Chapter 216

The rain had stopped hours ago, but the dampness in the air clung to everything. It coated the asphalt in a slick layer of grime, and the windows of the old building across the street were streaked with watermarks that never fully washed away. Mark could feel the weight of the night pressing down on him. The streetlights flickered, casting long, uneven shadows across the sidewalks. He had been out for a walk—one of those restless kinds of walks that didn't really take you anywhere—but something had drawn him in tonight, something that felt wrong.

He glanced over his shoulder once, twice, expecting to see someone following him, but no one was there. Still, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Maybe it was the wind, or maybe it was just the hour, but Mark couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted in the world. Something had changed.

Mark wasn't sure what he was looking for, but he kept walking, hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his jacket. The street was empty, the kind of emptiness that made you wonder how a place could look so abandoned in the middle of a city. His breath came out in small clouds, each one more reluctant than the last, as if his lungs were fighting him. As he rounded a corner, something caught his eye.

It was a balloon.

He froze.

It wasn't like the usual balloons he had seen littering the streets before, nothing that you'd expect to find at a children's party. This one was just... there. Floating. Not tied to anything, just drifting above the ground at head height. It was a translucent, pale shade of white, and it didn't move the way a balloon should. There was no breeze to make it bounce around or float with any natural ease. It just... hovered.

Mark stepped forward cautiously, his heart thumping in his chest. He felt like he should do something—call someone, get away—but his feet felt stuck to the ground. The balloon, as still as it was, almost seemed to pulse, as if it were waiting for something. Waiting for him.

He reached out a hand instinctively, as if to touch it, but something stopped him. He didn't know why, but the thought of making contact with it suddenly felt dangerous. The balloon had no string, no tether. It didn't belong here.

Then it moved.

It wasn't a slow movement, not the kind you'd expect from a balloon caught in a draft. It was quick, like a blur, and it brushed against the side of his face as it passed him by. The touch was soft, almost gentle—until Mark felt the sudden pressure in his chest. Like a weight had crushed into him from inside, as if something had punched through his ribs and straight into his lungs. He gasped, his breath catching in his throat. His knees buckled, and he collapsed to the ground. His vision blurred. He tried to scream but couldn't. His throat had tightened, and it felt like someone had plugged his mouth with cotton.

The pain only lasted a few seconds—sharp, agonizing seconds—but it felt like an eternity. And then it was gone. Just like that, as if nothing had happened. Mark stumbled to his feet, breathless and disoriented, the cold air filling his lungs but not helping. Something had gone wrong, but he couldn't figure out what. The balloon had continued to float ahead of him, bouncing off a streetlight and drifting further down the road. He couldn't let it go, though.

He followed it.

Each step he took felt heavier than the last. The feeling of dread clung to him like a second skin, and Mark could feel the weight of something sinister drawing closer. His legs were shaking, his mind scrambling to make sense of it. Was it a trick of his mind? Had he just imagined the pain? But no. That was real. That hurt had been real.

The balloon floated further down the street, past a row of abandoned buildings and dark alleys. It didn't stop, didn't slow down, and he couldn't understand why he was still walking after it. The weight of his fear grew. He wanted to turn around, go home, forget any of this had ever happened—but he couldn't. His legs wouldn't listen. His feet just kept moving.

Then he heard it.

The faintest thud.

Like a soft collision, something bumping against something else. The balloon had struck something. He couldn't see what, but he could hear it—barely, just on the edge of his hearing. The balloon was there, just in front of him. And it moved again. Mark reached out, his fingers brushing the cold plastic. He felt the air around it, the pressure in the atmosphere shift, but before he could pull his hand away, it happened again.

The same pain. But this time, it was worse. Much worse.

Mark screamed, but no sound escaped his lips. His ribs cracked under the pressure, his chest felt like it was going to explode, and his heart seemed to stop beating. His head swam, and the world blurred in and out of focus, like he was trapped in some horrible dream where nothing made sense.

He couldn't breathe.

His body hit the concrete again, but this time, he didn't get up. The pain was too much, too intense, too unbearable. The last thing he heard was the thudding sound, just faint enough that he couldn't place where it was coming from. The balloon had moved again, but Mark couldn't do anything. He couldn't even scream.

The last thought that passed through his mind was a simple one.

It was the balloon.

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An hour had passed. Or maybe it had been two. Time didn't make sense anymore. The night stretched on endlessly, the city around him an empty husk. The balloon floated nearby, still as silent as death itself. And then, it happened again. A small thud, barely perceptible but enough to make Mark's stomach churn.

In the distance, a shadow moved. Another person.

It was a woman, her face drawn and pale, her steps slow and deliberate. She didn't see the balloon—she couldn't. No one did. But Mark did. And he tried to scream, but his voice was gone. No one could hear him.

The woman walked closer, her feet dragging slightly on the pavement, like she was tired or defeated by the world around her. She stepped directly into the balloon's path, and Mark's heart skipped a beat. The balloon hovered toward her, as if seeking her out, as if it had a mind of its own.

And then she collided with it.

The same thud, the same horrible pressure, the same crushing weight. The woman gasped, her hands clutching at her chest, and Mark could see the life leave her eyes, just like it had left his. She crumpled to the ground, and the balloon hovered a moment longer, as if observing the destruction it had caused before it floated off, drifting down the street once again. It moved as though it had done nothing wrong, as if this was its purpose. As if it was always meant to kill.

And Mark understood. The balloon wasn't just floating aimlessly. It was hunting.

It would never stop.

Mark couldn't move, couldn't help. His body was broken, his soul crushed beneath the weight of the unseen force that had haunted him. He couldn't escape. The balloon would find him, just like it had found the others, and there would be no way out. He was its next victim, trapped in the endless, suffocating cycle of death.

There would be no final scream. No final struggle. Just the crushing blow, over and over again. The last thing Mark felt was that horrible pressure, and then, at last, he understood.

It was never going to stop.

The balloon would never stop.

And neither would he.