Chapter 10

     April had come quietly, but the city’s silence felt deliberate, like a breath held too long. I walked through streets that seemed to pulse with the ghost of winter’s chill, the air still heavy with dampness, though the fog had begun to lift. The days felt longer now, each one unfolding like a letter left unopened on a desk, each hour carrying the weight of what hadn’t been said or seen in weeks.

     My memories of March were fragmented, scattered across the recesses of my mind like broken glass. I had pieces—glimpses of places I’d been, faces I might have seen—but they didn’t connect in a way that made sense. They seemed to float just out of reach, like syllables strung together without meaning. And in that emptiness, Achilles’ name still lingered, an unresolved echo that refused to fade.

     I’d come here, to the clinic on West Harlow, with the vague notion that there might be answers—or at least someone who could help me stitch together the holes in my memory. The building was old, a faded brick structure with a crooked sign out front that read: **Pritchard’s Clinic for the Hard of Hearing.** I hadn’t expected much, just a name I’d come across, a faint trail that seemed to lead nowhere but still called out for me to follow.

     Inside, the air was thick with the medicinal smell of antiseptic and old leather. The waiting room was empty except for a young receptionist who barely looked up from her magazine. She gestured vaguely toward a hallway at the back, where a closed door stood beneath a flickering overhead light. I made my way down the corridor, the sound of my footsteps dull against the linoleum floor.

     I opened the door and stepped into the dimly lit office. A man sat at a desk cluttered with papers, a stethoscope draped loosely over his shoulders. He was older, with thin hair and eyes that seemed to look past things rather than at them. He didn’t acknowledge my presence, didn’t even look up as I approached.

     “You’re Pritchard?” I asked, though the name had already lost some of its weight. He looked up slowly, as if pulling himself out of a deep, unreachable place.

     “They say I’m a healer,” he replied, his voice barely more than a murmur. “Though I doubt anyone believes it these days.”

     I studied his face. There was something off about him, a disconnection, like he was half here and half somewhere else. “I heard you specialize in—” I hesitated, searching for the right words. “In cases where things don’t add up.”

     He finally turned to face me, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Things don’t add up more often than you’d think,” he said, his eyes still distant, as though listening for something I couldn’t hear. “The mind, the body—they don’t always speak the same language.”

     It wasn’t the answer I’d been looking for, but I pressed on. “I’ve been… losing time,” I said, the words feeling inadequate as they left my mouth. “Days, weeks—whole months that seem to vanish. I need to know if there’s a reason.”

     Pritchard nodded slowly, as if I’d just confirmed something he already knew. “Time has a way of slipping through the cracks,” he said. “We all miss pieces, here and there. But it sounds like you’ve been missing more than most.”

     He reached across the desk and picked up a small, metal device—a kind of handheld radar, no larger than a pocket watch. It had a single button on the side and a needle that quivered faintly at its center, like the measure of a pulse. “I use this for what they call ‘metrical resonance,’” he explained. “The theory is that everything leaves a trace—echoes, vibrations, even thoughts. If something’s out of alignment, it might show up here.”

     I wasn’t sure whether to believe him or not. The device looked like a relic from another era, something built more for theater than for science. But I’d been chasing ghosts for so long that any lead felt worth following. “Go ahead,” I said, sitting down in the chair across from him.

     Pritchard switched on the device, and the needle began to twitch, moving erratically as he passed it over my temples, then down the sides of my neck. It hummed softly, a low sound like a radio trying to find a signal. He paused, his brow furrowing slightly. “There’s… something,” he murmured, the needle jerking toward the far end of the scale.

     “What does that mean?” I asked, trying to keep the skepticism out of my voice.

     “It means,” he said slowly, “that whatever happened to you left an impression. A resonance.” He leaned back in his chair, setting the device on the desk. “But I can’t tell you what it was. Only that it’s there, still echoing.”

     I felt the familiar coldness settle in, the kind that came when answers only raised more questions. “Achilles,” I said, almost as if testing the name against the air. “Does that name mean anything to you?”

     Pritchard’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes grew distant again, like he was listening for a sound beyond the reach of normal hearing. “I’ve heard the name,” he said. “But not here. Not in this place.” He looked at me, and for the first time, there was something sharp in his gaze, a hint of urgency. “If you’re chasing him, you’re not the first.”

     “Then where?” I pressed. “Where have you heard it?”

     He reached into a drawer and pulled out an old map, yellowed and creased with age. He spread it across the desk, his finger tracing a line that wove through the city, a series of points marked in faded ink. “These are the places where people disappear,” he said. “Where time slips away. Achilles’ name has come up near all of them. Like he’s marking territory. Or maybe looking for something.”

     I stared at the map, the pattern forming in front of me like a constellation in the night sky. Each point seemed to lock something in place, walls around a world I didn’t understand. And I could feel it again—that pull, that echo, as if the metrical radar was still vibrating somewhere inside me.

     Pritchard folded the map, placing it back in the drawer. “You might find answers,” he said, “but they won’t make sense. Not unless you’re willing to see the world differently.”

     I stood up, the cold ache in my jaw throbbing faintly, a reminder of everything I still didn’t know. “What are you?” I asked, the question slipping out before I could catch it. “A healer, or something else?”

     Pritchard’s faint smile returned, the kind that never quite reached his eyes. “I’m just a man trying to listen,” he said. “Even if I can’t hear what’s being said.”

     The room seemed to grow smaller as I walked back into the hallway, the light overhead flickering in and out. The metrical radar’s hum still resonated somewhere in the back of my mind, an echo that refused to fade.

     Outside, the city felt quieter, as if it was listening too, waiting for the next sound to break the silence. I knew Achilles was out there, somewhere, still playing his game. And I was left to follow the traces he’d left behind, trying to understand a pattern that seemed to fold in on itself with every step I took.

     I turned away from the clinic, feeling April’s chill settle into my bones, and set out toward the first point on Pritchard’s map. It was time to see what echoes still remained, and what truths they might carry.

   Next chapter

Chapter 9

    The night pressed in, darker and heavier than it had any right to be. The city lay under a blanket of fog, its lights dim and ghostly, like the last embers of a fire about to die. I wandered through the back streets, where the alleys twisted in on themselves like mazes built by hands that had long forgotten their purpose. The air was wet, every breath dragging a chill down to my lungs, every step slipping on the rain-slick cobblestones.

    I hadn’t heard from Achilles since that night at the chapel, but his presence lingered, like the throb of a distant wound. There were whispers on the street, murmurs about a man who moved unseen, pulling strings, sealing fates. But there was something else beneath the rumors, something that felt half-hidden, like a memory just out of reach.

    I’d been following a lead, though I wasn’t sure where it was taking me. A name had come up—Halifax—and with it, the promise of answers. It didn’t mean much at first, just another dead-end word in a city filled with them. But as I picked at the threads, I found they started to unravel, pulling me down into places that didn’t feel quite real, didn’t feel like the world I knew.

     I reached a warehouse on the far edge of the docks, a hulking relic of steel and concrete that loomed over the water. The fog clung to it, wrapping its beams in a slick, greasy film. There were no lights on inside, but the faint outline of a doorway showed through the mist, a cracked line of blackness cutting into the wall. I hesitated at the threshold. The silence here was different, thick and suffocating, as though the air itself had settled into the weight of an old secret.

     I stepped inside.

     The darkness swallowed me. I moved forward by feel, my hands brushing against damp, crumbling walls. Somewhere deeper in the building, I heard a faint hum—subsonic, low, barely perceptible. It felt familiar, like a vibration in the bones, something that reached back to that night at the park, to the murmured warnings and the quiet promise of death.

     Then there was light. Not much—just a glimmer, a flash, like the reflection of a blade. I followed it, deeper into the warehouse, where the sound of the hum grew louder, vibrating in my teeth. I came into a large room, empty except for a single chair in the middle and a figure seated in it, motionless, head bowed.

     I took a step closer. The figure didn’t move.

     “Halifax,” I said, though the name felt wrong as it left my lips. There was no response.

     The dim light revealed a glint of metal—something small and sharp clutched in the figure’s hand. I reached out and turned the chair, and there it was: a bodkin, a thin stiletto blade, held loosely in lifeless fingers. Halifax—or whoever this was—had made a choice, though it looked less like an act of desperation and more like a quiet, calculated refusal. A veto of life, or of whatever awaited.

     I leaned in, trying to make sense of the scene. There was no struggle, no sign of pain or fear. Just stillness. And the blade.

     The hum swelled suddenly, filling the room with a deep vibration that made the walls tremble. I turned, scanning the darkness, but there was nothing there—only the sound, rising in intensity, pressing in from all sides. It felt like being locked in, like a galaxy collapsing in on itself, pulled into a singularity where light and sound twisted into silence.

     Then I saw it: a horn, mounted on the far wall. It was an old ship’s signal, the kind they used to sound across the water, but it was dark, unlit. The hum seemed to be coming from it, or through it, as though the metal was vibrating with the frequency of the sound. I approached it slowly, reaching out to touch the cold, wet surface.

     The horn blared.

     A deafening blast shattered the silence, splitting the air like a knife. The sound wasn’t just loud; it was total, a force that filled the room, shaking the walls, the ceiling, everything. It felt like the world was coming apart, each piece rattling against its neighbors, tearing at the edges. I staggered back, ears ringing, head pounding, and that’s when I saw him.

     Achilles. Standing at the other end of the room, just beyond the reach of the dim light. His figure was blurred in the haze of sound and darkness, but I could see the outline of his face, his eyes fixed on me with an intensity that made the whole place seem to shrink around us.

     “You’ve found the wall,” he said, his voice barely audible over the fading echo of the horn. “But there’s nothing on the other side.”

     I tried to speak, but my voice was lost in the pounding in my skull. I took a step toward him, but he didn’t move. He was waiting, like he always was, watching as I struggled to piece together the fragments of whatever game he was playing.

     “What do you want?” I shouted, though the words felt hollow, like they were swallowed by the darkness before they reached him.

     He took a step closer, just one, and in that moment, I could see it—the blood on his hands, still fresh, still wet, like he had dipped them into the lifeblood of the city itself. “It’s not about what I want,” he said. “It’s about what you’re willing to see.”

     The horn fell silent. The hum was gone. And with it, the light seemed to fade from the room, leaving nothing but shadows and the faint outline of the door behind me. I turned toward it, stumbled back into the night air, gasping for breath, the fog wrapping around me like a shroud.

     I looked back, but the warehouse was empty. The chair was still there, the bodkin resting on the floor where it had fallen, but Achilles was gone. There was no sign of him, no trace of the sound or the light—only the cold that settled deep in my bones.

     The city seemed quieter now, as though it had settled into a kind of uneasy sleep, waiting for whatever came next. I could feel it, in the chill of the air and the dampness that clung to the streets—something had shifted, or ended, or begun.

     I turned away, pulling my coat tighter against the cold, and started walking, not knowing where I was headed or what lay ahead. But I knew this much: Achilles wasn’t done, and whatever he was doing, he wasn’t doing it alone.

     The fog swallowed me as I made my way down the street, and the city’s dim lights flickered like dying stars.

   Next chapter

Chapter 8

    It had been two weeks, but it might as well have been a lifetime. The city felt different now—colder, even as winter began its reluctant retreat. The sky hung low, leaden and heavy, pressing down on the streets like it was trying to smother any sign of life. I wandered through it, half in a daze, my head pounding with the kind of ache that didn’t come from a bottle.

    I didn’t remember much of the last two weeks. Not clearly, anyway. There were flashes—cold hospital rooms, the hiss of machines, the dull hum of voices that never spoke directly to me. I kept coming back to that feeling of something being drained, as if a part of me had been siphoned off while I slept. The city itself felt like it was hemorrhaging, bleeding out through wounds nobody could see.

    They said I had been found in an alley, face down in a pool of rainwater and my own blood, a bullet lodged somewhere deep where it hadn’t killed me but had come close enough to make me wish it had. They said the wound was clean—too clean, like someone who knew exactly what they were doing had put the shot there and left me to crawl my way back to consciousness.

    But who pulled the trigger didn’t matter. Not anymore. What mattered was that the blood still ran in my veins, even if it wasn’t all mine. Somewhere in the fog of those two lost weeks, I’d taken in something else, something that didn’t belong to me. Godhead’s blood, or maybe the city’s, the dark pulse of the streets coursing through me like a virus.

    The doctor had said I was lucky to be alive. He didn’t know the half of it.

    I reached up, touched the side of my jaw where the skin still felt tight, healing around the wound that had nearly ended me. My teeth ached, like something had been lodged between them, a pain that throbbed with every beat of my heart. It felt like a hole there, a gap where something had been taken out or put in, I couldn’t tell which. The memories came back in fragments, like shards of glass I was too afraid to piece together.

    Madeleine’s face flickered in and out of my mind, pale and distant, like a ghost seen from the corner of the eye. I didn’t know if she was alive, dead, or somewhere in between. The last time I’d seen her, she’d been hooked up to those machines, fighting to stay on this side of the grave. But that was two weeks ago. Anything could have happened since then.

    And Achilles—where was he? The name still carried a chill, that same coldness that clung to the wound on my jaw. I could feel him out there, somewhere, like a shadow stretching across the whole city. He hadn’t disappeared. He was waiting, as always, biding his time while the rest of us stumbled through the fog he’d created.

    I walked aimlessly through the streets, letting my feet carry me wherever they wanted. I found myself outside a small chapel, its wooden doors warped and cracked, the paint peeling away in long strips. I stepped inside, the air heavy with the scent of wax and dust, as if the place had been abandoned for years.

    There was a man standing at the front, his back to me, dressed in a black robe. I couldn’t tell if he was a priest, a mourner, or something else altogether. He didn’t turn when I entered, didn’t acknowledge my presence. I could hear him muttering under his breath, the words indistinct, like the kind of prayer that’s spoken more for the sound than the meaning.

    I moved closer, my footsteps echoing through the empty chapel. That’s when I saw it—an urn on the altar, dull and unmarked, resting in the hollow of the man’s outstretched hands. The priest turned slowly, revealing a face I didn’t recognize, but his eyes—they had that same dark sheen, that look of something that had seen too much and not enough at the same time.

    “We all carry the blood,” he said, his voice low and ragged. “And we all lose it, drop by drop, until there’s nothing left.”

    I stared at him, trying to piece together the words, the meaning behind them. “What’s in the urn?” I asked, though part of me didn’t want to know.

    He didn’t answer right away, just lifted the urn slightly, his fingers tightening around its sides. “It’s the truth,” he said finally, “the kind that we pin to the backs of our teeth and choke on until we die.”

    I didn’t know what that meant, but I could feel the weight of it settling over me, heavy as a shroud. I took a step back, my eyes drifting to the urn. The thought occurred to me that it was more than just ashes in there—something darker, something that spoke to the same cold ache in my jaw, the hole that had been left behind.

    “Who are you?” I asked, my voice sounding distant, like it wasn’t mine.

    He set the urn back down on the altar, turned his gaze back to me. “I’m no one,” he said, a hint of a smile curling his lips. “But I know who you are.”

    A cold shiver ran through me. “And who’s that?”

    “Someone who’s already dead,” he whispered. “You just haven’t stopped breathing yet.”

    The words cut through me, sharper than the bullet that had grazed my jaw, and for a moment, I thought I could see it—Achilles, standing just beyond the light, watching. He wasn’t done. Whatever he’d done to me, whatever blood had been spilled, this was only the beginning. He was pulling me deeper into his web, one thread at a time.

    I turned and walked out of the chapel, the priest’s words still ringing in my ears. Outside, the city was waking up, the gray light of dawn pushing through the cracks in the sky. But it didn’t feel like morning. It felt like the end of something, or maybe the beginning of something worse.

    I touched the wound on my jaw again, felt the ache deep in my bones. There were still too many questions, too many holes in my memory. But one thing was certain: Achilles hadn’t forgotten about me. And whatever lay in the urn—whatever truth had been pinned to the teeth of the dead—it wasn’t going to stay buried for long.

   Next chapter

Chapter 7

    The night had settled deep into the bones of the city, colder than before, as though winter had crawled under the skin and made itself at home. I could feel it—everything Achilles had set in motion was coming to a head. The air hummed with it, a low vibration like the rumble of an engine idling just beneath the surface, waiting to tear forward. But I wasn’t ready. Not yet.

    I stood on the rooftop of a crumbling building, looking out over the streets below, watching the slow, painful pulse of life as the city tried to keep itself alive. The wind whipped around me, sharp as a scalpel, carrying the scent of oil, rust, and something darker—something rotten.

    He was down there. I knew it. Achilles always made himself known when the city was at its most vulnerable, like a god descending to pass judgment. But he wasn’t omnipotent. He wasn’t untouchable. He was just a man—at least, that’s what I kept telling myself. A man who’d figured out how to drain the life from everything around him, but still, just a man.

    The problem was, Achilles didn’t believe it. Not anymore.

    I could hear it, even from up here—the low growl of his engine, winding up, whining like an animal caught in a trap but too proud to admit it. He reveled in it, the power, the control, like some god on a throne. And maybe that’s what he was now. Godlike. Untouchable, in his own eyes.

    The sound grew louder, a roar now, tearing through the night as his car rounded the corner, headlights slicing through the rain. I could see him behind the wheel, his face half-lit by the dash, eyes dark and unmoving, locked straight ahead like nothing else mattered. He didn’t care about the people on the streets, didn’t care about the city around him. He cared about the throttle in his hand, the engine under his control. He was speeding through it all, godlike, whining his own throttle, as though the world couldn’t stop him.

    I felt my fists clench at my sides, felt the cold steel of the piece tucked into my coat. I could end it. Right now. One shot. Achilles could bleed, just like anyone else. He wasn’t above that, no matter what he thought.

    But something held me back.

    I watched him tear down the street, the tires spitting up water like a wake in the ocean, his car a bullet fired from the hand of some careless god. He didn’t stop. He never stopped. Achilles was always moving forward, always pushing, like he knew where it would all end, and he wasn’t afraid to crash straight into it. Maybe he even welcomed it.

    I followed him, moving down the fire escape, feeling the cold, slick metal under my boots, my heart pounding in time with the rhythm of his engine. Each step brought me closer, but the closer I got, the more I realized something I hadn’t wanted to admit.

    Achilles wasn’t running from anything. He was running toward it.

    I hit the ground and slipped into the alley, my eyes tracking his car as it disappeared down another street, the noise of the engine fading into the distance, but the pulse of it still strong in my chest. Achilles wasn’t just some man chasing power. He was a force of nature, something you couldn’t kill with a single shot. He was the storm, the flood, the ice that crept in during the dead of winter and claimed everything in its path.

    And I was still standing in the cold, gun in hand, waiting for the moment I’d pull the trigger.

    I should’ve gone after him. I should’ve stopped him. But as I stood there in the alley, rain dripping down my face, the taste of rust and regret heavy on my tongue, I knew I wouldn’t catch him. Not tonight.

    This wasn’t the end. Not yet. The city was still bleeding, still fighting to stay alive. Achilles wasn’t done draining it, and he wasn’t done with me. Not by a long shot.

    I looked up at the sky, the clouds thick and dark, like a curtain closing over the world. February was ending. The air had that bite to it, the one that comes when winter knows its time is up but doesn’t want to let go. It would fight to stay as long as it could, freezing every last breath, until finally, finally, it had no choice but to melt away.

    But before the thaw, there would be more blood. More cold. More of everything Achilles wanted.

    I turned and walked back into the night, the rain still falling, the city still pulsing, and the promise of what was coming next—March—hung over my head like the final act of a play that hadn’t yet been written.

   Next chapter

Chapter 6

    The air was thicker than usual that night, pressing in on me like a lead blanket, as if the rain had conspired with the city to drown out any chance of breathing. I walked the streets alone, my thoughts turning over the last few days, each revelation colder than the one before. Achilles had his hands in everything, his shadow stretching out over the city like a stain that wouldn’t come clean.

    I found myself wandering toward the park, the one where the trees grew taller than the buildings around them, their branches reaching out like skeletal fingers grasping for something that had long since slipped away. The rain had slowed to a fine mist, the kind that seeped into your skin, leaving you damp and uncomfortable, like a memory you couldn’t shake.

    The trees were quiet, but not still. A few leaves trembled, barely perceptible, like a whisper you couldn’t quite catch. I walked deeper into the park, past the benches where the forgotten huddled, eyes dull and clothes drenched, hiding from the world but never really escaping it.

    And then I heard it—a sound so soft it almost didn’t exist. A low hum, just beneath the edge of perception, like the breath of the wind, but heavier. It wasn’t natural, not in the way the rustle of leaves or the creak of branches was. It was mechanical, deliberate, and I knew that wherever it was coming from, it wasn’t here to soothe.

    The sound lured me in, drawing me deeper into the park, where the trees grew denser, the path more obscured. I found myself following it, my feet moving before my mind could catch up. There was something about it—something that promised understanding or, maybe, something worse. Either way, it was pulling me, as though I didn’t have a choice.

    I rounded a corner and saw it—a figure leaning against one of the trees. He was tall, his frame thin, almost brittle, like a twig that might snap under the weight of its own existence. His coat was long and dark, the fabric gleaming faintly in the mist, and he had one hand buried deep in his pocket, the other holding a cigarette that was barely burning. He stood perfectly still, watching the world pass by as if he were apart from it, like a wolf in sheep’s skin, waiting for the right moment to strike.

    The sound grew louder, that low hum, and I realized it was coming from him, or maybe it was just wrapped around him, like a second skin, vibrating through the air and into my bones.

    “Subsonic,” I muttered under my breath, stepping closer. There was something too perfect about the way he stood there, too deliberate. Like he had been waiting for me.

    He didn’t move as I approached, his eyes hidden beneath the shadow of a wide-brimmed hat. The rain continued to mist, beading on his coat, the droplets sliding off like they didn’t belong, like they had no right to touch him.

    “You hear it too, don’t you?” he said, his voice smooth, but there was something else underneath—something hollow, empty. The hum thrummed through his words, making them feel heavy, as if the air around him had weight.

    “What is it?” I asked, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer.

    He finally turned his head, just enough for me to catch a glimpse of his eyes. They were dull, coated with something that wasn’t quite human, like he was seeing the world through a layer of felt, softening the edges, hiding the sharpness of reality. His lips curled into a smile, but it wasn’t friendly.

    “It’s temptation,” he said softly. “It woos us, like the hum of something just out of reach. It’s what Achilles uses, what he’s always used. The promise of something more, something better. A way out. But there’s no way out, not really.”

    The words settled in my chest like lead. I knew what he was talking about. Achilles didn’t just kill people—he twisted them, made them believe they could escape the inevitable. He offered them a way out, a lie so sweet you couldn’t help but bite. And once you did, he secluded you, cut you off, left you with nothing but the cold truth that you’d been tricked.

    “And what are you?” I asked, narrowing my eyes. “One of his?”

    The man smiled wider, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I was. Once. But not anymore. Achilles doesn’t keep those who see through the felt. He lets them go, pushes them into the shadows, lets them drown in their own bitterness.”

    “Bigotry,” I said, the word slipping out before I could stop it. The man’s smile faded.

    “Bigotry,” he repeated, his voice sharp now, the hum deepening. “That’s what it is, isn’t it? Achilles only keeps what he deems pure, what he can use. The rest of us, we’re cast aside, our hate festering, growing, until it consumes us.”

    I felt a coldness settle in, colder than the rain, colder than the night. Achilles had been playing this game for a long time. He didn’t just kill his enemies—he let them kill themselves, slowly, quietly, their own bitterness twisting them into shadows of the people they once were.

    The hum grew louder, vibrating through the ground now, rattling the trees. I could feel it in my teeth, in my bones. The man’s eyes flickered, just for a moment, and I knew then that he was right. Achilles had cast him aside, left him to rot in the shadows, and now he was nothing but a hollow shell, still trying to cling to the temptation that had lured him in the first place.

    “Leave,” the man said suddenly, his voice rising over the hum. “Leave before it’s too late.”

    I didn’t need to be told twice. I turned and walked away, the hum fading behind me as I left the park. But the weight of what I’d learned stayed with me, heavy and suffocating. Achilles wasn’t just a man, wasn’t just a killer. He was something deeper, something that seeped into the city like a poison, twisting people, making them believe in something that wasn’t real.

    And I was next.

   Next chapter

Chapter 5

    I found myself in the bottom of a glass again, the liquid settling like cold truth in my gut. The whiskey swirled, amber and thick, clinging to the sides of the glass like the memories I couldn’t shake. The rain hadn’t let up. It never did, not here. It was like the city had its own way of bleeding out, drop by drop, until nothing remained but the bones.

    Madeleine was still in that clinic, hooked up to those damn machines, each beep echoing in my skull. I’d left her there, not knowing if she’d be alive the next time I walked in, or if Achilles had already decided to pull the plug. It was all a matter of time, wasn’t it? A slow drip, a slow bleed, and then—nothing.

    The bar was dim, just how I liked it, but the weight of what was coming pressed in on me like a shadow I couldn’t shake. Achilles was moving pieces, setting the board, and I was just stumbling through it like I’d already lost. And maybe I had.

    The bartender slid me another drink, heavier this time. The glass thudded against the wood, and I couldn’t help but think of those machines again—their mechanical rhythm, keeping Madeleine tethered to a life she hadn’t asked for.

    “You look like you’ve been counting ghosts,” a voice said, cutting through the haze of my thoughts.

    I didn’t look up right away. I knew the voice. It was deep, a bit too polished, with a touch of something old in it, like someone who’s been around long enough to see everything fall apart and didn’t mind watching it happen again.

    When I finally turned, there he was—Burke. Big, broad, with the kind of build that suggested he could break a man’s spine without trying too hard. He was propped up against the bar, a jug in one hand, the kind they used to serve to men who planned on drinking themselves into oblivion and didn’t want anyone else to notice.

    “Burke,” I muttered, taking another slow sip. “Didn’t expect to see you in a place like this.”

    Burke smiled, a tight-lipped grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “A man’s got to indulge once in a while. But when you indulge, you’ve got to know how much you can weigh before it breaks you.” He hefted the jug, sloshing the liquid inside. “It’s stoutest when you pour it heavy.”

    I didn’t have the energy for riddles. Not tonight. I kept my eyes on the whiskey, feeling the burn slide down my throat. “What do you want, Burke?”

    He set the jug down with a heavy thud, his eyes narrowing. “Achilles.”

    Of course. Achilles. Everything was Achilles now, wasn’t it? That slow drip of his presence, that quiet ticking, like the city was a time bomb and he was holding the switch.

    Burke leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low rumble. “He’s weighing you, you know. Weighing all of us. Seeing who’s stout enough to survive.”

    I couldn’t help the laugh that slipped from my throat, bitter and sharp. “Survive what?”

    Burke’s eyes darkened, the lines of his face deepening as he spoke. “The drain, the slow bleed. The city’s a body, and Achilles has got his hands on its veins. He’s been draining it for years. Now he’s just waiting to see who’s left standing when the last drop falls.”

    I felt the weight of Burke’s words settle in, heavier than the drink in my hand. Achilles wasn’t just some man chasing a vendetta. He was something worse—something patient. He was waiting for the city to die, one slow drip at a time, until all that remained was a hollowed-out shell.

    Burke tilted the jug, pouring himself a glass, the liquid heavy and thick, like blood in a broken heart. “He’s been watching you, too, you know. Weighing you.”

    I didn’t like the sound of that. “What do you mean, watching?”

    Burke’s grin returned, but there was no humor in it. “You crossed him. At the clinic. He knows you’re trying to stop him. He knows about Madeleine.”

    I clenched my jaw. “He’s not going to touch her.”

    Burke raised his glass in a mock toast, his voice low and flat. “You better hope she’s stout enough to handle the weight.”

    I slammed my glass down, the whiskey sloshing over the sides. “What does he want?”

    Burke didn’t answer right away. He took a long drink, his eyes never leaving mine, before finally setting the glass down with a dull thud. “He wants you to see. To see how the world drains, how life gets pulled out of people, drop by drop, until there’s nothing left but the weight.”

    I could feel the tension building in my chest, that familiar tightness, like a noose being pulled taut. Burke stood up, his frame casting a long shadow across the bar. “You’ll feel it soon enough,” he said, grabbing his jug and turning to leave. “We all will.”

    He walked out into the rain, the door swinging shut behind him, leaving me alone with the weight of it all. The machines, the beeping, Achilles—everything blurred together in my mind, thick and suffocating.

    I finished the whiskey, the burn numbing the edges of my thoughts, but I couldn’t shake the cold that had settled into my bones. Achilles was waiting, and so was the city. Waiting for the last drop to fall.

   Next chapter

Chapter 4

    The rain didn’t let up. It never did in this part of the city. It pounded against the rooftops and the windows like a surgeon hammering nails into the lid of a casket. I stood in the doorway of my office, watching the slick street below, the pavement glowing faintly under the sick yellow lights. There was a stillness hanging in the air, the kind that came after too much noise, too much gunfire, and too many unanswered questions.

    Inside, the phone sat silent on my desk, though it felt like it was always ringing in my head. My hands trembled when I lit another cigarette, the flame flickering in the stale air. The cold hadn’t left my bones since that night at the foundry. Achilles was still there, somewhere, like a tumor you couldn’t cut out.

    Madeleine hadn’t called. She was probably holed up somewhere, keeping out of sight, hoping Achilles wasn’t tracking her movements. But I knew better. You didn’t run from something like Achilles. You didn’t outrun what was already inside you.

    Then the phone broke the silence. It rattled the air, loud and shrill, like a scream through the dead night. I stared at it for a second, the noise settling into my skull like an echo. When I finally picked up, the line crackled. There was no voice on the other end, just breathing. Slow, deliberate.

    “Who is this?” I asked, my voice colder than I meant.

    The response came after a beat, low, guttural. “Achilles.”

    I felt it again—that icy drip down my spine, as if the very mention of his name had the power to freeze something deep inside. He didn’t wait for me to speak. “South Ward Clinic. Room 22.”

    He hung up. The line clicked dead, the cold lingering like the touch of a scalpel.

    The South Ward Clinic. It was a place they sent the broken ones. The ones who came out of it alive but never quite the same. It wasn’t far, but it was far enough to make me wish I wasn’t going. I grabbed my coat and headed out into the rain, the cigarette still burning between my fingers, but it was already as dead as the conversation I just had.

    The clinic sat in the middle of the industrial district, squeezed between a condemned warehouse and a rail yard that hadn’t seen trains in years. Its windows were black, the ivy crawling up its brick walls like veins on pale skin. The lights inside flickered dimly, casting long shadows that stretched across the wet pavement.

    Inside, the air was cold and antiseptic, smelling like bleach and rot. It was the kind of place where people came to disappear. I made my way down the long hallway, the tile floors reflecting the faint glow of the fluorescent lights above. Each step echoed, the sound bouncing off the empty corridors, creating a din that pressed in on me from all sides.

    At Room 22, I hesitated. The door was slightly ajar, a sliver of light spilling into the hallway. I pushed it open slowly.

    She was lying on the bed, her eyes half-closed, staring blankly at the ceiling. Wires snaked out from her arms, leading to machines that beeped softly in the corner, steady and unfeeling. Her skin was pale, her lips dry. Madeleine.

    The sight hit me like a bullet. She looked fragile, like someone who had been drained too many times and had nothing left to give. The machines pulsed rhythmically, each beep a reminder of how close she was to slipping away.

    “Achilles,” I muttered under my breath. He had done this. Of course, he had. This was his version of mercy—a slow, cold drip.

    A low laugh came from the corner of the room, pulling my attention away from Madeleine. Achilles was there, standing in the shadow, his arms crossed, his eyes gleaming under the brim of that damn hat.

    “You came,” he said, his voice like ice cracking.

    I stepped forward, my fists clenched. “What the hell did you do to her?”

    He didn’t answer, just tilted his head slightly, watching me like a doctor studying a patient before making the first incision. “I didn’t do anything she didn’t ask for.”

    “She didn’t ask for this,” I growled, but even as I said it, I wasn’t so sure. Madeleine had always been the type to invite danger, to get too close to the fire. But this—this was something else. Something worse.

    Achilles walked over to the machines, his hand grazing the wires hooked into her, fingers light, almost tender. “We’re all hooked into something, aren’t we? Some of us just take a little longer to run out of juice.” He looked at me, eyes like two dark pits. “She’s not dead. Not yet. But she will be. Eventually. We all will.”

    The sound of the machines grew louder, the beeping filling the room, the steady hum of life being kept on a thin, cold thread.

    “What do you want?” I asked, my voice low, barely controlled.

    Achilles smiled, a thin, hollow smile. “It’s not about what I want. It’s about what’s already in motion. The wheels turn. The drip falls. And in the end, it’s all just noise.” He glanced at Madeleine, then back at me. “You can try to save her if you want. But we both know the truth. This city drains people dry. It doesn’t care who they are. Or what they’ve done.”

    He stepped back, his hand brushing against the wires one last time before he turned toward the door. “I’ll be seeing you.”

    The door clicked shut behind him, the sound echoing in the cold, sterile air. I stood there, staring at the machines, at Madeleine’s pale face, and felt the weight of it all crashing down on me.

    The rain continued to fall outside, relentless, like a heartbeat you couldn’t stop.

   Next chapter

Chapter 3

    The gunfire cracked like thunder, sharp and quick, splitting the air wide open. It was the sound of choices being made in a language no one ever wanted to speak, a deadly staccato of men with their backs against the wall, waving sweet irons in the cold dawn.

    I didn’t wait for Madeleine to move. Instinct kicked in—dive, duck, find cover. I hit the ground behind an overturned barrel, the smell of oil and rust filling my nose. Beside me, Madeleine was already crouching low, her hand on the small of her back where she always kept her own piece. A lady with plans, always one step ahead.

    “I told you to be ready,” she muttered.

    “I was born ready,” I shot back, eyes scanning the yard for a way out. But it was too late for that now. They’d boxed us in like animals. The foundry gates were shut, and the alleyways funneled us into a corner, iron bars turning into a cage. A small group of shadows moved in the rain, their footsteps soft against the concrete. The men with the guns were here, and they didn’t look like they were in a talking mood.

    Madeleine raised her pistol, quick and steady. She wasn’t one for hesitation. One of the shadows fell, a clean shot through the chest, crumpling in a heap. The others scattered, but I knew it wouldn’t hold for long. They were waiting for something. Or someone.

    Just then, something shifted in the air. A new kind of stillness—like the calm that comes just before a storm tears everything apart. I could feel it, crawling up the back of my neck, like we were suddenly at the mercy of something bigger than the sweet irons pointed at us. A wish, maybe. The kind you make when you know you’re in over your head and there’s no way out.

    The foundry had always felt like a place the world forgot, overgrown with ivy that crawled over its rusted walls, like nature trying to reclaim what men had built and abandoned. The rain had started again, heavy, pounding the ivy-covered windows and making everything shimmer. But even in that dull light, I could see movement.

    There, across the yard, just beyond the pear tree that leaned like it had grown tired of standing, he appeared.

    Achilles.

    He wasn’t running like the others. He wasn’t waving a gun or ducking for cover. He moved slow, steady, like a man who had already won the fight and was just here to collect his prize. He wore the same damn hat, still tilted low, casting his face in shadow. But the way he moved, the way the air seemed to bend around him, told me that this was no ordinary man. Achilles was something else. Something more.

    “They’re afraid of him,” Madeleine whispered, her eyes fixed on the approaching figure. “He’s not just a man. Not anymore.”

    The men who had come with the guns were retreating now, slipping back into the shadows, their courage washed away by the rain and the presence of the man who didn’t need a weapon to make them afraid. They melted into the night like ghosts who’d lost their reason to haunt.

    Achilles didn’t stop until he was standing in front of us, close enough for me to feel the weight of his presence. His face was as cold as the wind that whipped through the yard, his eyes like dark glass, reflecting nothing.

    “You should’ve stayed out of this,” he said, his voice low, like gravel scraping across the road.

    I stood up slowly, my body stiff from the crouch, but my hand stayed close to my side, near the piece I hadn’t drawn yet. “Seems like you have a way of pulling people in, whether they want to be here or not.”

    He didn’t smile, didn’t even blink. “I didn’t pull anyone. You came looking for me.”

    Madeleine stepped forward, her hand still tight around her gun. “He’s not the one you want,” she said, her voice sharper than I’d ever heard it. “This is between you and me, Achilles. Leave him out of it.”

    Achilles turned his gaze on her, but there was no anger there. No hate. Just something colder, something final. “You’ve been running a long time, Madeleine,” he said softly. “But the wheel turns. It always turns.”

    I didn’t like the way he said that. Like he knew something we didn’t. Like there was no more running to be done. Only landing—crashing into the earth after a long fall.

    “You want me?” she said, her voice steady now. “Then let’s end it. Right here.”

    But Achilles shook his head, slow and deliberate. “Not yet. It’s not time.”

    With that, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the rain, as if he’d never been there at all. The ivy clung to the walls of the foundry like it was holding the place together, but I could feel the cracks widening, feel the weight of everything starting to crumble. The pear tree swayed in the wind, its branches brushing the ground, and for a moment, I wondered how long it would take for the city to swallow us whole.

    Madeleine holstered her gun and lit another cigarette, her hands shaking just enough for me to notice. She didn’t say a word. Neither did I.

    We stood there for a long time, listening to the rain and the distant hum of the city beyond, wondering what kind of wish Achilles had made, and how long it would be before we found out what it really meant.

    Next chapter

Chapter 2

    The next morning came like a punch to the gut, sharp and unforgiving. The city was waking up, but in the neighborhood I called home, it always felt like something was dying. The streets smelled of rust and desperation, and somewhere, behind the steady hum of traffic, a dog was barking like it had something important to say.

    I was about to light my first cigarette when the phone rang. The kind of ring that cut through the silence like a blade, cold and deliberate. I stared at it for a beat, hoping it would stop, but it kept on ringing, insistent, like it knew I had nowhere to hide.

    I picked up the receiver, didn’t say a word.

    “They’re waving sweet irons,” the voice on the other end said, as smooth as silk and twice as dangerous.

    My hand tightened around the phone. I knew the voice. Knew the tone. It was the kind of voice that danced around the edges of trouble and laughed while it set fires. Madeleine—she had a way of making bad news sound like an invitation to a party you didn’t want to miss.

    “Irons, huh?” I said, trying to keep my voice level, though I could feel the old instinct kicking in—the one that told me to grab my piece and head for the door.

    “Yeah,” she replied. “And they’re not doing it for fun.”

    I didn’t need to ask who they were. You could feel it in the air, like the whole city was a loaded gun waiting to go off. Madeleine was always close to the flame, always one step ahead of the fire, but this time it sounded like the fire was coming for her.

    “Where are you?” I asked, reaching for my jacket.

    “South side,” she said. “Down by the old foundry. You better hurry, darling. They’re not patient today.”

    The line went dead. I tossed the receiver back on the hook and made my way out into the rain. It was always raining in this city, like God had forgotten to turn off the taps. The streets were slick, shining under the dull morning light like a snake’s skin. I pulled my collar up against the chill and walked fast, keeping to the alleys where the city didn’t bother to look.

    Sweet irons—guns. That’s what they called them when things were about to get ugly. There was nothing sweet about them, though. Madeleine’s words echoed in my head as I made my way south, past the boarded-up shops and burned-out husks of buildings that had once been something, but were now just tombstones for the forgotten.

    The foundry loomed ahead, a hulking mass of iron and decay. It had been out of business for years, but like everything in this city, it refused to die properly. The gate was rusted, hanging crooked on its hinges, and the wind made it creak like a door to a crypt.

    I slipped through and made my way to the back, where the old loading docks sagged under the weight of years of neglect. That’s where I found her, standing in the shadows, cigarette in hand, looking like trouble wrapped in silk. Her dark hair was slick from the rain, but her eyes were sharp as ever, cutting through the gloom.

    “Thought you weren’t coming,” she said, blowing a cloud of smoke into the air.

    “I don’t like being kept in the dark,” I replied, glancing around. The place was too quiet. No sign of the sweet irons, not yet.

    “They’ll be here,” she said, reading my thoughts. “Patience, darling.”

    I hated when she called me that. But it wasn’t the time to argue. I stepped closer, the rain tapping out a nervous rhythm on the metal around us. “What’s this about?”

    “Achilles,” she said, her voice low. “You stirred something up last night.”

    “That wasn’t me,” I shot back. “The man with the hat, he—”

    “I know who he is,” she interrupted. Her eyes flashed with something I didn’t like. “And I know what he’s after. But Achilles isn’t just a man. He’s an idea, a myth. And myths have a way of making people desperate.”

    “Desperate enough to wave irons?” I asked.

    She nodded, taking one last drag of her cigarette before flicking it into the rain. “They’ll do more than wave them. They’ll use them. And when they do, you better be ready to choose a side.”

    The words hung in the air between us, thick and heavy, like the smoke she’d just exhaled. I didn’t like it. Not one bit. But I knew she was right. The man with the hat, Achilles, whatever he was—it was coming. And when it did, there wouldn’t be any room for playing it safe.

    “Which side are you on, Madeleine?” I asked, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer.

    She smiled, the kind of smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “The side that wins, darling. Always.”

    Just then, the sound of engines rumbled in the distance, the unmistakable roar of men coming with guns and bad intentions. The sweet irons had arrived.

    Next chapter

Chapter 1

     The city stank of rot and rusted metal, the smell clinging to your skin like old blood. The kind of place where you don’t notice the filth until it’s under your nails. I sat in a booth under the jaundiced glow of the bar’s light, watching the condensation on my glass pool like a patient’s cold sweat. The world outside the window was a steady pulse of rain, each drop a needle finding its way into the city's veins.

    The neon flickered like a broken promise, casting shadows across the rain-slick street. I was nursing my drink in the kind of bar that swallowed men whole—a place where regrets and memories had no difference.

    That’s when the man with the hat walked in, his steps deliberate, his eyes dull, like someone who had been drained of too much and kept going because he hadn’t realized he was empty yet. The hat itself sagged, soaked with rain or worse, the brim low enough to hide what was left of his expression. He carried an air of violence that seeped from him, quiet, like an infection you don’t see until it’s too late.

    The hat wasn’t the thing that made you notice him, though. It was how he wore it, tilted low like he wanted to be invisible but was too damn arrogant to stay hidden. A hat that had seen better days, but still carried weight, just like its owner. He slid onto the stool next to me, didn’t order, just stared at the bottles lining the back wall, his lips curling like they had something bitter to spit but didn’t bother.

    “Hat’s seen action,” I said, just to break the tension that had curled itself around us like a tourniquet.

    His lip twitched, but his eyes stayed fixed on the bottles behind the bar, unfocused. “Everything’s seen action,” he muttered. His voice was like a rasp on bone, hollow, as if he had coughed out more than words in his time.

    I didn’t press. People in this town didn’t need reasons to hate, but this guy? He wore it like a second skin, tight and suffocating. You could feel it in the air, thick and palpable, like a storm rolling in.

    He turned back to the bar, fingers tapping on the wood, slow and deliberate, a rhythm that didn’t match the soft jazz crawling out of the jukebox in the corner. He didn’t belong here, but something kept him tethered. Maybe it was the same thing that kept me glued to my stool, even when every instinct told me to move.

     "Achilles," he said, like a gunshot in the quiet. The word hung there, heavy.

    I stiffened. “Achilles?”

    He didn’t look at me. His fingers still drummed, like he was waiting for something, or someone. “Yeah,” he said, voice thick with something unsaid. “Achilles. He’s a disease. Been spreading through this city too long.”

    I could feel the cold creeping up my spine, like a slow injection of something icy. “Hat ad hit hated Achilles,” he said, slurring the words into something dark, like a mantra. The bartender winced but didn’t say anything.

    I didn’t know who Achilles was, not really. But the way he spoke the name—it was like poison filling the air. Like the slow drip of a catheter, keeping something alive that should’ve been long dead.  I didn’t know who Achilles was, but I knew enough to stay away from men with myth in their names. Men like that didn’t play fair. Men like that didn’t lose.

    The bartender poured him a whiskey without being asked. They knew him here. That was never a good sign.

    “Hat ad hit hated Achilles,” he muttered under his breath, as he swirled the amber liquid in his glass. I thought it was some kind of joke at first. But the way he said it, low and full of venom, made it clear it wasn’t funny. Not to him. Not to anyone who knew the real story.

    He took a long sip and turned to face me full on, finally showing me the whole picture. His face was a battlefield of scars and grudges. “You ever hate someone so much it don’t make sense? Like, you don’t even know why, but the minute they walk into the room, it’s like the walls close in and every damn breath you take tastes like poison?”

    I didn’t answer. He wasn’t asking.

    "Achilles," he said again. "I got a score to settle with him. I ain't the only one."

    There was something final in his voice, like he was staring down the barrel of a past that couldn’t be outrun. He finished his drink in one gulp, slammed the glass down, and pushed away from the bar, leaving a trail of water behind him. He didn’t say goodbye.  The rain swallowed him as he walked out, like the city was pulling him back into itself, reclaiming what was left.

    The rain picked up outside, tapping the windows like a nervous drummer. I stayed seated, my gut telling me I’d just seen the start of something ugly. And ugly had a way of sticking around in this town, like a bloodstain that refused to wash out.

    Next chapter