The world around me buzzes with life. The hum of machinery echoes from the distance, mingling with the faint chatter of voices and the rhythmic clang of tools striking metal. The scent of oil and iron tinges the air, sharp and biting, as if the city itself is made of steel. Bastion—that's what they call it. A haven for survivors, a fortress against the shadows.
I've only been here three days, but it already feels like a lifetime. The constant noise is a stark contrast to the oppressive stillness of the place I left behind. The towering walls of the city loom overhead, casting long shadows over the crowded streets below. Every corner is alive with movement: merchants hawking wares, mechanics tuning vehicles, soldiers marching in sync. Bastion is a city that never sleeps, and its people never stop moving.
And neither do I.
I slip through the throng of bodies, keeping my head low and my steps quick. My heart still races when someone brushes past me, an instinct I can't seem to shake. The scars on my forearm itch beneath the bandages I hastily wrapped around them. "RUN." The word is etched deep, a reminder that I don't belong here. Not yet.
"Hey, you there!" A gruff voice cuts through the din.
I freeze. My breath catches as I glance over my shoulder. A man in a worn military uniform stands a few paces away, his eyes narrowing as they meet mine. His hand rests on the hilt of a blade strapped to his side. My pulse quickens.
"You new?" he asks, his tone gruff but not unkind.
I nod, forcing myself to meet his gaze. "Just arrived." My voice comes out hoarse, barely audible over the noise of the crowd.
He studies me for a moment longer before grunting and waving me off. "Stay out of trouble."
I nod again and turn away, my legs carrying me deeper into the labyrinth of streets. The encounter leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. Bastion might be a sanctuary, but it's clear that trust is in short supply here. I don't blame them. Not after what I've seen.
The shadows don't just haunt the dead city I escaped from. They linger here too, unseen but felt, like a noose slowly tightening around all our necks. Whispers of people disappearing in the night. Murmurs of creatures breaching the walls. No one talks about it openly, but the fear is palpable.
I find myself at the edge of the market, where the noise begins to fade. A narrow alley beckons, its dim light offering a moment of respite from the sun. I duck inside, leaning against the cool brick wall and taking a deep breath. My fingers trace the edges of the scars on my arm, the memory of that night flashing in my mind.
"Not many people make it out alone."
The voice startles me, and I whip my head around. A figure steps out of the shadows, their features obscured by a hood. My muscles tense, and I instinctively reach for the small knife hidden in my boot.
"Who are you?" I demand, my voice steadier than I feel.
The figure doesn't move closer. Instead, they tilt their head, as if studying me. "But you are not the first," they say, their voice low and even. "But you might be the last."
A chill runs down my spine. "What do you mean?"
The figure takes a step forward, the dim light catching the edge of their face. A woman, her eyes sharp and calculating. "You saw them, didn't you? The watchers."
I don't answer, but the look on my face must be enough. She nods, a grim expression crossing her features.
"They're coming," she says, her voice barely above a whisper.
Before I can respond, she turns and melts back into the shadows, leaving me alone in the alley. My heart pounds as her words echo in my mind. The watchers are coming. I already knew that, but hearing it said brought the fact to life.
For the first time since I arrived in Bastion, I feel the same dread that consumed me in the dead city. The scars on my arm throb, the word "RUN" burning into my flesh like a brand.
I press my back against the wall, gripping the knife in my boot tightly. One thing is certain: whatever safety Bastion won't last. And I'm not sure I can run fast enough this time. But that didn't mean I won't try.