Simon awoke with the dull ache of something deeply wrong, as though his body had been turned inside out and then shoved back together. His head pounded in rhythm with his heartbeat, and there was a metallic taste in his mouth. He opened his eyes slowly, blinking against the bright light above him. It wasn't sunlight. The light flickered, buzzing overhead like an old neon sign.
He was lying in an alley, the ground beneath him wet with a sour, brackish smell. The world seemed skewed—both in the way his vision struggled to focus and in how impossibly quiet it was. No distant chatter of pedestrians, no hum of cars. Just that buzzing light and the soft sound of dripping water somewhere behind him.
Simon pushed himself upright, each movement a fight against his own aching muscles. His hand brushed against something cool and metallic. He looked down to see a key—an old-fashioned brass key, its bow shaped like an intricate knot of twisting metal. It was resting on a small notebook, the edges of the pages browned and worn. He picked them up, his fingers trembling.
The notebook was small enough to fit in his pocket, the cover embossed with a design of an eye encircled by symbols. He felt a strange pull, an almost gravitational weight to the key and notebook, as if they belonged to him in some way that he couldn't quite grasp yet.
He glanced around, hoping for some kind of answer—some clue as to how he had ended up here. The alley stretched only a few meters in either direction, the entrance blocked by thick shadows. Simon's head throbbed harder. Something was out of place. Something was waiting.
"You took your time waking up," a voice said.
Simon spun around, almost dropping the key. A man stood at the end of the alley, barely visible in the dim light. He was tall, gaunt, with a face that seemed too pale, as if he had never seen daylight. His clothes—a long coat, dark trousers—blended into the shadows, but his eyes gleamed in the dark.
"Who are you?" Simon asked, his voice rasping.
The man stepped forward, his footsteps silent on the wet pavement. He smiled, a thin and humorless smile, and gestured to the key in Simon's hand.
"That key is yours now," the man said. "And the responsibility that comes with it. The shop has chosen you."
Simon frowned, looking down at the key. The shop? What shop? Nothing made sense. His memory was a blur—the last thing he remembered was the sudden screech of car tires, the flash of headlights. Then pain, blinding and intense, and… nothing.
"I think you have the wrong person," Simon said, shaking his head. "I don't know anything about a shop."
The man sighed, as if he had heard this all before. He reached into his coat and pulled out a piece of paper, holding it out toward Simon. Simon hesitated before taking it. It was an old contract, the parchment thick and yellowed. His name was scrawled at the bottom in bold black ink.
"You made the deal," the man said. "Whether you remember or not. The shop always collects on its bargains."
Simon's pulse quickened, a chill running down his spine. The contract blurred before his eyes, and he felt a strange pull, an urge to walk toward the shadows at the far end of the alley. He swallowed hard, looking up at the stranger.
"What's the catch?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
The man's smile widened, showing teeth that were just a little too sharp. "You'll find out soon enough," he said. He turned, his coat swirling around him, and began walking away, his form disappearing into the darkness.
Simon stood there, his heart pounding, staring at the key and the notebook in his hands. He had a choice: stay here in the alley, confused and terrified, or follow the pull—follow the strange destiny that had somehow found him.
With a deep breath, Simon stepped forward, toward the shadows and whatever lay beyond them.