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.

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