Jared woke to the sound of muffled voices bleeding through the thin walls of Marcus's cramped apartment. Morning light, filtered by a dingy window, lay across the living room floor, illuminating a clutter of mismatched electronics, empty takeout containers, and a stack of battered textbooks. He pushed himself upright from the couch, a stiff ache radiating through his shoulders and bruised ribs. Sleep had come fitfully, haunted by half-remembered nightmares of shadowy figures and neon auras.
A faint, insistent beep came from somewhere in the apartment. The smell of burnt coffee drifted into the living room. With a groan, Jared rubbed at the makeshift bandage on his arm, checking to see if the wound from last night's knife attack had reopened. Thankfully, it hadn't. However, the throbbing pain remained a reminder of how close he'd come to serious harm.
He spotted Marcus hunched over a cluttered desk in the adjacent alcove, headphones around his neck and eyes glued to a laptop screen. A half-eaten breakfast burrito lay neglected at his side. Several partially disassembled devices—a cracked smartphone, a battered tablet—were spread around him in an organized chaos only Marcus could decipher.
Jared cleared his throat. "Morning," he said softly, not wanting to startle his friend.
Marcus turned, blinking behind his wire-framed glasses. "Oh, you're up." He popped the headphones off and tossed them onto a nearby stack of circuit boards. "How's the arm?"
"Could be worse," Jared replied, rotating his sore shoulder. "Thanks for patching me up."
Marcus gave him a lopsided grin. "No problem. Didn't think you'd be in a brawl your first night here. Then again, that's Silvercoast for you."
Rising from the couch, Jared crossed to the kitchen sink, turning the faucet until lukewarm water trickled out. He splashed his face, the jolt helping clear the last remnants of sleep. In the cramped apartment, every surface was jammed with items—electronics in various stages of repair, coffee mugs forming a small tower, and a dusty surge protector with half a dozen cords plugged in. Jared found the domestic chaos oddly comforting compared to the sterile dorm rooms he'd left behind at Bernington.
He braced himself on the edge of the kitchen counter, recalling last night's events in vivid flashes—two thugs pulling a knife on him, the tinted glasses revealing their swirling red-and-black auras, and the uncanny way he'd been able to dodge attacks and strike back. Even now, the memory made his heart race with a mixture of awe and unease.
"You all right?" Marcus asked, pushing away from his desk. Concern lined his face.
"I'm fine," Jared assured him, though the quiver in his voice hinted otherwise. "I just can't stop thinking about those glasses. What they showed me last night… it's like they let me read my attackers' moves before they even made them."
Marcus nodded, angling his computer chair to face Jared. "I've been up for a couple hours, trying to see if there's any info online about an artifact like that. It's… well, let's just say I'm not finding anything that looks legit. Mostly urban legends, random paranormal forums, and some conspiracy sites that talk about 'seeing energy fields.'" He tapped a key on his laptop, showing Jared a few pages of murky references and half-baked theories.
Leaning over Marcus's shoulder, Jared skimmed the articles. They featured words like "aura-vision," "occult relics," and "dimensional spectrums." Half of it seemed like fantasy. Still, it was strangely validating to see other people hypothesize about objects that let you see beyond normal human perception—even if their stories sounded outlandish.
Marcus exited out of the browser tabs and turned back to him. "Whatever this thing is, it's not widely known. We might have to dig deeper. Talk to people who deal with weird stuff in Silvercoast—if they'll talk to us at all."
Jared reached into his jacket pocket, carefully retrieving the glasses. By daylight, the frames looked every bit as ancient and mysterious as they had the night before. Intricate patterns swirled along the metal arms, so small and fine that they seemed more like runic carvings than decorative filigree. He turned the glasses over in his hands, feeling their unexpected chill.
"I can't help wondering where that old man found these," Jared murmured. "He said they would help me see the truth. Then he warned me about danger."
Marcus shrugged, grabbing his half-eaten burrito. "From the sound of it, he wasn't kidding. You remember how those creeps specifically asked for something in your jacket pocket?"
"Yeah." Jared set the glasses on a battered coffee table. "I'd like to think last night was just a random mugging, but they acted like they knew I was carrying something special. You think they were connected to bigger players in the city?"
Marcus finished a bite before responding. "Hard to say. Street gangs in Silvercoast sometimes do side-jobs for wealthier clients—corporate scumbags, shady collectors, that kind of thing. They might've been paid to track you down."
The mere thought made Jared's stomach flip. He'd come to Silvercoast seeking anonymity after his expulsion, yet he seemed to have stepped right into the crosshairs of dangerous forces. Glancing at the cluttered apartment, he felt a surge of guilt that Marcus was now involved in his problems.
"You can still bail," Jared said quietly. "I don't want you getting dragged into this mess."
Marcus snorted. "Dude, we survived high school together. You didn't bail on me then, and I'm not bailing on you now." He stood, setting the burrito aside. "Let me show you something."
Curiosity piqued, Jared followed his friend toward the far side of the living room, where a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf stood jammed with old manuals, electronics magazines, and a few battered notebooks. Marcus pulled aside a stack of engineering textbooks to reveal a small safe mounted in the wall. Punching in a code on the digital keypad, he opened the safe and retrieved a flat, velvet-lined box.
"This," Marcus said, flipping the box open, "is something I picked up from a contact in the city's electronics black market. It's a spectral analyzer—illegal in most places, because it can detect certain frequencies the government doesn't want you messing with. Long story short, it's used to measure energy signatures beyond the normal electromagnetic spectrum."
Inside lay a compact handheld device with an array of sensors and a small screen. Jared's brow furrowed. "You think it can tell us something about the glasses?"
Marcus's eyes lit up. "Exactly. If those lenses are attuned to some weird wavelength, the analyzer might pick it up. Give me a few minutes to calibrate this, and we'll see if we can quantify what you're seeing."
Marcus carried the device over to the makeshift desk, setting it next to the laptop. Jared gently placed the spectacles on the desk beside it. The device whirred to life as Marcus typed commands on his computer, linking the analyzer to a proprietary software interface. Lines of code scrolled across the monitor.
"So," Jared said, leaning in, "you're going to scan the glasses?"
"Yep," Marcus confirmed, placing the artifact on a small plastic stand. He positioned a sensor arm just over the lenses. A faint beam of blue light swept across the frames. "If these things emit or manipulate a unique energy field, we'll see a spike in the readouts."
They waited in tense silence as the software displayed waveform data, streaming it in real time. Jared watched lines of color dance across the graph—mostly faint static. Then, abruptly, the lines spiked, sending the on-screen readings jumping.
Marcus inhaled sharply. "Look at that. Whatever it is, it's in a range the analyzer can't fully map. It's like it's picking up something outside the usual electromagnetic frequencies."
Jared stared at the data. "So it's real. These glasses are definitely more than just some antique."
"Absolutely," Marcus agreed, excitement lacing his voice. "But the device can't decipher the origin. It's not radiation, not purely heat, not even the kind of electromagnetic fluctuations you get from cosmic rays. It's… something else."
A shiver crept up Jared's spine. Even though he'd used the glasses, part of him had hoped this was all explainable, some advanced technology that mimicked illusions. Yet the graphs told a different story—this was an anomaly. A piece of reality that shouldn't exist in ordinary scientific understanding.
Marcus typed a few more commands, capturing the data for later analysis. Then he shut off the device and carefully returned it to its case. "We'll keep digging, but it's official: you're in possession of a genuine oddity. No wonder people are after you."
"And I'm assuming that's not a good thing," Jared said, voice tinged with anxiety.
A short laugh escaped Marcus. "No, definitely not. Collectors in Silvercoast—and even beyond—would kill to get their hands on something like this. Which means we need to watch your back."
Jared sank into a rickety chair, shoulders slumping. "This day just keeps getting better."
Marcus clasped Jared's uninjured shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "Hey, we'll figure this out. We'll keep the glasses hidden, keep scanning for info, and see if we can't trace your attackers back to whoever sent them."
A flicker of gratitude warmed Jared. He wasn't used to relying on others; at Bernington, he'd been the independent type, proud of his ability to solve problems on his own. But here, in Silvercoast, with danger closing in on all sides, he needed an ally—and he was fortunate to have Marcus.
"Thanks," Jared murmured. "I owe you."
Marcus waved off the comment. "Consider us even for that time you took the blame for the stink bomb in Mr. Caldwell's class, remember?"
Despite the tension, Jared cracked a half-smile. "Yeah, I remember. My detention lasted for a month."
"Exactly." Marcus returned the grin. "See? We go way back."
Their shared laugh eased some of Jared's stress, if only momentarily. But reality weighed heavily on him the moment silence settled once more. The mention of old times reminded him of just how drastically his life had changed. Only a few days ago, he'd been a college student with a promising future. Now he was on the run, living in a rundown apartment, relying on a borderline-illegal device to glean the nature of a supernatural relic.
As if reading his thoughts, Marcus spoke up again. "Look, one step at a time, right? Why don't we focus on your immediate problems? You mentioned you're working at a warehouse?"
Jared nodded, glancing at the clock on the wall. "I have a shift tonight, actually. They put me on the late rotation to handle some incoming shipments."
"Think it's safe for you to go back?"
He took a moment to consider. The warehouse district was rough, but the job was his only stable source of income. Without it, he'd be broke in a matter of days. "I can't afford not to. If I disappear, I won't have enough to pay for food, let alone save up for a better place to stay."
Marcus's gaze flicked to Jared's bandaged arm. "All right. But be careful. Keep a low profile, and don't let anyone see those glasses."
"Right," Jared said, heart thumping in his chest at the thought of venturing out again.
Marcus rummaged through a closet, pulling out a long-sleeved hoodie that looked marginally sturdier than Jared's torn jacket. "Here, wear this. Cover up that bandage. Last thing you need is attention from your boss or coworkers."
Jared accepted the hoodie with a grateful nod. "Thanks, man."
By mid-afternoon, the two had made a rough plan: Jared would keep the spectacles out of sight, go to work, and monitor any suspicious activity. Meanwhile, Marcus would use his network of contacts—some less than entirely legal—to see if anyone in the underworld had heard about a powerful artifact changing hands.
Before Jared left, he stashed the glasses in a hidden compartment Marcus had rigged up in the apartment's ventilation shaft. It was a tight fit, but at least it offered more security than carrying them around. Then he gathered his phone, wallet, and the meager contents of his backpack. His arm still ached, but at least the fresh bandages would hold until he could get real medical attention.
At the door, Marcus handed him a slip of paper. "My number. I'm on my cell most of the time, so call if you sense trouble—or if you learn anything."
Jared tucked the paper into his pocket. "I will. Thanks again."
Stepping out into the hallway, Jared felt the weight of the city pressing down on him: the suffocating fear that behind every corner lurked another threat, another pair of eyes marking him as a target. Still, he took a steadying breath and squared his shoulders. He was no longer fumbling in the dark, at least not entirely. He had a plan, an ally, and maybe the barest hint of a path forward.
Descending the stairs, he passed by a group of kids playing with broken action figures in the hallway. They stared up at him with wide eyes. For a second, Jared wondered how many of them would slip into lives of crime just to survive in this unforgiving corner of Silvercoast. The thought was sobering, but it also steeled his resolve—he refused to let this city chew him up and spit him out the way it had done to so many others.
As he pushed through the battered entry door, the late-afternoon sun hit his face. Cars honked in the distance, and somewhere a siren wailed, fading into the bustle of the city. Jared inhaled deeply, the scents of exhaust and fried street food mingling in the air.
One step at a time, he reminded himself, echoing Marcus's words. Tonight, the warehouse. Tomorrow, who knew? With the artifact safely hidden and a glimmer of information at his back, he at least had a fighting chance—no matter what shadows awaited him in the neon-lit streets of Silvercoast.