August came in thick and slow, like syrup poured over a
burning city. The air was heavy with the kind of heat that made everything feel
distant, disconnected—like you were moving through someone else’s dream. The
streets shimmered under the weight of it, the concrete baking under the
relentless sun, and the people, the ones who had nowhere else to go, slumped in
doorways or leaned against walls, waiting for something to break the monotony.
But nothing did.
The city was still as bitter as ever, still full of people
running their schemes, still full of ghosts that didn’t know how to leave. And
Achilles? He was right there in the thick of it, pulling strings from the
shadows, letting his presence ripple through the streets like a bad joke no one
wanted to hear again.
I hadn’t been back long. The marsh had given me time to
think, time to reflect, but the city had its own way of pulling you back,
dragging you into its mess whether you liked it or not. Achilles wasn’t done
with me. Not yet. And the Fates, those twisted threads of fortune, had spun me
right back into his web.
The first thing I noticed when I got back was the heat. It
clung to everything, thick and suffocating, the kind of heat that makes you
wish for rain just to break the tension. But there wasn’t any rain. Not here.
Not now. Just sweat, and exhaustion, and the knowledge that something was
brewing—something bitter, something that wouldn’t end clean.
The bored cohort outwitted high hope.
That’s how it felt. The city was bored. Stuck. The people
were tired, worn down by the endless grind of survival, outwitted by their own
hopes and dreams. And Achilles—he thrived in that bitterness. He fed off it,
let it fuel whatever schemes he was running this time around. I hadn’t seen him
yet, but I could feel him—could feel the pull of his influence, the way the
city twisted itself around him like a snake coiling around its prey.
I walked through the streets, my hands in my pockets, my
eyes scanning the familiar sights. The city hadn’t changed much. It never did.
But there was something different in the air, something heavier than usual. The
heat, maybe. Or maybe it was just me, carrying the weight of everything that
had happened in the marsh. The land had chosen life, but the city? The city
didn’t choose anything. It just kept going, kept grinding people down, kept
spitting them out when it was done with them.
I stopped in front of a small café, its windows streaked
with dust, its tables empty except for a few tired souls nursing cups of
lukewarm coffee. I didn’t go in. I wasn’t hungry. Just... waiting.
That’s when I felt it. A shiver, despite the heat. A shadow,
lingering at the edges of my vision. I turned, but there was nothing there.
Just the city, stretched out in front of me like a tired animal, breathing in
the smog and the sweat and the desperation.
But I knew better.
Mr. Limbo.
He was there, somewhere. Not a person. Not really. More like
a presence, a whisper in the back of my mind, watching me, watching the city,
watching everything unfold like a story he was writing but never planned to
finish. I’d heard about him, of course—people talked. The rookies, the old
hands, the ones who thought they knew how the city worked. They all had their
theories. Some said he was real, some said he was just a story, a myth. But I’d
seen enough to know that myths had a way of coming to life.
And Mr. Limbo? He was watching. I could feel his eyes on me,
could feel the weight of his gaze as I walked through the city, back into the
mess Achilles had left behind. It didn’t bother me. Not really. I was used to
being watched, used to the feeling that someone or something was always one
step ahead, pulling the strings while I danced on the edge of the knife.
But Achilles? Achilles wasn’t going to let me dance for
long. He had his own plans, his own bitter mode, and I was just another piece
in the puzzle he was trying to solve.
I kept walking, the heat pressing down on me, the streets
closing in, the weight of the city settling into my bones. I didn’t know what
Achilles wanted this time, didn’t know what he was planning, but I knew one
thing for sure: it wasn’t going to be pretty.
---
Meanwhile, in the shadows...
Somewhere, in a place that wasn’t a place, Mr. Limbo watched. He wasn’t real—not in the way Sid or Achilles were—but he was there, a
presence just out of reach, a figure hovering at the edges of the story,
pulling threads but never touching them. He didn’t intervene, didn’t push or
prod. He simply watched, his gaze steady, his expression unreadable.
Sid Jangler walked through the city, unaware—or maybe
aware—of the eyes on him. Mr. Limbo watched him move, watched the way the heat
pressed down on him, the way the city twisted around him like a living thing.
It was all part of the game, part of the story that had been written long
before Sid ever set foot in the marsh, long before Achilles had spun his web.
Mr. Limbo smiled—just a small, quiet smile—and let the story
unfold.
---
I kept walking, my mind buzzing with half-formed thoughts,
the pieces of the puzzle not quite fitting together. Achilles was out there,
somewhere, waiting for me. And Mr. Limbo? He was watching. Maybe he always had
been.
But none of that mattered now. The city was calling, and I
had a job to do.
No comments:
Post a Comment