rooftop, watching the city breathe beneath him. The smoke from broken streetlamps curled upward in thin, yellow spirals, mingling with the last traces of dusk. Somewhere below, a neon sign flickered and hissed like a wounded animal. He didn't bother looking at it for more than a second. He'd seen the glow a thousand times, and each time it only reminded him that the world was bigger than he was—and that he didn't belong anywhere in it.
He held a half-empty bottle of synthetic water in one hand. Cheap stuff that tasted like melted plastic, but he hadn't eaten in over twenty hours, so it was enough to keep him alive. His fingers were caked with grime, his knuckles raw from climbing pipes and jumping fences to avoid the gangs that claimed every alley as their own. The city wasn't kind to those who didn't matter. And Calen had never mattered.
He thought about eating, really. A proper meal would be nice—meat that wasn't grey and rubbery, bread that didn't crumble into dust at the slightest touch. But the markets were far, and he didn't have enough credits. He had exactly twenty-four, not nearly enough to last a day in the lower tiers without resorting to petty theft, and even that was risky. He sighed and shook his head, spilling a bit of water over his dirty hand.
"Pathetic," he muttered.
A gust of wind ruffled his hair and brought the faint stench of burning plastic from the streets below. Calen wrapped his arms around his knees, pressing his face into them for warmth, even though it did little. Sleep tugged at him like an old friend, the kind that made promises he knew were lies. He tried to ignore it. Couldn't—hadn't been able to—afford to sleep during the day for years. Not since the gangs had discovered that young, skinny street kids were easy prey for extortion.
It came faster than he expected. A sudden tremor in his chest, a sharp pang behind his eyes, and a voice—so faint it might have been imagined—whispered in the back of his skull. Calen… Calen…
He froze. The whisper repeated, louder this time, twisting around his thoughts. It wasn't his own voice. It wasn't anyone he knew. And yet it was calling him, pulling at him in a way that made his stomach knot.
He gritted his teeth, trying to shake it off. "It's nothing. Just… brain playing tricks," he said aloud, though the words sounded hollow even to him.
But it didn't stop. The whisper grew into a soft hum, like the buzz of a neon sign too long in the rain. And then—without warning—a sharp pain lanced through the back of his head, knocking him to the side. He hit the rooftop hard, scraping his shoulder against the concrete.
"Shit," he groaned. He tried to stand, but his legs wouldn't obey. A sudden weakness made him feel as if the world were tipping, and he clutched the edge of the building, gasping. The hum had turned into voices, dozens of them overlapping, jumbled into a single, incomprehensible chorus. He pressed his palms against his ears, wishing, praying for it to stop.
And then it did.
Silence.
He was panting. Sweat streaked his dirt-caked face, stinging his eyes. For a long moment, he couldn't move. The city lights blurred around him, bleeding into the edges of his vision. His heartbeat slammed in his chest like it would burst through the skin, but he didn't care. He just wanted the sound in his head—the whisper—to leave him alone.
"Calen," it came again, softer now, patient, coaxing.
He swallowed hard. There was something wrong—terribly wrong—but at the same time, it was like a thread he couldn't resist tugging. Something deep inside him ached with recognition, though he had no idea why. And then, as if pulled by invisible hands, he touched the base of his skull with trembling fingers.
Everything went black.
He woke on the rooftop, but it wasn't the same. The city below was darker, quieter. The neon signs had died, the smoke vanished, leaving an empty gray sky that pressed down like a lid. The wind no longer stirred; the only sound was a soft clicking, like distant gears grinding.
He tried to move—tried to crawl to the edge to see what had happened—but something was wrong. His hands weren't shaking. They weren't even his. They were… smoother, longer, but still scarred. He looked down at his body, expecting to see himself. Instead, he saw something that resembled him, yet was wrong—too straight, too angular, and his chest bore a faint, glowing sigil pulsing beneath his skin.
A voice echoed through the void, deeper now, commanding. Aspirant… you have awakened. Claim the Echo.
Calen staggered back, his stomach churning. "What… what the fuck is this?" he whispered, though no sound came out. The world had swallowed his voice. He felt light-headed, as if gravity itself was unsure whether to hold him or let him fall.
And then a shadow moved. Not a shadow in the traditional sense—more like a smear of darkness in the corner of his vision—but it was conscious. It coalesced slowly, forming the shape of a man. Or maybe a thing that once had been a man. It had no eyes, only a hollow mask where its face should have been, and its limbs bent in impossible angles. It regarded him with… something. Curiosity? Hunger? He couldn't tell.
"Who—what—are you?" he finally forced out, voice trembling.
The thing tilted its head. I am what you carry now. I am the Echo. You called, even before you knew it.
Calen recoiled. "I didn't call anything! I… I'm not… I—"
The Echo extended a finger, brushing against his forehead, and the world wrenched itself apart. Memories, foreign yet painfully vivid, surged into him. He saw a battlefield drenched in blood, a child crying for someone long gone, the smell of fire, the sound of steel on steel. His stomach turned; he doubled over, heaving into nothing.
"Stop!" he screamed, but even that was swallowed. He felt his mind fragmenting, threads of his own memories tangling with these alien images. The sensation was unbearable. He collapsed, curling into a ball on the rooftop, tears streaking his face.
Calen… choose. Claim, or be consumed.
He swallowed. His chest heaved. Something inside him snapped—or maybe something inside him awoke. A faint heat bloomed in his chest, spreading outward, and the sigil glowed brighter. The Echo's voice became sharper, insistent. Control me. Or I will control you.
Instinct, raw and brutal, took over. He imagined grabbing the shadow, gripping it, bending it to his will. And to his disbelief, it shrieked and obeyed. The black mass contorted around his hands, forming shapes that mimicked what he wanted: shields, blades, strange appendages that twisted and stretched as if alive.
He screamed again—half fear, half exhilaration. The Echo pulsed with every heartbeat, thrumming through his veins. It was intoxicating. He hadn't felt power like this before. Not ever. The hunger, the thrill, the sheer, terrifying presence of it—it was everything and nothing at once.
And then, as quickly as it had come, it receded. The Echo floated behind him, inert but present, coiled like a predator waiting for its next command. Calen collapsed onto the rooftop, gasping, shaking, tears and sweat streaked across his face.
He could hear his own heartbeat, loud and frantic. He could feel the city, the void he'd been thrown into, the faint, lingering presence of a thousand memories that weren't his. And above all, he could feel the Echo—alive, patient, watching.
He muttered a broken laugh. "Great. Just… great. Fucking perfect."
The night sky above the ruined city seemed to press closer, as if waiting for him to do something. Anything. And in the shadows, unseen and patient, the city waited too.
Calen wasn't sure if he had survived, or if he had simply begun something far worse than death. Either way, he knew one thing for certain: nothing would ever be the same again.
The first whisper had chosen him—and he had answered.