Chapter 12 – Threads of the Dead

The city was quieter now. Not peaceful—never that—but quieter. The chaos of the first few days had settled into something worse: stillness.

Kieran crouched atop a fire escape, the rusted iron creaking faintly beneath his weight. The sky above him was dark, not with clouds but with a sickly layer of fog that hadn't dispersed since the third Gate opened. Every now and then, he'd catch something moving within that murk—shapes that flew without wings, watching. Waiting.

He hated being watched.

Below, the street was deserted. A wrecked bus lay on its side, windows shattered, and inside it, something had died. The blood was old, black and congealed, but the stench of it still clung to the concrete. A few crows picked at the remains. Not normal crows. The kind with too many eyes and human teeth nestled behind their beaks.

Kieran stared down at them, absently rotating the silver coin between his fingers.

Mira crouched beside him, eyes scanning the windows of the adjacent buildings. Her black jacket had been patched up with tape and makeshift stitching. The ragged edge of her collar fluttered in the wind.

"Third floor," she whispered. "Second window. Curtains moved."

Kieran nodded. "Think it's him?"

"Only one way to find out."

They moved silently. Down the fire escape. Across the street. Through the shattered lobby doors of what used to be a law firm. The scent of mold and old printer ink lingered in the air.

As they climbed, Kieran took point, Mira close behind. He could feel the mark burning faintly on his palm—not in warning, but in anticipation. The building was silent except for the groan of shifting metal and the distant thrum of something alive.

The third floor was intact, more or less. The floorboards creaked, but held. Kieran moved down the hall, stopping in front of the second door on the left. It looked untouched. That made him nervous.

He knocked.

A pause.

Then a voice, flat and hoarse: "Who sent you?"

"No one," Kieran replied. "We're looking for Marcus Vance."

A longer pause.

Then, slowly, the door creaked open.

The man inside looked like he hadn't slept in a week. Tall, gaunt, unshaven. Dark circles ringed his eyes, and he held a revolver in one shaking hand. It was aimed at Kieran's head. Mira's blade was already half-drawn.

"Easy," Kieran said. "We're not infected. We're not with the Crow, either."

Marcus studied him. Then, reluctantly, lowered the gun.

"You've got two minutes," he rasped. "Come in."

The room was cluttered with stacks of books, old files, and yellowing pages pinned across the walls. Circles. Sigils. Notes scribbled in shaky handwriting. On the far wall was a map of the city, dotted with red pins. Most of them clustered around Gate sites.

"You've been studying them," Mira said. She circled the map slowly, taking in the scribbled notes in the margins.

Marcus nodded. "Since before the first Gate opened. I was part of a research team. We thought they were theoretical phenomena—interdimensional fractures. Nothing serious. Then things started slipping through. First in dreams. Then in reality."

He walked to the far corner and pulled a notebook from a locked drawer. "This is what we know."

Kieran flipped through the pages. Symbols danced before his eyes—some familiar, most not. They pulsed faintly, like they were alive on the page.

"These are… ancient," he muttered.

"Older than language," Marcus said. "Some of them predate human civilization. The Gates aren't new. They've opened before. And every time, the world resets."

Mira frowned. "You're saying this has happened already? Multiple times?"

"Yes. And every time, something… or someone, resets the clock. Not entirely. Just enough to delay the collapse."

Kieran felt a chill run down his spine. He looked at Mira, then back at Marcus. "What resets it?"

Marcus's voice was almost a whisper. "The Gatebound. The ones chosen by the Threshold."

Kieran's mark burned.

Mira stepped closer to Kieran. "You've seen it. The mark. His power."

Marcus nodded. "Then you're already caught in it. Whether you want to be or not."

The silence that followed was heavy. Outside, a crow cawed, its cry echoing unnaturally through the city.

"There's more," Marcus said, voice trembling. "The Smiling Crow. He's not human. He never was. He was the first to awaken—back in a cycle none of us remember. He's trying to break the loop."

"Break it how?" Kieran asked.

"By letting the Gates fully open. No resets. No survivors. Just... integration."

Mira's hand clenched. "Why?"

Marcus looked at her with hollow eyes. "Because he thinks this world is a prison. And he wants to set it free."

Kieran stood up, his fingers curling into a fist. "We'll stop him."

Marcus smiled faintly. "You can try. But remember… every cycle has its price."

There was a loud knock on the window.

Not a knock, exactly. A tap. Rhythmic. Measured.

Kieran turned.

Something was floating outside the glass, suspended in the fog. Humanoid in shape, but with limbs that moved like liquid. Its face was a smooth mask of porcelain, etched with cracks.

The mask smiled.

Mira pulled Kieran back just as the window shattered inward. The creature surged into the room, a blur of white and black. Marcus screamed as it descended on him, its hands phasing through his chest. His body seized—then stilled.

Kieran slashed at the thing, but his blade passed through it like smoke. Mira hurled a dagger that exploded in a flash of blue light, and the creature recoiled, screeching in a voice that didn't belong in this world.

They ran.

Down the hallway, through the stairwell, out into the street. The fog followed them, whispering. Laughing.

They didn't stop until they reached the bunker.

Kieran collapsed against the door, breathing hard. Mira paced in silence.

They had answers now.

But more than that, they had a new question:

What if the Smiling Crow wasn't the end?

What if he was just the beginning?