Time wasn't frozen, but everything felt slow and blurry. My head was stuck on that joint-smoking lady's words. "City's full of whispers, most of 'em you don't wanna hear." That sentence looped in my mind like a broken record, over and over. It wasn't just what she said—it was how she said it. Like she knew something I didn't. Something that felt like a warning, or maybe a challenge. Either way, it had burrowed into my brain and wouldn't leave.
The L train rattled beneath me, the noise of the crowd blending into a distant hum as I slumped against the window. My eyes scanned the city outside, but I wasn't really seeing it. My thoughts were a tangled mess, caught in some endless back-and-forth that I couldn't escape.
What whispers? I wondered. What the hell am I missing?
For as long as I could remember, I'd felt like an outsider, like there was a part of the world everyone else could see, hear, or feel—but not me. That lady's words clawed at that hidden part, as if daring me to stop running from something that was already at my heels. It was terrifying, but worse was the feeling I was missing out on something important, something that might make all this mess in my head make sense.
Maybe everything, the voice in my head sneered. You've been ignoring the signs all along.
I shifted in my seat, tugging at my dad's wrinkled old shirt. The loose jeans I'd thrown on sagged a little, but I wasn't even focused on how ridiculous I probably looked, even if my underwear was showing. My mind was too busy chewing on the woman's words, trying to make sense of them.
What if she's right? I thought. What if I've been tuning everything out because I'm scared?
Scared of what? another voice inside me snapped back. What exactly are you afraid of?
Everything, I thought, my chest tightening as the train clattered beneath me. I closed my eyes for a second, trying to shut it all out—the noise, the doubt, the whispers that weren't really there but somehow still haunted me. I felt the train jerk as it neared the stop, pulling me closer to where I knew I needed to be, but still wasn't ready to go.
The Sears Tower, I thought, a pit forming in my stomach. I wasn't ready to deal with whatever waited for me there.
The train screeched to a halt, and I got off, stepping into the chaotic energy of the South Side. The noise of the baseball game hit me like a wave, a welcome distraction from the storm brewing in my head. I followed the flow of the crowd, letting it pull me along as I made my way to the stadium.
The smells of the game—freshly grilled hotdogs, popcorn, the faint waft of beer—wrapped around me like a blanket, grounding me for the moment. I grabbed a classic Chicago-style hotdog (no ketchup, obviously—only a psycho would do that) piled high with mustard, onions, neon green relish, a thick pickle spear, tomatoes, and sport peppers topped in celery salt. YUM. It was a perfect mess, and for a second, I hoped it would drown out the one in my head.
I found a seat in the bleachers, sinking into it, setting down my rootbeer and fries. Biting into the hotdog, the tang of mustard and heat from the sport peppers giving me something to focus on. But it didn't work.
Her voice crept back in: "Most of 'em you don't wanna hear." The words buzzed through my skull like an annoying mosquito I couldn't swat away. What whispers? What was I missing?
I bit down, hard enough to draw that coppery taste, like I was some blood-starved vampire needing something real to sink into. The sharpness cut through the noise in my head, grounding me. For a moment, that bite—metallic and raw—was the only thing holding me steady as everything else spun out of control.
You already know, the inner voice jabbed. You've been running from them this whole time.
I took another bite, chewing furiously, as if I could chew away the questions bouncing around in my brain. Running from what? I shot back at myself, frustrated with the silence that followed.
Running from yourself, the voice sneered again, sharper this time.
I clenched my jaw. Shut up.
The crack of a bat snapped me out of my thoughts. I looked up just in time to see a baseball hurling straight at me, fast and unforgiving. My heart leapt into my throat. I could've frozen time. I should've frozen time. But I didn't.
I froze instead.
Do something, I screamed at myself, panic clawing at my chest. Stop it!
But I didn't move.
Time stretched painfully, like everything was slowing down but also crashing forward in a blur. I could feel my heartbeat rattling in my ears, every muscle tensing up. I watched, unable to breathe, my hands frozen in midair as the baseball hurtled closer. It was just me and that ball, slicing through the sky, as if daring me to make a move. I should've reached out. I could've stopped it. But I just sat there, paralyzed, like I was watching my own nightmare from the bleachers.
The ball whizzed past my face, so close that I felt the breeze from it brush my cheek. The red stitching of the ball flashed by like blood flying off a bullet after impact. I flinched hard, gripping the rootbeer in my hand like a lifeline. The ball skidded off the top of the McDonald's scoreboard and disappeared into the streets beyond the stadium.
My heart pounded, my pulse racing as I tried to catch my breath. Around me, the stadium crowd buzzed louder, voices blurring together into an incomprehensible hum as if mocking my stunned silence. What the fuck? I thought, frozen as if a sniper bullet hadn't just grazed my reality.
"You had the power to stop it," I muttered to myself. My hands clenched, then unclenched, like I could shake myself awake. The red stitching flashed in my mind, mocking me with the marks I'd dugout into my palms. My voice low and shaking. Why didn't you?
The words on the note scratched at something raw inside me, something I'd shoved down deep. A.E.R.Z. was offering me answers, maybe even control—two things I hadn't had in a long time. All I'd ever wanted was to feel like I belonged, to understand why I was different. Maybe, just maybe, these people knew something I didn't. The note wasn't just a message; it was a chance to finally find out what the hell was wrong with me—or, maybe, what might be right.
Because you froze, the mocking voice in my head shot back.
My jaw tightened so hard it ached, teeth grinding against each other like they could wear away the frustration boiling inside me. But that voice wouldn't shut up, wouldn't let me forget how useless I'd been.
Just like always.
I bit the inside of my cheek, the sharp sting of pain barely cutting through the confusion in my brain. I'm a mess, I thought bitterly. I should've done something, but I just sat here like an retarded idiot.
That's when I felt it—something in my pocket.
I frowned, reaching down, my fingers flicking against something smooth and solid. Slowly, I pulled it out, my breath catching from lungs. It was the baseball—the same damn one that had just missed my face. Cold, heavy, back in my pocket like it had never flown out of the park.
How? My heart stuttered, pulse skidding all over again.
And then, there was something else, bound tightly to it. My fingers traced the paper, every fold tight, deliberate, like it'd been waiting for me to find it.
Join the A.E.R.Z. We are a group just like you. Be one with your powers. We know how to control and use them. We are on the 107th story of the Black Pillar. If you are brave, come fly with us.
I stared at the words, my mind spinning. Who the hell are these people? I blinked, trying to process what I was seeing.
How do they know about me?
They know because you're a dipshit, my inner voice sneered, razor-sharp. Like a game of toss with Dad, you can't even catch a hold on reality. Not even your fucking self. You can't control anything—your powers, your thoughts—not even your own damn hands and feet.
I shoved the note back against the tight denim, frustration bubbling up inside me. My fingers clamping down around the baseball like I could squeeze some clarity out of it. The weight pressed into my hand, but the answers stayed locked inside, taunting me with everything I didn't know. They want me to join them? I thought, staring out at the skyline where a Black Pillar towered over everything. Why the 107th floor? Why me?
Because you're a joke, the voice sneered. They see someone who can barely keep her panties from showing her ass to the streets and think she's worth something?
I clenched that ball, stressing the fabric—hoping it would pop or something. I tried to block out the noise in my head, but the questions kept coming.
I wrapped my arms around myself, as if holding tight enough could keep everything from spilling out. It was like there was a storm ripping through my mind, and I was the only one left to pick up the game from a shutout. What if they're right? What if they can actually help me?
And what if it's all a trap? the voice shot back, mocking.
I need answers, I thought, biting my lip, trying to focus. What if this is what I've been missing?
I ran a hand through my messy hair, scratching it until my scalp hurt, like maybe if I pressed hard enough, I could clear out the noise rattling around in my skull. But all I felt was the echo of her words, the same ones I couldn't shake no matter how hard I tried.
I lingered there a moment, taking in the wreck I'd left beneath the bleachers. The mess sprawled out like a crime scene, every detail laid bare. The hotdog—half-eaten, twisted in its stained yellow bun—dripped a neon pickle onto the gritty concrete, staged perfectly, if accidentally, for maximum drama. Peppers scattered outwards, gutted like they'd made some desperate bid for freedom and fallen short.
The fries lay crushed, their edges torn, a few stragglers cast farther off as if they'd tried to break away. Salt clung stubbornly to the cracks in the bleachers, tiny reminders of flavor left to sink in.
And the rootbeer cup, tipped on its side. Its watery lake pooling in a sticky, slow creep under the seat, like it couldn't quite let go of the scene. The straw setting sail to the waterfall of rows below. The whole thing screamed of a hasty exit, each greasy detail a marker of the chaos I was leaving behind.
I shook myself free from the sight, every abandoned scrap telling its own little story of careless haste. I took a deep breath, feeling that restless itch clawing up again, then turned away. The mess was theirs to deal with now, a job for whoever got paid to clean up my scattered remains.
The woman's words, the baseball, the note—it all swirled together in a tangled mess of confusion and doubt. I didn't know what I was heading into, but I knew I couldn't ignore it anymore.
What if this is one whisper you've been missing all along? the voice echoed one last time.
I shoved my hands into my pockets, feeling the weight of the note pressing against my fingers as I started walking toward the exit. The Sears Tower loomed in the distance, dark, black and foreboding. My breath came out slow and steady this time, calming the storm churning inside, even if only for a second.
"Fuck it," I muttered to myself, pushing through the crowd. I didn't have all the answers, but there was no turning back now.
The weight wasn't just in my pocket—it felt like everything was dragging me down. I yanked my jeans up as high as they'd go, like maybe if I tightened them hard enough, I could stop myself from falling apart. The waistband bit into my skin, leaving marks I'd feel later, but right now it was the only thing keeping me from spilling out, from unraveling. Every inch I pulled, I thought maybe it'd pull the pieces of me together, maybe even shut up that nagging voice in my head that wouldn't stop echoing the lady's words. The baseball and the note inside were just the surface of it. My head was spinning, and I couldn't get that joint-smoking woman's words out of my mind.
"City's full of whispers, most of 'em you don't wanna hear."
I gritted my teeth, feeling a familiar, uncomfortable pressure building up inside me. It wasn't just the anxiety or the questions buzzing in my head. It was physical—like I was about to piss myself right there in the street from how freaked out I felt. I yanked my jeans higher, pulling them so tight the waistband practically hit my tits. Maybe if I could just hold them up, I could hold everything else together, too.
Get a grip, I told myself. Don't fucking lose it here.
But I could feel it slipping. I could feel me slipping, like I was on the edge of something I didn't want to face. The baseball in my pocket felt like a damn anchor, but it wasn't the ball that was weighing me down—it was the shit in my head.
And just when I thought I could keep it together, there she was again.
The woman was leaning against the graffiti-covered wall, smoking her doobie like it was no big deal. Same beanie, two toned hair, jacket, and that lazy look on her face, like she didn't have a care in the world. My heart nearly stopped. The anxiety making my chest tight, but I yanked my jeans higher, trying to keep it all together. Don't let her see you like this, I told myself.
"You wanna light?" she asked, blowing out a slow stream of smoke, her voice casual, like she hadn't completely fucked up my head the last time we met.
I shifted, still trying to get my panties not to show. "Nah," I muttered, trying to keep my voice steady, fingers against the crumpled note in my pocket. My head was pounding, my heart racing, and the rootbeer fizzling with the stomach acid. I didn't need more of her cryptic shit today, but there she was, like it was all part of some fucked-up plan.
She shrugged, taking another hit off the doobie, her eyes narrowing slightly as she looked me over. "Figures. You don't look like the type to carry a flame."
"Yeah, well," I muttered, tucking my dad's shirt into the belt loops, feeling the waistband digging into my ribs. "Guess you don't know me."
She raised an eyebrow, blowing out smoke. "Maybe I don't, but you sure as hell look like you're carrying something heavy." She glanced down at my pocket, the weight of the baseball practically burning through the denim. "That ball got you twisted up or something else?"
I swallowed, forcing myself to keep steady, to mask the shake in my voice as I said, "What's it to you?" I snapped, trying to sound tougher than I felt. But the truth was, I was barely holding it together.
"Just making an observation," she said, flicking the end of her joint onto the ground and grinding it out with her boot. "You look like you're about to crack, that's all."
My jaw tightened, and I tugged at my jeans again, almost out of reflex. "I'm fine," I shot like acid. "I'm not carrying shit I can't handle."
Liar, my inner voice whispered, mocking me. You're a fucking L train derailing and you know it.
She chuckled, low and dry. "Whatever you say, kid. But from where I'm standing, it looks like you're drowning." She gestured to the city around us, her gaze flicking to the graffiti-covered wall. "You been hearing the whispers, haven't you?"
I froze, my heart skipping a beat. "W-w—what are you talking about?"
"You know exactly what I'm talking about." Her eyes narrowed, but there was something almost knowing in her gaze. "City's full of 'em. You've been hearing 'em loud and clear, even if you don't want to admit it."
I clenched my fists, feeling the note and the ball heavy in my pocket, like an anchor dragging me down. The questions were boiling over, no room for escape. I wanted to scream, to tell her to fuck off, but the words stuck in my throat. The pressure in my bladder was back, too, but the pain was worse than if I had got my period. I tugged at my jeans again, pulling them so high I could've suffocated—death by titties isn't a bad way to go, but it didn't help.
She shrugged again, stepping away from the wall. "Good luck, kid," she said, smirking like she knew something I didn't. "You've already found a whisper. Now it's just a matter of whether you're brave enough to listen to it."
And just like that, she was gone, blending into the crowd and leaving me standing there with the weight of her words pressing down on me even harder. My heart raced, and I felt the urge of pure anxiety creeping back in, but I clenched my fists, let go of my pants, hoping myself will hold it together.
The graffiti on the wall buzzed with a strange, chaotic energy. A girl, wild-eyed and frantic, was caught in a storm of neon greens and purples, surrounded by broken clocks, their hands spinning out of control. Time seemed to be slipping away from her, trapping her in a loop she couldn't break free from. The jagged lines and bold colors swirled together, reflecting the confusion I felt, the sense of being pulled into something I couldn't outrun.
At the bottom, scrawled in bold, messy letters, was the name Seraphis.
The name stuck with me, like a whisper with an echo. It felt familiar but distant, almost like it was left there for me to find. I traced my fingers along the rough edge of the wall, feeling the grit beneath my fingertips. The name Seraphis itched at the edges of my mind, like she'd carved herself into the city's bones, leaving a piece of her madness here just for me. Who the hell was she? And why did it feel like every sign in this goddamn city was pointing back to her?
Seraphis. It lingered in my thoughts, leaving a trail of questions behind. I couldn't shake the feeling that it was her—the joint-smoking woman—leaving her mark. My gaze darted around the street, catching glimpses of strangers and shadows, like every corner held a secret only I was missing. The city felt bigger, louder, and every noise scraped against my nerves, reminding me that I was searching for something I didn't even know how to find. Speaking through the art in a way only I could sense.
This is it, I thought, staring at the graffiti-covered wall, the colors almost vibrating with energy. I've found a whisper.
I yanked my jeans up again, tight enough to squeeze the panic out of my chest, and took a deep breath. Every nerve was on edge, like I was standing on a cliff ready to fall or jump—whatever the hell came first. I shoved my hands into my pockets and turned away from the wall. The baseball and the note were still there, heavy as ever, but now they felt like the least of my worries.
"Piss off," I muttered under my breath, pushing through the crowd and heading toward whatever was waiting for me at the Black Pillar.
I didn't know what the hell I was walking into, but I could feel it coming. That lady said I'd found a whisper. I had a feeling there was more waiting for me in the dark—things that wouldn't let me go until they were ready.
No turning back—not now, not after this.