Chapter 2: City of Whispers
I woke up feeling like absolute shit. My whole body ached, like I'd been run over, dragged for a couple of miles, and left for dead. The bed beneath me felt like it was made of fucking rocks, stiff and unforgiving. I blinked at the ceiling, trying to shake off the fog in my brain, but the first thing that hit me was the smell.
"Fuck me…"
I reeked. Sweat, dirt, mud—everything from yesterday clung to me like a bad fucking decision I couldn't wash off. I sat up, peeling myself off the gross-ass sheets, and my heart sank as I looked down at myself. My cross-country uniform was still on, crusted over with dried mud that had turned stiff and itchy overnight. The memory of face-planting during the race flashed through my head—how I'd stumbled through the damn thing like a drunk deer before crashing in this shitty hotel.
My legs, my arms, my face—it was all covered. I was still fucking filthy.
"Great. Just fucking great."
I wiped at the dirt on my skin, like it might magically come off. Spoiler: it didn't. I was caked in it—layers of dried mud, streaks of sweat-turned-grime, clinging to me like a mold. And the worst part? It wasn't just on the outside. I felt like I'd been dragged through hell, like all this crap I'd been trying to shake was still clinging to my insides.
I glanced over at my backpack, leaning up against the rickety chair by the window, half-open like it had been through a damn storm. At least I had a towel and some soap in there. Whoop-de-fucking-do. What was I even expecting? A five-star spa? I couldn't even get a decent mattress in this shithole.
I dragged myself out of bed, feeling every muscle scream in protest, and grabbed the pack. My hands fumbled with the zipper as I yanked it open. Towel, soap—barely enough to scrape myself clean, but it was all I had. I glanced toward the bathroom. The door was half-open, creaking like some haunted house, and I could already see the bathroom was a disaster. Cracked tiles, mildew, the faint stink of old, stagnant water. Fucking disgusting.
"Of course. Because why the fuck not?"
I gritted my teeth, shaking my head. You've survived worse. Stop whining, baby. I forced my feet to move, stepping toward the bathroom like it was some kind of challenge. I couldn't keep walking around covered in mud and smelling like shit. I had to get clean, even if the place looked like it'd give me tetanus just by standing in it.
But even as I told myself that, I could feel that stupid fucking voice creeping in again, the one that never shuts up. Why bother? You think washing this shit off makes you any less of a fucking mess?
I hated that voice. It was always there, lurking in the back of my mind, waiting for the moment I felt like I might be getting it together. You think this'll fix you, Ignis? Get real.
That voice never stopped reminding me of every mistake, every fuck-up. Like that one time… but no, I couldn't go there. Couldn't let my brain drag me back to that place. Just because I was my own worst enemy didn't mean I had to listen to every taunt. The voice wouldn't stop, though, like a needle digging into a nerve, reminding me exactly why I felt like trash.
I clenched my fists, my jaw tightening. "Shut the hell up," I growled under my breath, more to myself than anything else. My chest felt tight, like I was suffocating under the weight of all this doubt that wouldn't quit.
I shoved the door to the bathroom the rest of the way open and stepped inside. The tiles were grimy, cracked, and the showerhead was rusted to shit. There were water stains on the ceiling, and the mirror was so fogged up and dirty, I couldn't even see my reflection clearly. Perfect.
But there wasn't time for bitching. I needed to get this done. Time to use the cheat code.
I stared at the rusty shower, feeling that familiar tug in the back of my head—the part of me that could make all this mess go away, at least for a few seconds. I could stop time, freeze everything, and give myself the space to deal with it. No one else had that luxury, right? At least I had that.
I didn't even know how to fully control it, and every time I tried, it felt like I was reaching for something just out of my grasp. Memories of moments I thought I had in my hands, only to watch them slip through my fingers, flooded back—my powers pulling a disappearing act when I needed them most. Was today going to be any different? For once, just let this work.
If you can pull it off.
The doubt hit again, making my stomach twist. My powers were a damn joke sometimes—unreliable, showing up whenever they felt like it, leaving me hanging when I actually needed them. But I couldn't walk around like this, covered in mud and feeling like shit. I had no choice. I turned the shower on, and it sputtered like it hadn't worked in years, groaning and spitting out a sad stream of lukewarm water.
"Fucking wonderful," I muttered.
I took a breath, closed my eyes, and focused. It wasn't easy—never was—but I felt the world slow around me, like everything was sinking into syrup. The water droplets froze mid-air, hanging like glass beads. Each droplet hung perfectly still, suspended mid-fall, catching the dim light like a thousand miniature mirrors reflecting a world stopped in its tracks. I could see every tiny ripple in the water, frozen like shards of crystal. The air felt thick and heavy around me, like I'd stepped into a solid block of time where the rest of the world ceased to exist. It was like standing inside a painting, but I was the only thing moving, alive in a moment that wasn't supposed to belong to me. The sound of the shitty shower stopped. Everything went still. Time was mine—for now.
I moved quickly, grabbing the soap and scrubbing the hell out of my arms and legs. The mud was stubborn, clinging to me like it wanted to be part of me forever. I rubbed harder, my hands moving fast as I worked through the caked grime on my skin. The water stayed frozen, giving me the precious seconds I needed.
I dug the soap into my skin, grinding it in, but the mud clung tight, like it was woven into every pore, refusing to let go. No matter how hard I scrubbed, it held on, stubborn as hell, like it wanted to remind me of every stumble, every fall that got me here. My hand pushed slowly through the thick, molasses-heavy air, each stroke barely peeling away anything more than a flake or two. The cheap lavender scent clawed against the mildew, trying to claim this cramped space, and I tried to believe, just for a second, that maybe I could do the same—that I could scrub everything off, even the weight of yesterday. But the grime was sunk deep, clinging like it was part of me, too ingrained to shake, no matter how raw I made myself.
And then there was the water. Frozen mid-spray, the droplets hung suspended, as thick and murky as glass in the stale air. They barely helped, but at least they weren't pouring down on me in a constant flood of whatever sludge was lurking in those rusted pipes. I shuddered at the thought of it—dark, metallic, maybe even streaked with god knows what. A chill crept over me, but I clenched my teeth and scrubbed harder, grinding the soap in deeper. Freezing the water was maybe the one thing my powers had managed right today, but I wasn't about to let a little filth win. If I could make it through this, I could face whatever was next.
And then, like it was waiting for just the right moment, my mind wouldn't shut up. Even with everything around me frozen, that voice kept fucking talking.
What are you going to do, Ignis? Scrub away years in this rusted-out excuse for a shower? You're still the same screw-up you were yesterday. Drown it, scrub it raw, but it'll still be there because you are still you.
I scrubbed harder, trying to drown it out. "Shut the fuck up," I snapped, feeling my heart pound in my chest. I hated that voice. Hated that part of me that couldn't let go, that kept reminding me of every failure, every fuck-up.
In the silence, that voice had nowhere to go but straight to my core, echoing louder in the stillness. No rush of water, no ticking seconds—just me and that voice, telling me I could scrub until I bled and it wouldn't matter. The mud was just a cover, just a costume; I'd be the same no matter what I wore on the outside. Here, with the world frozen, it all felt sharper, like the voice had power in this space, pressing every doubt and failure I'd buried back to the surface.
You think being clean is going to make you less of a freak? The voice was relentless, hissing in the back of my mind like a rattlesnake waiting to strike. You really think you're going to make it out of this mess? You're just running in circles, pretending like you're not still the same fuck-up you were yesterday.
My grip on the soap tightened, my jaw clenched. "Shut up, shut up, shut the fuck up," I hissed, scrubbing harder, as if I could erase the weight clawing at me from inside. You think this makes you any less of a mess?
I rubbed my skin raw, trying to get rid of not just the mud, but the weight of everything I'd been carrying. The mud, the sweat, the failures—they all felt the same. Time was starting to slip, I could feel it. The water droplets were shaking, ready to fall.
My grip on the moment was slipping, like trying to hold onto the sandy lavender bar that kept sifting through my fingers. It felt like my whole body was trembling, fighting to hold the weight of this frozen moment, and I could feel my heartbeat, loud and frantic, in my ears. The room pulsed with a barely contained energy, like the entire world was ready to explode back to life the second I let go. I could see the water droplets trembling, the power I was barely holding onto quivering on the edge.
"Fuck you," I hissed, my voice harsh. The water fell, crashing into the tiles, and time snapped back into place with a loud hiss of running water.
I stood there, breathing hard, watching the water swirl down the drain, brown and murky. The grime was gone, but the exhaustion stayed. That voice, too, still lurking in the back of my mind, waiting to tear me down again.
I grabbed the towel and dried off quickly, trying not to think about anything. Just get clean, get dressed, get out. That was the plan. I pulled on the only clean clothes I had left—a pair of jeans and one of Dad's old band t-shirt—and stared at myself in the cracked, foggy mirror. I looked cleaner, sure, but my eyes? They told the truth. I was still tired, still worn down, still not sure what the fuck I was doing.
I stared at the cracked mirror, the storm swirling in my eyes—a mix of dad's brown and mom's green, the hazel always shifting. But today, it looked heavy, clouded, like the storm clouds in my mind had settled there. My eyes showed the truth, even when the rest of me tried to hide it: I was a mess. The pain, the exhaustion—it was all right there, reflected back at me.
My hair hung in wet, fluffy clumps, more brown than blonde now, stuck to my face like a mop that needed to be wrung out. Dark circles smudged under my eyes, my skin pale, stretched thin. I could almost trace every vein, like a roadmap of where I'd been, nowhere I wanted to stay. I looked like I hadn't slept in days—because, honestly, it felt like I hadn't. My body wasn't much better. Too skinny, ribs showing more than they should. I ate like a damn horse, but still, no muscle. My torso looked hollow, like I could never fill it out no matter how much food I shoved down my throat.
Then there was my ass—small, round, but not enough to fill out my jeans the way they should. My whole frame was awkward, like my body hadn't figured out what it was supposed to be yet. I felt weak, like I wasn't built to handle what life kept throwing at me.
I look like a fucking raccoon, I thought bitterly. Scrambling through the trash, barely surviving. That's what I felt like—some garbage life form, always trying to clean up the mess I couldn't get rid of. No matter how many showers I took, I still felt like a wreck.
I was like a clock, ticking just a little slower than everyone else, gears grinding, something off-kilter. It was the kind of wrong you couldn't see from the outside. Like a broken watch that still showed the right time twice a day—pretending to be just fine, but totally messed up under the surface. That's what I was: a busted clock, running on empty.
I clenched my jaw, staring at the reflection. I didn't want to be that person. But staring at myself now, I couldn't help but think: Maybe I am.
Trash Panda strikes again.
The whispers from last night came back, faint but insistent. I still didn't know what had drawn me to the city, but whatever it was, it wasn't done with me. But I knew what it was like to be the outsider, to feel like I didn't belong. Back home, they'd whisper too, calling me strange, special, a freak who didn't fit their small world. Out here, the city didn't care what you were; it was just as broken as me. My family said I was unique, as if that made it any better.
It never fucking was.
I left the bathroom, feeling cleaner but still like the same damn mess. My footsteps felt heavy as I made my way back into the dingy room. The morning sun was starting to filter through the grimy window, casting this dull, yellowish light across the shitty bed and cracked walls. The whole place had that smell—like old cigarette smoke, Chardonnay and sweat, like the walls themselves had soaked in decades of bad decisions.
I grabbed my backpack and slung it over my shoulder, taking one last look at the place before heading out. The uniform was still there in the corner, a sad reminder of yesterday's fuck-up. I couldn't shake it, couldn't escape that part of myself no matter how many times I tried to clean up. But standing here wasn't going to fix anything.
I stepped out into the hallway. The carpet was sticky under my shoes, and the fluorescent lights overhead flickered like they were about to give up completely. Just like me. I forced my legs to move, one foot in front of the other, as I made my way downstairs, trying to shove down that feeling—like something was gnawing at me from the inside, like I was a damn fraud pretending to have a plan.
The lobby was empty. Figures. This place wasn't exactly the Ritz. There was no front desk, just a half-broken vending machine and a door that led to the street. The city was waiting outside—loud, relentless, like it had been calling to me since last night. I wasn't sure why, but something about this place felt… off. Like it was whispering to me, waiting for me to notice something I hadn't yet.
I pushed the door open and stepped out onto the sidewalk.
The city hit me like a slap in the face. The air was thick with exhaust fumes and the sound of traffic—a mix of honking horns and people yelling, all blending together into this constant noise that buzzed at the edges of my mind. It had a way of pressing in on you, like it knew your secrets, your failures, daring you to make a move.
The noise hit in waves—the city chattering and whispering with sounds that blended together. Every street and alley felt like it held its own secret, tempting me to figure out what lay hidden in the cracks. And they were all watching, daring me to see if I'd get swallowed up or spit back out. It was like the city itself knew I didn't belong, breathing down on me with each step, reminding me I was a stranger here. But maybe that was the point.
Conversations overlapping, engines rumbling, heels clicking, all colliding into a symphony that buzzed in my head. It felt like the city itself was alive, pulsing with secrets, tempting me to dig deeper. The whispers had led me here, but it was the roar of the place that held me, like every alleyway had something hidden, waiting just for me to find it.
The sidewalk was packed, people moving in every direction, each of them looking like they had somewhere to be, like they had their shit together. Unlike me. Somewhere in the crowd, a Walkman crackled to life, muffled synths and heavy beats filtering through the noise, grounding me in the chaos.
I tightened my grip on the straps of my backpack and started walking, not really knowing where I was going. My feet moved automatically, like they had their own agenda, while my mind spun in circles, trying to make sense of everything. The whispers from last night, the strange pull that brought me here—it was all still there, tugging at me, nagging at the edges of my thoughts.
What the hell are you doing here?
I didn't have an answer. I never had answers. Just a lot of questions that kept piling up, making it harder to breathe.
I pushed through the crowd, trying to ignore the low buzz of anxiety humming in the back of my skull. The city was relentless—loud, chaotic, like it was constantly on the verge of exploding. My feet kept moving, even though I didn't know where the hell I was going. Just away from all the shit that was piling up in my head.
The smells hit me first—hot dogs, onions, mustard. I barely noticed the food cart at first, but as I passed it, my stomach growled loud enough for me to curse under my breath. The cart was parked on the corner, the guy manning it flipping Chicago-style hotdogs like it was the most important job in the world.
Pickles, mustard, onions, tomatoes, relish—everything that made a Chicago dog scream city pride was stacked on those buns. The scent made my mouth water, even though I knew I wasn't going to stop. I didn't have time for that.
But my stomach had other ideas. I glanced at the vendor, the guy eyeing me like he could sense I was trying to ignore the gnawing hunger in my gut. "You look like you could use one," he said, flipping a dog with practiced ease.
I paused, just for a second, watching the steam rise from the cart. Maybe a hot dog wouldn't hurt. Just something quick. But as soon as I started to reach for my pocket, that gnawing feeling in my gut hit me again—harder this time.
I backed away, shaking my head. "Not today," I muttered, moving faster, my eyes locking onto the alleyway up ahead.
The whispers were back, louder now, pulling me toward that dark stretch of street. I didn't know what the hell it was about alleys, but it felt like I was always finding myself in them, always trying to escape something, even if I wasn't sure what. This one was no different—narrow, shadowed, and leading to who knew where.
I ducked into the alley, the noise from the main street muffled as soon as I stepped in. It felt quieter here, more… intense. My heart pounded in my chest, and I could feel the weight of everything pressing down on me. The whispers were pushing me forward, relentless, and I wasn't in the mood to fight them off.
I kept walking, my footsteps echoing off the brick walls, my breath coming in short, quick bursts. The alley wasn't long, but it felt like it stretched forever, each step pulling me deeper into some kind of unknown.
When I finally emerged on the other side, the bright light of the street hit me like a punch to the face. My eyes squinted against it as I realized where I'd ended up.
Lake Shore Drive.
The lake stretched out in front of me, glistening under the mid-morning sun. Cars rushed by, people jogged along the sidewalk, the sounds of the city blending with the faint rush of waves crashing against the shore. For a moment, everything felt almost… calm. Like the city was giving me a break from its usual chaos.
But the peace didn't last.
I felt it again—that creeping sensation that someone was watching me. My muscles tensed up before I even turned. And there she was. A woman stood a few feet away, leaning against a lamppost, a joint pinched lazily between her fingers. She took a slow drag, exhaling a cloud of smoke into the air, her eyes never leaving me. Dark, sharp eyes that seemed way too damn interested in whatever the hell I was doing.
She wasn't just standing there. She'd been waiting for me.
She wore a leather jacket over a faded graphic tee, her hair wild and dark, curling like smoke in the breeze. The edges of her mouth tilted up in a smirk, like she didn't want to show how messed up her teeth were. Her eyes—though sharp, also cold, unreadable, but way too aware, as if she knew exactly who I was. A few rings glinted on her fingers, which held that joint like it was a secret she was too cool to share.
My stomach twisted in knots. I didn't know why, but something about her sent my brain into overdrive. It wasn't just the fact that she was smoking pot in broad daylight like she couldn't care less—it was the way she watched me, like she already knew everything I was trying to figure out.
"Lost?" she asked, voice low, casual, like we were old friends or something. Her eyes trailed over me, sizing me up like she'd seen a hundred people before me, all with the same look, all pretending they weren't running.
I blinked, trying to push back the growing unease. "What?"
Her lips curled into a half-smile as she flicked the ash off the joint, taking another lazy drag. "You look like you've been running from something," she said, letting the smoke spill from her mouth like she didn't give a damn. "Am I wrong?"
I swallowed hard, my pulse quickening. What the hell was this? My mind raced, trying to make sense of it all. This woman, the way she showed up out of nowhere—it didn't sit right. And the pot, the lazy, almost too-relaxed attitude? It pissed me off. Like she knew something I didn't.
"You look like you don't give a fuck," I shot back, my voice sharp as I clenched my fists.
She laughed—actually fucking laughed—like she was in on some private joke. "Maybe I don't," she said, exhaling another cloud of smoke that hung in the air between us. "But you do, don't you?"
I grit my teeth. "I'm fine."
She took another hit, eyes still locked on me like she was seeing right through the bullshit I was trying to pull. "Yeah, sure. You look real fine." Her words dripped with sarcasm, but there was something else in her tone—like she knew exactly what I was running from, even if I didn't.
I shifted my weight, glancing out at the lake, trying to ignore the way my chest tightened under her gaze. What the fuck was going on? This woman, the city, the whispers… it all felt like some twisted game I didn't know the rules to.
But I wasn't about to play along.
I turned to walk away, but her voice stopped me cold. "You're not gonna figure it out by running, kid."
Her words hit like they were aimed straight at my gut. Something about the way she spoke, like she was already a step ahead, like she'd already seen what I was hiding, made me want to turn and run, but my legs wouldn't move. She was like some kind of twisted oracle, and I was the sucker who'd stumbled right into her prophecy.
I froze, the words hitting like a punch to the gut. How the fuck did she know anything about me? My heart pounded as I turned back to face her, my jaw clenched so tight it hurt.
She smiled again, slower this time, like she had all the time in the world. "Yeah, I know," she said, dropping the joint to the ground and crushing it beneath her boot. "City's full of whispers, most of 'em you don't wanna hear."
I stood there, stunned, every instinct telling me to walk away, but something—something about her—kept me rooted in place.
"You're gonna have to stop, eventually," she said, her eyes boring into mine. "Might as well start now."
I didn't say anything, didn't move. The whispers were gone now, completely silent, but the weight of her words settled in my chest like a stone.
"Who the hell are you?" I finally managed, my voice coming out harsher than I intended.
She didn't answer right away. Instead, she just shrugged, her smirk never fading. "Nobody you need to worry about… not yet, anyway," she said, lighting up another joint with a flick of her lighter. "But I'll be around. When you're ready to stop running."
Stop running—like she had any damn idea.
Her words lingered, sticking to me as much as the grime I'd just scrubbed off. I wanted to laugh it off, shrug her words away, but the truth settled heavier in my chest. Somehow, she knew too much.
I stood there, watching as she took another drag, the smoke coiling around her, shielding secrets. She gave me one last look, then turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd without another word.