Rain pounded relentlessly against the cracked windows of the abandoned diner, each drop like the slow, mournful heartbeat of a world long dead. The dim, flickering neon sign barely flickered in the darkness, casting distorted shadows across the cracked linoleum floor. Jonah Cross stood motionless at the counter, his back pressed against the cold, metal surface. A worn duffel bag lay at his feet, its contents an unspeakable weight. His hand clenched a crumpled note, while his weathered revolver, now dulled by time and neglect, rested in its holster at his hip—its metallic gleam barely reflecting the dim light. The city outside had long since drowned in endless rain and silence, leaving only echoes of a forgotten life. Yet here Jonah stood, a hollow figure amidst the ruins, disconnected from everything that had once been familiar.
His sunken, lifeless eyes stared at the dim, cracked reflection in the smudged glass of the coffee machine. The man staring back was a stranger—tired, worn, and lost. Every breath felt like a battle, a painful reminder of all that had been ripped away from him. The world beyond was a broken dystopia ruled by endless rain and towering steel, but the note in his hand wasn't a relic of that world—it was a glimpse into the one Jonah had tried so hard to forget.
The air inside was thick with mildew, mingling with the bitter stench of burnt coffee grounds. Jonah didn't care. His senses had dulled long ago—sight, smell, taste—nothing mattered anymore. All that remained was the weight of the paper in his hand, amplified by the silence of a dying world.
The paper was crisp, almost pure white in contrast to the world outside, where everything was murky and fading. The handwriting, sharp and familiar, tore into his memory like a blade.
"Jonah, it wasn't supposed to end like this. Meet me where the water meets the stars. Midnight. Come alone."
Jonah clenched the note tighter, his jaw tightening, his knuckles whitening. It wasn't possible. She was gone—he'd buried her beneath the rain-soaked earth, seen the life vanish from her eyes. Yet here it was, her handwriting pulling him into a trap, or worse, into hope.
He crumpled the note in his fist, his breath shallow and shaky. Hope was a dangerous thing—more dangerous than any weapon he carried. The coffee machine hissed to silence, the steam dissipating into the oppressive void. The mechanical hum faded, leaving only the endless rain drumming on the roof and the cracked glass.
The diner's door chimed faintly as Jonah stepped into the storm. The weight of the duffel bag at his side dragged him forward, every step a reluctant march. The wind bit at his face, but it was the weight of the secrets within the bag that truly anchored him—secrets he had sworn never to touch again.
He raised his gaze. The city stretched before him, a labyrinth of towering steel and glass, now swallowed by darkness. It seemed smaller tonight, compressed by the relentless rain. Somewhere beyond the maze of skyscrapers lay the docks—the meeting point.
A voice echoed in the recesses of his mind, urging him to turn back. No good ever came from chasing ghosts. But Jonah knew he was past the point of no return.
The docks loomed before him, an expanse of rusted chains and rotting wooden pylons stretching into the churning, gray waters of the harbor. The rain had eased, but the night remained eerily silent. Jonah stepped forward, his boots crunching softly on the worn planks, his breath shallow, each heartbeat an echo of dread.
His revolver felt heavier in his hand, the weight of uncertainty pressing down on him. Shadows flickered at the edges of his vision, teasing shapes that weren't there. The docks were lifeless, save for the creak of wood under his weight.
Then he heard it—a single, deliberate footstep.
Jonah's grip tightened around the revolver. The echo bounced off the empty docks, but no one was there. The sound felt more like an intrusion on his solitude than a signal of danger. His mind raced, a storm of confusion and fear.
"Jonah."
The voice shattered his thoughts. It was her. There was no question in his mind. The sound of her name on the wind was enough to draw him further into the abyss.
She stepped into the faint light, her face obscured by the hood of a dark cloak. But even in the shadows, he recognized her—Amara. The same Amara, whose body he had buried beneath the rain-soaked earth.
"Amara?" His voice cracked, disbelief fighting against the raw edge of grief that threatened to consume him.
She lifted her head, and his breath hitched. Her eyes glowed faintly, inhumanly, as though lit from within by something not of this world.
"You shouldn't have come," she said, her voice layered with something that wasn't hers.
Jonah's finger twitched on the trigger. "What the hell is going on?"
Before she could answer, the world fractured around him.
The docks dissolved into blinding light, the sound of splintering wood roaring in his ears. Jonah staggered back, shielding his eyes as the storm around him transformed into an abyss. The light faded, replaced by an endless void where gravity felt optional, and reality hung by a thread.
A voice—ancient, omnipresent—rumbled through the darkness:
"Welcome, Jonah Cross. The Abyss has chosen you. Your trial begins now."
The void swallowed him.
Jonah awoke gasping, his breath fogging the air. He wasn't on the docks anymore. Instead, he stood in a forest of blackened trees, their twisted forms clawing at a crimson sky. The air was cold and heavy, filled with a faint, otherworldly hum that reverberated through the empty expanse.
In the distance, something moved—shapes that didn't belong in the world he knew. They slithered through the mist like shadows, their forms barely visible against the crimson horizon.
His revolver was still in his hand, but the duffel bag was gone. A quick pat-down revealed a single piece of paper tucked into his pocket.
With trembling fingers, Jonah unfolded it.
"Survive until dawn. Failure is not an option."
Far off, a guttural howl shattered the eerie silence. Jonah clenched his jaw, his knuckles white around the grip of his weapon.
"Alright," he muttered to himself, eyes scanning the horizon. "If this is hell, let's dance."