Website

The silence of New York at three in the morning was unsettling. The streetlights outside the Columbia University dormitory cast a sickly yellow glow, and the mist coiled around the window like a specter.

Alex sat at his desk, staring at the computer screen. The Tor browser page loaded for a moment, finally jumping to success. The computer opened a black interface with handwritten-like crooked letters. The title was only a few words: "Survive."

He adjusted his glasses and whispered, "This is the website Scarlett sent?"

When the page finished loading, what appeared before him wasn't a traditional forum, but rather a trading platform similar to a dark web marketplace. The top navigation bar was divided into three sections: "Information," "Items," and "Tasks." Real-time messages scrolled on the right, with anonymous users posting fragmented text using encrypted IDs.

He squinted as he browsed, a strange sense of oppression permeating the air. This wasn't just about sharing… It was about buying and selling.

Alex clicked on the "Items" section. The screen refreshed, listing a row of product entries with blurry images. His fingers trembled slightly as his gaze swept over the bizarre objects:

* **Rune-Engraved Stone:** Described as "Stone extracted from the cranial cavity of a Silent Hunter, engraved with unknown grooves, whispers echo when touched," priced at 300 crypto coins. The attached picture was of the twisted stone he had seen last night, with traces of grayish-red blood remaining on the edges.

* **Rusty Scythe:** A rusty scythe, the blade curved, radiating an ominous aura. The description claimed it "once cleaved through the fog in the Lower City, dreams of blood for the wielder," priced at 500 crypto coins. In the picture, the handle was wrapped in rags, as if soaked in blood.

* **Cracked Screen Phone:** A smartphone with a shattered screen, stained with dark red blood, described as "found in an abandoned subway station, plays unmanned crying when turned on," priced at 200 crypto coins. The attached picture showed a vague human figure faintly reflected in the cracks of the screen.

He frowned, murmuring, "These things… are all related to cryptids." These items seemed like fragments torn from those horrors. He slid the mouse, finding more entries: a "button eyeball picked up from a graveyard," a "bandage stained with salt," a "diary that smells of decay when opened." Each item carried an inexplicable aura of curses, like trading in death itself.

He clicked on the "Information" section. The page jumped, listing dozens of posts. He typed "Broadway Sound Thief," and three search results popped up. One of them was titled "Hunting Grounds of Broadway," the author anonymous. The content read: "That thing has no eyes, kills with sound, has a stone in the occiput, dies when smashed. Most common in foggy alleyways."

Alex whispered, "Just like Scarlett said." He continued to browse, discovering another post that mentioned: "They're not just in Broadway, the sewers of Brooklyn, the abandoned buildings of Queens, they're everywhere, like rats."

Alex leaned back in his chair, a chill creeping up his spine. He clicked on the "Tasks" section, seeing several bounties: "Downtown Manhattan, find a moving statue, reward 1000 crypto coins" "The Bronx, record the sound of crying in the subway late at night, 500 crypto coins." He was a little surprised: "This city… is full of cryptids." He slid the page, finding a post titled "Strange Sounds in the Philosophy Building," posted three days ago. The content read: 

"Last week at night, on the fourth floor of Columbia's Philosophy Hall, someone heard tapping sounds from inside the walls, as if someone were trapped. The sound was like Morse code, but there's absolutely nothing behind that wall."

Alex's heart rate accelerated. Philosophy Hall was within the Columbia University campus. He remembered hearing ghost stories that classmates had mentioned before—in 1936, linguistics professor John D. Prince was "tapped" simultaneously in the hallway. When he turned around, he discovered that it was a deceased colleague, scaring him unconscious on the spot.

"That was real?" He opened his notebook, adding "Columbia Philosophy Hall: Tapping Sounds" to the clue board, a thought emerging in his mind: Sound Thieves are just the tip of the iceberg, this city is hiding more unspeakable horrors.

He recalled Columbia legends from the internet. Some claimed to have seen a figure behind the window in Buell Hall—originally part of a mental asylum—and others said whispers often emanated from the old hospital foundation beneath Low Library.

"It's not just the Sound Thieves... there are also moving statues, crying phones..." he murmured. In his mind, absurd phenomena arose: statues slowly turning their heads when no one was around, phones ringing with whispers when no one answered, mirrors reflecting shadows that weren't their own. These weren't fiction but the real shadows lurking deep within this city.