Jared King trudged through Silvercoast's bustling midday crowds, his mind occupied with a tangle of fresh anxieties. The meeting with Ava had gone better than he expected—she actually believed him, or at least believed enough to investigate further. As he left the Starlight Café, a low rumble in the sky hinted at an imminent storm, the air clinging to his skin with humid weight. Despite the oppressive heat, he picked up his pace, weaving around harried office workers and street vendors hawking everything from counterfeit sunglasses to spicy noodles in Styrofoam cups.
He checked his phone out of habit—no new messages from Marcus, and no cryptic warnings from the unknown sender. A temporary reprieve, perhaps, but also a reminder that something had gone quiet. Too quiet. After the swirl of events the last few days—a near-mugging, ominous texts, talk of hidden crates—it felt unnatural to move through the city without confrontation at every turn.
Focus, he told himself. He needed to head back to Marcus's place in The Braxton Houses, collect the tinted spectacles, and plan his next move. The idea of sneaking around the warehouse's restricted corridors later tonight made his palms sweat. But if that mysterious crate with the swirl marking truly connected to the artifact that ruined his life, he had to figure out how.
A fierce gust of wind swept the street, and Jared glanced up. Clouds had darkened, turning the sky a bruise-like shade of purple. The first fat drops of rain splattered on the sidewalk, sending clusters of pedestrians scurrying for cover under storefront awnings. He ducked into a narrow side street, stepping around a battered dumpster as the rainfall intensified. Within seconds, he was drenched, his jacket clinging to his shoulders. The storm felt personal, as if the city itself conspired to weigh him down.
He pressed on, eventually finding a less-crowded avenue that led toward the nearest bus stop. The acrid scent of ozone and wet asphalt filled his nostrils. A group of teenagers huddled at the corner, shouting over the rain and blasting music from a tinny phone speaker. Jared kept his head low, ignoring the curious looks thrown his way. He was just another nobody in a city of millions—anonymity usually offered protection, but sometimes it made him feel disturbingly alone.
By the time he reached the rickety bus shelter, thunder rumbled overhead. The rain hammered the flimsy plastic roof, and water trickled inside through cracks in the seams. Jared's hair dripped into his eyes, but he ignored the discomfort, wiping his face with a soggy sleeve. A schedule posted on the shelter's wall told him the next bus wouldn't arrive for ten more minutes. Great. He wondered whether Marcus might be able to pick him up, but Marcus's ancient car was notoriously unreliable. Besides, Jared didn't want to put his friend in danger by dragging him across town.
He tried texting Marcus anyway:
Jared (12:17 PM): Meeting with Ava went well. No new leads for me so far. On my way back to your place. Anything happening?
No immediate response. Jared sighed, watching the storm lash the street. Traffic crawled; cars splashed water onto the sidewalk, and the city's usual cacophony simmered beneath the drumming of rain on metal roofs. A single wiper-blade squeak from a halted taxi cut through the noise. A flash of lightning briefly illuminated the skyline, revealing the distant silhouettes of high-rises.
A memory surfaced unbidden: the old man who'd thrust the tinted glasses into his hands, warning him of danger. He still had no clue who that man was or why he'd chosen Jared. With everything spiraling out of control—his unjust expulsion, the subsequent threats—it felt like an elaborate chessboard had been set up around him, each piece moved by invisible hands.
At last, the bus pulled up with a hiss of brakes. Jared climbed aboard, shaking off water and dropping his fare into the slot. The driver, an older woman with a plastic rain cap, gave him a perfunctory nod. The seats were half-empty; evidently, most folks preferred waiting out the storm or avoiding public transit altogether. Jared found a spot near the middle, out of the direct blast of the air-conditioning that could turn damp clothes into an icebox of misery.
As the bus lurched forward, he resolved to keep a low profile for the remainder of the day—no more close calls, no unnecessary risks. Tonight would bring enough danger on its own, when he returned to the warehouse.
Forty minutes later, Jared stepped off at a grim stretch of road near The Braxton Houses. The downpour had eased to a steady drizzle, though puddles collected in every pothole and crack. He navigated around them, crossing onto the worn walkway leading to Marcus's building. An unmarked police car idled at the curb, headlights still on, but nobody seemed to be inside. Jared's pulse quickened—cops rarely lingered in this neighborhood without a reason. He wondered if they were here on a stakeout or just taking an unorthodox coffee break.
Once inside, he ascended the creaking stairwell, the pungent odor of damp plaster assaulting his senses. In the hallway, faint music thumped from a distant apartment, accompanied by muffled arguments over a TV program. The Braxton Houses never slept, it seemed—morning or midnight, the drama continued unabated.
Reaching apartment 2B, Jared raised a fist to knock but found the door slightly ajar. His heart jumped. Marcus usually kept the door locked with both a deadbolt and a chain. He nudged it open carefully, calling out, "Marcus? You home?"
Silence. He stepped inside, bracing for trouble. The living room lights were off, the only illumination coming from the gray daylight seeping through the windows. A sense of dread tightened his chest—something wasn't right. Broken glass crunched under his sneakers, and he glanced down to see shards from a shattered vase. The small table beside the doorway was toppled, its contents strewn across the floor.
A wave of panic surged through him. "Marcus!" Jared called, louder this time.
No answer. He rushed into the next room, flipping on a lamp. The dull glow revealed Marcus's desk area in disarray: monitors knocked askew, cables torn free, a half-finished circuit board cracked underfoot. Jared's stomach lurched. Whoever had done this wasn't a petty burglar—this was a targeted raid. They'd ripped the place apart searching for something.
The tinted glasses.
Heart pounding, Jared hurried to the vent where Marcus had stashed the artifact. The metal cover hung crookedly, screws missing. He reached inside, feeling for the small compartment. Empty. The glasses were gone.
"Damn it," he hissed, gut roiling with fear. If the thieves had found the glasses, there was no telling what they might do next—or what that power would mean in the wrong hands.
A groan from the corner made him whirl around. Marcus lay slumped against the couch, one hand pressed to his temple. A bruise darkened his cheek. Relief flooded Jared, and he rushed over to kneel by his friend.
"Marcus," he said, voice trembling with concern. "What happened?"
Marcus's eyelids fluttered open, his gaze unfocused. "Jared… they… they were here," he croaked, wincing. "Took… the artifact."
"Who?" Jared demanded, gently helping Marcus sit upright.
"Didn't get a clear look," Marcus mumbled, voice thick with pain. "Three or four of them. Masks on. They forced their way in, demanded to know where the glasses were. I tried to stall… but they ransacked the place until they found the compartment."
A scorching anger kindled in Jared's chest. He glanced at the wreckage of cables and electronics. "And they just left you like this?"
Marcus nodded, massaging his bruised jaw. "One of them whacked me with a gun. Think I blacked out for a few minutes. Woke up, they were gone."
Jared clenched his fists. The artifact was the only solid lead he had, the only advantage that might unveil the conspiracy against him. Now it was in the hands of unknown assailants—people who wouldn't hesitate to use its power for their own ends, or trade it to the highest bidder. The swirl symbol on that crate at the warehouse, the street thugs who'd tried to rob him—everything pointed to a network of ruthless operators. And now they'd struck at the only sanctuary he had in Silvercoast.
"Marcus, we need to call the cops," he said, though even as the words left his mouth, he knew how unlikely it was that the police would help. Most officers in this district turned a blind eye to break-ins, especially ones that reeked of deeper criminal entanglements.
Marcus grimaced. "Not sure that'll do any good. Probably half of them are in the pocket of whoever took the glasses. Besides, I can't exactly explain we lost a supernatural item that sees auras."
Jared felt a pang of helplessness. "Then what do we do?"
Marcus propped himself upright with a grunt. "We get them back."
"How?" Jared asked, brow furrowed.
"Don't know yet. But I do have some camera feeds in the hallway," Marcus said. He gestured weakly toward his dismantled computer equipment. "Might have caught a glimpse of their faces, or at least how they got in."
Jared helped him to his feet, guiding him to the desk. Though monitors were scattered, one remained intact. Marcus booted it up, hacking through a labyrinth of error messages until a grainy security feed flickered onto the screen. The timestamp indicated around eleven o'clock, not long after Jared had left to meet Ava.
The footage showed three figures in dark clothing and balaclavas heading down the hallway. One fiddled with a lockpick kit while another stood guard. The door swung open without much effort, and they rushed in. The camera angle was poor, capturing mostly their backs. But the broad shoulders of the lead intruder stood out, as did a distinctive tattoo on the wrist of the one trailing behind—an abstract swirl that looked eerily similar to the crates and the glasses themselves.
"That symbol," Jared muttered, leaning closer. "It's the same one we keep seeing."
Marcus paused the video. Zooming in only made the image blurrier, but the swirl's shape was unmistakable. "They're connected, all right," Marcus said. "Whoever they are, they wanted the glasses badly enough to smash their way in. They've got resources, and they're not shy about violence."
Jared could feel the adrenaline in his veins. The storm outside seemed to intensify, lightning flashing beyond the window. "We can't let them get away with this," he said, voice tight. "If they figure out how to use that artifact—"
"I know," Marcus interjected. "We have to move fast."
Scanning the rest of the footage, they found little else: the trio left minutes after entering, presumably carrying the glasses with them. No clear license plate or vehicle—just the swirl-tattooed figure holding a black bag.
"Think they'll come after us again?" Jared asked, turning to Marcus.
Marcus exhaled shakily. "Possibly. But right now, they've got what they wanted: the artifact. They might think you're just collateral damage."
Jared shook his head. "They still wanted me at one point—someone set me up at Bernington, tried to mug me for the glasses in the street… This is personal for them." His lips thinned into a determined line. "We can't sit here waiting for the next attack. We need to strike back."
Marcus clicked through the security feeds from the building's exterior. The images showed little but pouring rain and shadowy outlines. "Not sure how to do that," he confessed. "We're just two guys in a crummy apartment. They're an organized group. At best, we can try to track them down or find out who they work for."
The swirl marking flashed in Jared's mind again. "Ava," he said suddenly. "She's got connections—journalistic leads, people in the city's underbelly who might know that symbol. I'll call her."
Marcus rubbed his bruised temple. "Do that. Meanwhile, I can try running the swirl image through some black-market forums, see if it's a known gang sign or cult insignia. God knows we have a few of those in Silvercoast."
"Cult?" Jared frowned. The idea seemed far-fetched, but he wasn't sure anything was off the table now.
While Marcus struggled to boot up his battered spare laptop, Jared pulled out his phone. The screen glowed with missed calls—none from Ava, but a few from an unknown number. His pulse jumped. Could it be another cryptic text or call from the same hidden force?
He opened his voicemail. A single message played:
"They're not who you think they are. Get out while you can."
A chill shot down Jared's spine at the distorted voice. Each word was drawn out, as though played through a filter. By the time the message ended, he felt more confused than ever. Another warning? Another piece of the puzzle? He glanced at Marcus, who was cursing under his breath at the slow-loading software.
Jared steeled himself, hitting the button to call Ava. If the thieves truly intended to harness the glasses' powers, Silvercoast itself might be at risk—corruption, extortion, violence on a whole new level. He'd already experienced how the artifact heightened reflexes in a fight, how it allowed him to see hidden energies. In the wrong hands, that could be devastating.
As the phone rang, thunder boomed outside, shaking the windows. Payback Begins, he thought grimly, adrenaline fueling him. He refused to let his life—or the city—be controlled by shadowy figures pulling strings from behind the scenes. So long as he still drew breath, he would fight back with every ounce of determination he had left.
Ava's voice crackled on the other end: "Jared? Everything okay?"
He swallowed hard, eyes scanning the wrecked apartment. "No, not even close. Listen, something happened…"
In a single breath, he explained the break-in, the stolen glasses, and the swirl tattoo. The line went quiet, except for Ava's shallow breathing. Finally, she spoke in a tone laced with urgency: "I'll see what I can find out. Give me a few hours."
Jared nodded, exhaling. "Thanks, Ava. Stay safe."
Hanging up, he turned to Marcus, who'd pulled up a dimly lit forum page on the laptop. "Anything?" Jared asked.
Marcus squinted at the screen. "Hard to say. A few references to a 'Swirl Syndicate,' rumored to deal in artifacts and esoteric contraband. Nothing concrete. But I'm still digging."
A flicker of resolution ignited within Jared's chest. The swirling chaos that had seized his life was boiling down to a single symbol—one that might lead him straight to the root of his woes. No matter the danger, he had to keep going.
For now, he helped Marcus straighten the apartment as best they could. Shards of glass were swept, broken electronics set aside for future repair. In a few hours, Ava would call with leads. Maybe then, they could launch a counterstrike—track down the thieves, reclaim the artifact, and finally expose whoever had orchestrated his downfall at Bernington.
Thunder crashed again, and the storm raged on, as if mirroring Jared's inner turmoil. Payback was indeed beginning—he only hoped he'd survive it.