Long shadows stretched across the sidewalks as Jared King stepped off a rattling city bus in one of Silvercoast's rougher districts. The driver peeled away quickly, as though eager to leave this part of town behind. Streetlights blinked to life overhead, casting weak halos in the encroaching twilight. A chill crept into the air, carrying the faint smell of garbage and lingering fumes from idling cars.
Jared took a moment to get his bearings. He stood at the intersection of two poorly lit roads, each flanked by shuttered storefronts and grimy brick walls scrawled with graffiti. Neon signs flickered in distant alleyways, advertising cheap liquor, payday loans, and questionable pawnshops. He tugged his jacket closer, not just against the cold but also against a creeping sense of unease.
He'd come here to see Marcus, an old friend from high school. After a day of lugging crates at the warehouse and jumping every time a stranger walked behind him, Jared realized he needed help. Marcus's name flashed in his mind as the only person in this sprawling city who might still have his back. They'd fallen out of touch when Jared went off to college, but the time for pride or awkwardness had long passed—Jared was desperate for support and information, especially after discovering that the spectacles in his pocket could reveal invisible energies, or auras, that normal eyes couldn't see.
He quickened his pace down the main street. Two blocks ahead, a scarred metal sign pointed toward a row of crumbling apartments. Marcus had once mentioned living in a place called The Braxton Houses, a series of buildings infamous for their neglect and random power outages. Jared swallowed hard, recalling half-joking rumors about gangs and drug deals lurking in every corner. He'd grown up in a safer neighborhood, so stepping into this zone of the city felt like entering enemy territory.
The phone in his pocket vibrated. Jared paused under a flickering streetlight and pulled it out. Yet another anonymous text message lit up the screen: "They're closing in. You're not safe out here." A knot formed in his stomach. Glancing around, he saw only empty sidewalks and dark windows. But the sense of being watched was as persistent as it was unnerving.
He typed a quick reply—"Who are you? How do you know?"—and hit send, but no answer came. Of course. Frustration pulsed through him. For all he knew, these cryptic texts could be from the same people who had ruined his life at Bernington. Or they might be from a concerned bystander. Either way, trusting them wasn't really an option until he had more answers.
Shaking off his paranoia, he continued down the street. A battered street sign with half its letters missing suggested he turn left. According to the directions he'd pieced together from memory, that would lead him toward The Braxton Houses. As he passed a boarded-up deli and a graffiti-covered chain-link fence, he heard a burst of laughter somewhere behind him. He froze, trying to pinpoint the source.
Two silhouettes emerged from an alley, illuminated only by the sickly glow of a distant neon advertisement. They moved casually but with a certain predatory grace that made Jared's heart hammer. Dressed in dark hoodies, they kept their eyes locked on him. Alarm bells rang in his mind—he was alone, the street was deserted, and he was carrying virtually nothing of value except for the mysterious spectacles in his jacket pocket.
He sped up, though he tried not to look obvious about it. Unfortunately, the silhouettes mirrored his increased pace. A single word echoed in his head: Run. But he fought the urge; sprinting outright might provoke a chase. Instead, he clutched the straps of his backpack, scanning the street for escape routes. Every storefront was boarded shut or sporting heavy metal grates. The occasional window above the sidewalk was dark, and the odds of anyone helping him felt close to zero.
"Hey, buddy," one of them called out, voice dripping with mock friendliness. "Got a minute?"
Jared turned slightly, enough to see them. They were closer now—one tall and lanky, the other stockier with a shaved head. The tall one had a cocky grin that showed off a gold tooth. "Sorry," Jared muttered, forcing calm into his tone. "In a hurry."
The shorter one snickered. "He's in a hurry, yeah? Maybe we can help speed you along."
Jared's pulse thundered. He was no street fighter, but he could sense the tension rising. The city's night air felt charged, as though an invisible fuse was burning toward an inevitable explosion. He kept walking, each step heavier than the last, until the pair stepped out in front of him, blocking his path entirely.
"C'mon, man, help us out," the tall one said, grin widening. "We just need a little donation."
A flash of movement drew Jared's gaze. The stocky guy flicked open a short knife, the blade catching a glint from the nearest flickering streetlight. Instinctively, Jared backed up, his mouth going dry. He cursed under his breath for having so little money—he might have tried to bribe them away if he had more than a few crumpled bills in his wallet.
"Look, I—I don't want any trouble," Jared managed, voice tight.
"And we don't either," the tall one drawled, stepping closer. "So why don't you just hand over your wallet, phone… and that fancy little piece in your jacket."
Jared froze. They were looking at the pocket where he'd tucked the spectacles. Either they saw the bulge, or they somehow knew he had something valuable. Realization struck him: These two might be connected to the same people who've been sending those messages. The idea fueled a burst of adrenaline, and he tightened his grip on his backpack strap.
The shorter man lunged with the knife, aiming for Jared's midsection. Jared stumbled back, narrowly avoiding the blow. The blade tore through the sleeve of his jacket, drawing a thin line of blood on his forearm. Pain flared hot and sharp. Panic and anger coalesced in his chest. He couldn't afford to let them take the spectacles—or worse, his life.
Eyes darting around, he spotted no immediate help. I'm on my own. The men advanced again, smiles turning cruel. Something inside Jared snapped into focus. Almost on reflex, he thrust his hand into his jacket pocket, curling his fingers around the frames of the tinted glasses.
He had no plan, just a desperate hunch that the old man's artifact might help him see something—some advantage. With shaking hands, he slid the spectacles on, bracing for whatever bizarre vision might unfold.
The effect was immediate. The night around him turned deeply shadowed, but arcs of neon-blue energy radiated from the edges of the buildings and asphalt. Even the air seemed alive with flickering currents that resembled faint electrical lines crisscrossing the street. Most unsettling was the sight of his two assailants: each man glowed with an aura, not just a subtle shimmer like Jared had seen before, but a swirling, chaotic halo of red streaked with black.
The tall one's aura pulsed in ragged waves, as if his aggression fueled some dark flame. The stockier man's aura seemed denser, vibrating like a taut wire ready to snap. Jared's vision tingled in time with their movements; every shift in their stance caused spikes of red light to flare. He sensed their hostility like a visible force, aimed directly at him.
Acting on instinct, Jared raised his hands in a defensive posture. The tall man reached out to grab him, but Jared sidestepped, noticing a swirl of the man's aura shift as he telegraphed the move. It was as if the artifact let him read their intentions a split second before they acted. Jared ducked beneath the tall man's arm and swung an elbow into his ribs. The blow connected with a crunch, and the attacker staggered back, eyes wide in pain.
The shorter one snarled and lunged again with the knife. But Jared, guided by some extrasensory awareness, twisted out of the way. The aura around the blade flickered violently, and Jared reflexively slammed his forearm down on the man's wrist, sending the knife clattering to the pavement. He kicked it away, adrenaline surging, ignoring the sting in his cut arm.
"What the hell are you—" the tall man sputtered, still wheezing from the blow. "You can't—"
Before he could finish, Jared pivoted, hooking a punch across the man's jaw that sent him sprawling. Jared had never fought like this before. He wasn't a trained martial artist or a street brawler, but the intangible cues from the spectacles gave him a split-second edge: he could see the swirl of aggression, the shift in stance, almost as if the auras warned him where the blow would land.
Panting, he turned to the shorter man, who was already scrambling for the dropped knife. Jared dove forward, tackling him before he could wrap his fingers around the handle. They hit the ground hard, wrestling for control. A swirl of red and black flared in Jared's peripheral vision, fueling the attacker with panic and rage. Mustering his own strength, Jared struck the man's elbow and forced him to release the blade.
Jared finally pinned the man's arm, his other hand digging into the front of the man's hoodie. He could feel his heart pounding like thunder in his ears. This was a level of violence he'd never expected to face. For a moment, fear and regret surged in his chest. He didn't want to kill or maim anyone—he just wanted to survive.
The tall man was back on his feet now, panting heavily and wiping blood from his mouth. He glared at Jared with raw hatred, but caution tempered his rage. His aura flickered wildly, as though he was debating whether to continue the fight or cut his losses. The street was empty of witnesses, no cops in sight, and Jared was evidently more capable than he'd first appeared.
"Let him go," the tall man spat. "We'll leave."
Jared glanced between them, chest heaving. He realized he held the shorter man's collar in a white-knuckled grip. The man's eyes were wide with panic, as if Jared's next move could be lethal. Slowly, Jared unclenched his fist. The shorter man yanked his arm free and scrambled to his feet, scooting closer to his partner.
"You… you'll pay for this," the tall one muttered, gripping his side where Jared's elbow had landed. "We know who you are."
A final burst of fear shot through Jared, but he swallowed it down. "Stay away from me," he warned, voice shaky with adrenaline. "I'm not looking for trouble."
They exchanged a furious glance, then the two men backed off, retrieving the knife but keeping a wary distance. When they were a dozen steps away, they turned and fled around the corner, curses echoing off the grimy brick. Jared stood there, heart pounding so loudly he was sure it might burst from his chest.
At last, he took the spectacles off and slid them back into his pocket. The street returned to its normal, gloomy ambiance, absent of swirling reds and blacks and crackling energy lines. He leaned against the wall of a boarded-up shop, trying to calm his breathing and process what just happened. The glasses had given him an almost precognitive awareness of their moves, allowing him to fight back in ways he never could have otherwise.
Yet the victory felt hollow. His arm throbbed where the knife had cut him, and a trickle of blood seeped through his torn jacket sleeve. Fear and horror mingled with relief, leaving him shaky and nauseous. He'd managed to defend himself, but at what cost? This was real violence, a new dimension to his precarious existence in Silvercoast. And that ominous warning—We know who you are—echoed in his mind.
Pushing off the wall, Jared forced himself to keep moving. He wasn't too far from The Braxton Houses now, and he needed Marcus's help more than ever. If random street thugs were after him, or if they had ties to a bigger gang, Jared needed a safe place to regroup.
Each step felt heavier than the last, the adrenaline draining from his body, leaving him exhausted and a little lightheaded. At the end of the block, a derelict street sign bore the name Braxton Avenue, the letters so faded they were almost unreadable. He turned left, stumbling along until he saw a cluster of rundown apartment buildings that matched Marcus's last known address. Dim lights glowed in a few windows, but the overall appearance was bleak—cracked walls, shattered glass in the doorframes, and a smell of mildew that hung in the stale air.
Jared found the address Marcus had given him years ago—a building with missing bricks and a half-functional security gate. He passed through the gate with little difficulty (the lock had been busted long ago, apparently) and climbed a narrow stairwell that reeked of cigarette smoke. On the second-floor landing, flickering overhead lights revealed graffiti tags covering every inch of peeling plaster.
He reached apartment 2B, where the number on the door was replaced by a piece of duct tape with 2B scrawled in marker. For a moment, Jared hesitated. He hadn't spoken to Marcus in such a long time. What if Marcus had moved away, or didn't want to see him? The memory of their last conversation back in high school—an argument over some trivial misunderstanding—flickered through Jared's mind.
Still, he was out of options. Steeling himself, he knocked on the door. No answer. He knocked again, louder this time, ignoring the stinging pain in his cut arm. After a few tense seconds, the door cracked open a sliver, a security chain rattling against the frame.
A familiar face peered out—thinner and more world-weary than Jared remembered, but still unmistakable. Marcus. His eyes widened in shock when he recognized Jared. "Holy—Jared King?"
"Yeah… it's me." Jared tried to smile, but it came out as a grimace. "I'm sorry to show up like this."
Marcus unlatched the chain, pushing the door open. "Man, get in here before someone else sees you."
Jared slipped inside. The apartment was small and cluttered—an old couch sagging in the living room, a makeshift desk overflowing with papers and electronics, and an ancient television that hissed with static. A single lamp provided dim illumination, casting elongated shadows on the walls.
Marcus closed the door behind them and flipped the deadbolt. He turned, his expression a mixture of concern and bewilderment. "You look like hell, bro. What happened? Why are you bleeding?"
Jared ran a trembling hand through his hair. The relief of seeing a familiar face almost overwhelmed him. "I—It's a long story."
Marcus guided him to the couch and hurried off to grab a clean cloth and some antiseptic. While Jared waited, he let his gaze wander around the cramped room. Stacks of old textbooks littered the floor—some on computer programming, others on engineering. Marcus had always been a tinkerer, a tech-savvy genius who could fix anything from a broken TV to a jammed lock. A wave of nostalgia hit Jared: once upon a time, they'd been nearly inseparable, before life and ambition drove them onto different paths.
Marcus returned with the supplies. He pressed the cloth against Jared's wound, cleaning away the congealed blood. "Hold still, man. This might sting."
Jared winced as antiseptic burned into the cut. "Sorry," Marcus muttered sympathetically, carefully wrapping gauze around Jared's arm. "Now tell me what the hell's going on. Last I heard, you were at Bernington College, living the dream. Next thing I know, you're showing up here half-dead in the middle of the night."
A bitter laugh escaped Jared. "Bernington kicked me out. Someone framed me for academic dishonesty—plagiarism and other stuff. It was all fake evidence, but I couldn't prove it."
Marcus whistled low under his breath. "That's rough."
"And that's just the beginning," Jared continued, exhaling shakily. He debated how much he could divulge about the artifact in his pocket, but decided Marcus deserved at least some honesty. "There's more to it. I think… I think I'm being followed. People want something I have."
Marcus's brow furrowed. "Something you have?"
Jared reached into his jacket, pulling out the tinted spectacles, their intricate frames catching the dim lamplight. "A man gave these to me, said they'd help me see the truth. I—I know it sounds crazy, but they do something. I can see… energy, or auras, around people. It's how I managed to fend off some guys who tried to mug me just now."
To his credit, Marcus didn't laugh. He studied the spectacles with a mixture of awe and caution. "Weird," he muttered. "But I've seen weirder in Silvercoast."
Jared looked up, surprise tugging at his features. "So you believe me?"
Marcus shrugged. "I've heard rumors of strange stuff happening around here—people messing with technology they shouldn't have, or experimenting with things that can't be explained by science. Never thought I'd see it up close, though."
Relief and gratitude welled in Jared's chest. "Marcus, I'm scared. I don't know who's after me or how deep this goes. I only know that it got me thrown out of college, and now random thugs are trying to take these glasses."
Marcus nodded solemnly, placing a reassuring hand on Jared's shoulder. "You came to the right place. I've got… connections. People who trade in rumors, black-market tech, and other things that fall off the back of a truck. Some might have intel about who's looking for you—and why."
Jared couldn't contain a weary smile. "Thank you. I really appreciate it."
"Don't mention it." Marcus stood, stretching tired limbs. "It's been a while, but we'll figure this out. For now, you can crash here. It's not fancy, but it's safer than a motel in the middle of nowhere."
"Safer, right," Jared murmured, glancing around the cramped apartment. Maybe it was safer than the streets, but the chipped paint and flickering overhead light did little to inspire confidence. Still, it beat the alternative.
Pulling himself to his feet, Jared gingerly tested his newly bandaged arm. The cut hurt, but it wasn't deep. "I owe you, Marcus. Big time."
His friend managed a half-smile, though worry lines creased his forehead. "Hey, we go back. Besides, I can't resist a good mystery." He turned his attention to the glasses again, curiosity shining in his eyes. "Mind if I… take a closer look at those lenses?"
Jared hesitated. Every instinct screamed caution, but he reminded himself that Marcus was one of the few people he could trust. With a slow nod, he offered the artifact. "Just be careful. I don't know if they can do something weird if the wrong person touches them."
Marcus handled the spectacles gently, eyeing the intricate symbols etched into the frames. "I'll be careful," he said softly, as though he sensed the weight of the object. "You rest. We'll start digging for answers tomorrow."
Jared sank onto the couch, exhaustion finally overtaking him. The world felt unsteady, a swirl of violence, betrayal, and unexplained power. Yet for the first time since his life was upended, he had a flicker of hope. He wasn't alone anymore. Marcus was here, and they had a plan—even if it was just the seed of one.
Outside, the city hummed with a restless energy. Sirens wailed in the distance, and car headlights swept across the graffitied walls of The Braxton Houses. Danger still lurked in every shadow, and Jared's stolen respite might be short-lived. But he clung to the knowledge that he'd survived the night—and that the old man's artifact was more than a curious trinket. It was a weapon in the fight to reclaim his future.
As he leaned his head back against the threadbare cushion, Jared finally let himself close his eyes. Perhaps he could snatch a few hours of uneasy sleep before the next trial came barreling into his life. Somewhere in the city, unseen enemies plotted their next move, but for now he had a roof overhead, a friend at his side, and the promise of answers just out of reach. In a place like Silvercoast, sometimes that was all you could hope for.