The rain was relentless. It pounded against the cracked windows of Liang Wenyan's dingy apartment, a rhythmic reminder of the decay that surrounded him. The city of Qingling was rotting—its streets riddled with potholes, its people withered by an unrelenting malaise. Wenyan stared out over the urban sprawl, his cigarette burning down to a nub in his trembling hand.
"Another dead-end," he muttered, tossing the crumpled remnants of his latest article onto the coffee table. The editor had rejected it, again. Too grim, too niche, too hopeless. That was his specialty, though—chasing stories nobody wanted to believe in.
A faint buzz on his phone jolted him out of his spiraling thoughts. The notification was from Zhao Heng, his only real source in this godforsaken city. "Wenyan. Warehouse district. Corner of Fu and Jian Streets. You need to see this."
Wenyan sighed, reaching for his coat. Heng's leads were rarely promising, but tonight, with the rain muffling the city's usual chaos, something about the message felt urgent.
---
The warehouse district was a graveyard of rusted shipping containers and abandoned machinery. The air was heavy with the stench of oil and mildew. Wenyan parked his sputtering sedan and stepped into the darkness, his flashlight cutting through the haze.
"Heng?" he called out, his voice swallowed by the cavernous silence.
"Over here," came a faint reply.
Wenyan found Heng crouched near the back wall of an old brick building. The man looked haggard, his usual bravado replaced by a nervous twitch.
"What is it this time?" Wenyan asked, kneeling beside him.
Heng pointed at the wall. "That."
At first glance, it looked like graffiti—black, angular markings scrawled haphazardly across the bricks. But as Wenyan examined them closer, he realized they weren't painted on. The markings seemed etched into the surface, as if burned by an invisible hand.
"They've been popping up all over," Heng whispered. "A week ago, there was one on the east side, but this…" He trailed off, shivering.
Wenyan pulled out his camera, snapping a few shots. The symbols were unlike anything he'd seen before, twisting and interlocking in impossible patterns. His pulse quickened.
"Who's been making these?" he asked.
Heng shook his head. "Nobody knows. People say they hear whispers near them, though. Like… voices."
Wenyan gave him a skeptical look, but Heng's expression was deadly serious. "And then there's this."
He handed Wenyan a photo, clearly taken on a phone. It showed a man standing in front of a similar wall of symbols. His eyes were wide, his mouth open as if mid-scream. But it wasn't the man's expression that made Wenyan's stomach churn.
The markings had spread onto his skin.
"They found him like that," Heng said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Dead. Body was… twisted. Like something broke him from the inside."
Wenyan stared at the photo, his hands trembling. This wasn't a story anymore. It was a warning.
---
Back in his apartment, Wenyan couldn't stop staring at the pictures he'd taken. The symbols seemed to shift when he wasn't looking directly at them, their edges warping and curling like smoke. He rubbed his eyes, exhaustion clawing at him.
The phone rang, startling him. He snatched it up.
"Liang Wenyan," a voice rasped. It wasn't Heng. It was someone else, someone unfamiliar.
"Who is this?" Wenyan demanded.
"Stop looking into the markings," the voice hissed. "You don't understand what you're inviting."
The line went dead.
Wenyan sat frozen, the receiver still pressed to his ear. Then, as he lowered it, he noticed something on his desk.
A single marking, etched into the wood, its edges glowing faintly in the dim light.
And for the first time, he thought he heard it too.
A whisper.