Chapter 17

     The night was thick with dampness, the air clinging to my skin like something oily and wrong. Tony and I had left the printworks behind, but the weight of what we’d uncovered lingered with every step, heavy and unavoidable. Achilles had been playing us all, setting the city on a path we hadn’t seen until now. But knowing was only part of the battle. We still had to stop him.

     We moved through the backstreets, keeping to the shadows, the low hum of the city vibrating beneath our feet. The plan was simple: find Madeleine before Achilles did, before he could erase her from the city’s history once and for all. But nothing about this felt simple. Every corner we turned, every alley we crossed, felt darker, more closed off, as though the city itself was swallowing us whole.

     I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were being followed. The shadows seemed thicker than usual, the fog denser, as though something was moving just out of sight. But each time I turned to look, there was nothing there—just the damp streets and the hollow silence that hung over everything like a shroud.

     Tony hadn’t said much since we left the printworks. He was ahead of me, moving quickly, his steps urgent but quiet, like he knew exactly where we needed to go. But I could sense his unease, the way his shoulders tensed every time the fog shifted, the way his eyes flickered to the edges of the buildings as though expecting something to crawl out of the darkness.

     “What aren’t you telling me?” I asked, my voice low but sharp.

     Tony didn’t turn, didn’t even slow his pace. “Achilles isn’t the only one after her,” he muttered.

     The words hit me like a punch, and I stopped in my tracks. “What do you mean?”

     He paused for a moment, his back still to me, before letting out a slow breath. “The city’s rotten,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “It’s been that way for years. Achilles might be pulling the strings, but there are others—people who thrive on the decay. They don’t care about rewriting the city’s past. They’re just here to consume whatever’s left.”

     “Who are they?”

     Tony finally turned to face me, his eyes shadowed, hollow. “Call them what you want—parasites, vultures. They’re always there, lurking beneath the surface, feeding off the pieces Achilles leaves behind. They know about Madeleine, and they know Achilles is close. They want to finish what he started.”

     I felt a cold knot tighten in my stomach. “And we’re walking right into them, aren’t we?”

     Tony’s silence was answer enough.

     We kept moving, but now the streets felt different, more claustrophobic, like the city was curling in on itself. The fog swirled around us, thick and suffocating, muffling every sound except the faint drip of water seeping from the cracks in the pavement. There was a staleness in the air, a smell like rot, like something had been festering beneath the surface for far too long.

     And then we heard it—a low, wet sound, like someone dragging their feet through a pool of sludge. It echoed through the alley, slick and seedy, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

     Tony’s hand went to his side, where I knew he kept a knife, but he didn’t draw it. Not yet. We moved cautiously, our footsteps quiet, as the sound grew louder, more deliberate. It wasn’t just someone moving. It was the sound of something feeding, something indulging in the filth and decay of the city.

     I edged closer to the corner of the alley, my heart pounding in my chest. And that’s when I saw them.

     Two figures, crouched low in the shadows, their faces half-hidden beneath tattered coats. They were hunched over something on the ground, something that glistened wetly in the dim light. The air around them was thick with the stench of rot, and I could hear the faint, sickening slurp as they worked—pulling apart whatever it was they had found, consuming it in slow, greedy gulps.

     I felt my stomach turn, bile rising in my throat. It wasn’t just the sight of them, but the way they moved—methodical, animalistic, like they’d been doing this for years. Feeding off the scraps of a city that was slowly dying.

     Tony stepped forward, his voice low but commanding. “We’re not here for you,” he said, his hand still resting on the hilt of his knife.

     The figures didn’t respond at first, just kept feeding, their heads bobbing as they slurped and tore at the mess beneath them. But then one of them paused, slowly lifting its head to look at us. The face that met mine was gaunt, hollow, the skin stretched tight over the bones like a corpse half-unearthed. But the eyes—those dark, hungry eyes—were alive with something that wasn’t human.

     “You think you’re different?” the figure rasped, its voice thick and wet, like it had something lodged deep in its throat. “You think you’re not feeding, too?”

     Tony didn’t flinch, but I could see the tension in his jaw. “We’re not here for this.”

     The figure let out a low, guttural laugh, a sound that sent a shiver down my spine. “You’re all feeding,” it said. “Whether you know it or not. The city’s rotting, and you’re all slurping at the edges, taking what you can before there’s nothing left.”

     I swallowed hard, the bile still burning at the back of my throat. “We’re looking for Madeleine,” I said, my voice steady despite the unease crawling up my spine.

     The figure tilted its head, its eyes narrowing. “She’s part of it, too. You’ll see.”

     Tony stepped forward, his hand tightening on the knife. “Where is she?”

     The figure’s smile widened, revealing teeth that were broken, yellowed, like they’d been chewing through stone. “Closer than you think,” it whispered. “But you won’t save her. Not from this.”

     I didn’t know what the figure meant, but the sense of urgency that had been gnawing at me grew sharper. Madeleine was close, but so was something else—something darker, more insidious. Achilles wasn’t the only danger in this city. There were others, and they were feeding off the chaos he’d created, slurping up the pieces in their own seedy, twisted way.

     “We need to go,” Tony said, his voice tight. “Now.”

     I didn’t argue. We turned and moved quickly through the fog, the sound of the figures’ laughter following us as we left them behind. But the image of them crouched over their meal, slurping in the darkness, stayed with me.

     The city was rotting, and everyone was feeding, whether they knew it or not.

Chapter 16

     I left the bar with the note still clenched in my hand, the faint imprint of Tony’s warning echoing in my mind. The streets outside were colder now, the fog hanging low and thick, muffling the city’s heartbeat. It felt like everything was closing in, the walls tightening, the air growing heavier with every step I took. Achilles had been orchestrating everything from the start, but Tony had shown me something I hadn’t seen before—a gap in the pattern, a fracture in the carefully crafted web.

     The note — Ret, Tony. Divert. — was more than just a warning. It was an instruction, a message from Achilles, telling Tony to fall back, to lead me astray, to send me chasing shadows. But why? What was Achilles trying to hide, and why did Tony seem so conflicted about his role in it?

     As I moved through the fog-drenched streets, it hit me. Tony wasn’t just another pawn in Achilles’ game. He was the pivot—the one who could turn the whole thing upside down. Achilles needed Tony to divert attention, to keep me chasing ghosts while the real plan unfolded elsewhere. But Tony had hesitated, and that hesitation was the crack I needed.

     I followed the trail back to where it all began: the printworks. The place felt different now, more alive, as though the shadows were watching, waiting for something to shift. The doors creaked as I pushed them open, the air inside thick with the smell of ink and damp paper. The machinery stood silent, towering over me like ancient relics, but there was something in the air, a tension that hadn’t been there before.

     I stepped inside, the dim light from the broken windows casting long, distorted shadows across the floor. It wasn’t just a building. This place had become the heart of Achilles’ operation, a central node in the web he’d spun around the city. And now, standing in the middle of it, I could feel the threads pulling tight, drawing everything toward this one point.

     Tony had told me to leave, but he hadn’t meant it. Not really. He was trying to warn me without giving too much away, to hint at the bigger picture while keeping Achilles’ plan intact. But I wasn’t playing by their rules anymore. The game had changed.

     I scanned the room, searching for any clue, any sign that would confirm what I already suspected. The printworks wasn’t just a hiding place. It was the main tie—the place where everything connected. Achilles, Madeleine, Tony, even the city itself—all of it came back to this room, to the machines and the ink and the endless repetition of the same, over and over again.

     I moved deeper into the building, past the rusted presses and broken conveyor belts, until I reached a narrow corridor at the back. The door at the end was ajar, a faint light spilling through the crack. My heart pounded in my chest as I stepped closer, the air growing colder with each step.

     Inside, I found what I’d been looking for.

     The room was small, cramped, filled with old filing cabinets and stacks of newspapers that had long since yellowed with age. But in the center, propped up on a metal table, was something else—something I hadn’t expected.

     A map.

     It was laid out flat, covered in marks and scribbles, lines drawn in red ink that crisscrossed the city like veins. Every point on the map was connected, every line leading back to a central location: the printworks. This place was the hub, the nerve center of everything Achilles had been planning. And Tony—Tony had been stationed here, tasked with keeping it hidden, keeping me away from the truth.

     But the map showed more than just locations. It showed patterns. Movements. The way Achilles had been guiding not just me, but the entire city, steering it toward something bigger, something I hadn’t yet understood.

     As I studied the map, I realized that every major event—every encounter with Achilles, every moment where Madeleine had appeared and then vanished—had been part of the same design. Achilles hadn’t been playing with me. He’d been using me, moving me through the city like a piece on a chessboard, making sure I ended up exactly where he wanted me. But why?

     And then I saw it. A name, scrawled in the margin of the map, circled in red ink: Madeleine.

     She wasn’t just part of the puzzle. She was the key, the central figure that tied everything together. Achilles had been building something around her, using her as the focal point for his plan. Every move he’d made, every person he’d manipulated—it all led back to her.

     The door behind me creaked, and I spun around, my heart racing. Tony stood in the doorway, his face half-hidden in shadow.

     “You found it,” he said quietly.

     “What is this?” I asked, holding up the map. “What’s Achilles planning?”

     Tony stepped into the room, his expression grim. “It’s not what you think,” he said. “Achilles isn’t just after power. He’s after something deeper. Something that’s been buried in this city for a long time.”

     I stared at him, waiting for the explanation that had eluded me for months.

     “He’s been searching for control,” Tony continued, “but not just over people. Over time. Over memory. He’s trying to rewrite the city’s past, to shape it in his image, and he’s been using you to do it. Every place you’ve been, every step you’ve taken, has been part of his plan to bend the city to his will.”

     “And Madeleine?” I asked, the name still ringing in my ears. “Where does she fit into this?”

     Tony’s eyes darkened. “She’s the anchor. The one thing that can’t be rewritten. Achilles has been trying to erase her from the city’s memory, but she keeps slipping through the cracks. That’s why you keep seeing her. That’s why she’s always just out of reach. She’s the only thing standing in the way of his plan.”

     I shook my head, trying to make sense of it all. “And you? What’s your role in this?”

     Tony sighed. “I was supposed to keep you away from the truth. To divert you, make sure you stayed on the path Achilles wanted. But I can’t do it anymore. The main tie—it’s too strong. The city is changing, and if we don’t stop him now, it’ll be too late.”

     I looked down at the map again, the lines crisscrossing the city like a web of fate. Everything was converging, and the stakes had never been higher. Achilles was closer than ever to achieving his goal, but now, for the first time, I had a way to stop him.

     The main tie had been revealed, and with it, the key to unraveling everything Achilles had built.

     “We need to find Madeleine,” I said, my voice steady. “Before Achilles does.”

     Tony nodded, and for the first time, I saw a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

Chapter 15

     The streets were quieter than they should have been, the fog thicker than before, settling in like an old habit that refused to die. I had been chasing shadows for weeks, but this was different—something had shifted, and the city felt like it was holding its breath. I kept replaying the moment in the square, hearing the bell’s mournful toll echo in my head, feeling Madeleine’s presence still lingering just out of reach.

     She’d slipped away again, as she always did, leaving more questions than answers. And Achilles—he was nowhere, and yet everywhere at once, the strings he pulled now tightening in ways I could feel, but not yet see.

     I moved down the backstreets, my footsteps muffled by the wet cobblestones. The sky was a bruise, dark and swollen, threatening rain but holding back for reasons I couldn’t explain. I had a lead, but it wasn’t much: a name scrawled on the edge of a torn page, found wedged between two crumbling bricks near the old printworks.

     Tony.

     It meant nothing to me, at least not yet. But the more I turned it over in my head, the more I felt like I’d missed something important. I didn’t know who Tony was, or what his connection to Achilles could be, but something told me that this wasn’t just another dead end. Achilles had been too careful, too deliberate with the way he moved people like chess pieces. This Tony wasn’t just a pawn. He was something else—something I needed to figure out before Achilles made his next move.

     I reached the place where the name had led me: a rundown bar on the edge of town, the kind of place where people went to disappear. The sign out front was missing letters, and the windows were dark, except for the faint glow of a jukebox spilling low, tinny music into the night. I pushed open the door, the scent of stale beer and cigarette smoke hitting me like a wall.

     Inside, it was dim, the haze from a few scattered cigarettes hanging in the air like fog. A couple of old regulars sat hunched over their drinks at the bar, but no one paid me any mind as I slipped inside. I scanned the room, looking for a face that fit the name, but the only person who stood out was the bartender, a burly man with a thick mustache and arms like tree trunks. He was cleaning a glass with slow, deliberate movements, his eyes fixed on the counter as though the world outside didn’t exist.

     I moved toward the bar and sat down, the stool creaking under my weight. “I’m looking for Tony,” I said, keeping my voice low but clear.

     The bartender’s hand froze, his grip tightening on the glass for just a fraction of a second before he resumed his cleaning. He didn’t look at me, didn’t acknowledge the name. But I knew he’d heard it.

     “Tony’s not here,” he said, his voice gruff, but there was an edge to it, like he was holding something back.

     “Maybe you could tell me where I might find him,” I pressed.

     The bartender’s eyes flicked toward me then, just briefly, before he set the glass down and turned away. “Tony doesn’t like company,” he muttered. “Especially not now.”

     “Now?” I leaned forward, the weight of the conversation shifting. “What’s changed?”

     He didn’t answer right away, just wiped his hands on a rag and moved to the other end of the bar, as though he could put distance between us and whatever was hanging in the air. But before I could ask again, someone behind me spoke.

     “He’s right. Tony’s not looking for company.”

     I turned to see a man standing near the jukebox, his figure half-hidden in the shadows. He wasn’t tall, but there was something about him that felt solid, like he’d been carved out of stone and given flesh. His eyes were dark, unreadable, and he had a small, faint scar running along the edge of his jaw. His clothes were simple—worn jeans and a leather jacket—but the way he carried himself made it clear he wasn’t just some drifter passing through.

     “Tony?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

     He nodded, his gaze locked on mine. “Depends on who’s asking.”

     I didn’t flinch. “Someone who needs answers.”

     Tony chuckled, but there was no humor in it. He stepped closer, the dim light casting long shadows across his face. “You think I have answers? To what, exactly?”

     “Achilles,” I said, the name hanging in the air like a challenge.

     Tony’s expression darkened, the faint smile fading from his lips. He looked past me, toward the bartender, who had now retreated into the back room, and then back at me. “You should leave,” he said quietly. “While you still can.”

     “I’m not leaving,” I replied, my voice steady. “Not until I know what’s going on.”

     Tony shook his head, his jaw clenched. “You don’t understand. Achilles isn’t playing the game you think he is. And if you keep chasing him, you’ll end up where everyone else does—buried in a hole no one remembers.”

     I didn’t move. “Then explain it to me.”

     For a moment, Tony said nothing, his gaze fixed on the floor. The air between us felt heavy, like the room was closing in. Then, with a resigned sigh, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper. He handed it to me without a word.

     I unfolded the paper, my eyes scanning the handwritten note. It was a single sentence, scrawled in a hurried, almost desperate hand:

     "Ret, Tony. Divert."

     “What does this mean?” I asked, but before I could get an answer, Tony stepped back into the shadows, his figure blending into the dim light of the bar.

     “It means you’ve been warned,” he said, his voice low. “Achilles doesn’t leave loose ends. And neither do I.”

     With that, he turned and disappeared through the back door, leaving me alone in the bar, the note clenched in my hand. The jukebox played on, the same low, tinny music filling the empty space. And for the first time in months, I realized I might have been chasing the wrong lead all along.

     Tony wasn’t just another pawn in Achilles’ game. He was something else—something deeper, something that might turn the tide if I could figure out where he fit. But that was the trick, wasn’t it? Diverting me just enough to make me question everything I thought I knew.

     The game wasn’t over. Not yet. But the rules were changing, and I wasn’t sure who was writing them anymore.

Chapter 14

     The city was quiet, but it was the kind of silence that made you uneasy, like standing in the eye of a storm. It wasn’t a pause; it was a prelude to something bigger. I stood in an alley off Edison Boulevard, the cold May wind biting at my face, the sky a dull gray, thick with clouds that threatened rain. Everything felt off-kilter, as if the world was holding its breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

     I’d been following the trail Achilles had left behind, but the closer I got, the more the lines blurred. Each lead I picked up felt like a dead end, a loop that circled back on itself without revealing anything concrete. And yet, there was something there—a pattern, a rhythm I couldn’t quite catch. It was like listening to a melody where one note was always missing.

     The truth was, I was second-guessing everything. Achilles had a way of playing with your head, turning you around until you couldn’t tell whether you were following his plan or stepping right into his trap. I kept hearing Pritchard’s voice in the back of my mind: *once the sluices open, there’s no going back.* But it was too late for caution now. The sluices were open, the water rushing out, and I was standing in the flood.

     As I moved down the alley, the sound of a bell echoed faintly in the distance—deep, mournful, the toll of something ancient and immovable. A tocsin, a warning. But for what?

     I kept walking, the bell’s sound growing louder with each step. It wasn’t just a warning bell, though. It was something else—something woven into the city’s fabric, a signal, a tone that vibrated beneath the surface, hidden in the streets, the buildings, the very air. It reminded me of Achilles, his constant presence, always there even when he was nowhere to be found.

     Wit. That’s what it came down to, didn’t it? Wit versus wit. A battle of minds, of strategies, played out on a board where the pieces kept shifting. Achilles was playing the long game, moving the pieces with precision, anticipating my every move before I even knew I’d make it. But there was something he hadn’t accounted for, something he’d overlooked.

     Madeleine.

     She was the anomaly, the crack in his plan. The place where wit and control slipped out of his grasp. I’d seen her—fleeting, like a ghost, but real enough to remind me that Achilles wasn’t untouchable. She was the thread I needed to pull, the missing note in the melody that would unravel everything.

     I turned the corner, and the bell’s toll became deafening. Ahead, the street opened up into a square, the bell tower looming over it like a sentinel. The sound vibrated through the air, thick and oppressive, rattling my bones. It felt like the city itself was trying to tell me something, to push me toward the answers that had been hidden in plain sight.

     I stood in the middle of the square, my heart pounding in time with the bell. It was all coming together now—the scattered clues, the strange patterns, the unanswered questions. Achilles had been manipulating everything, controlling the flow of information, blocking the sluices. But something had changed. His control was slipping, and that’s why the bell was tolling. A tocsin, a warning to both of us. He was losing his grip, and he knew it.

     But so did I.

     I scanned the square, searching for any sign of movement, any trace of Achilles. The bell continued to toll, its sound filling the air, but the streets were empty. I was alone, or at least it felt that way. But Achilles was always watching. That much I knew.

     “Are you there?” I muttered under my breath, my voice lost in the echo of the bell.

     For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of the tocsin, the relentless, rhythmic tolling. But then, from somewhere just out of sight, I heard it—a faint laugh, low and mocking, carried on the wind.

     I spun around, but there was no one there.

     The laugh came again, closer this time, and I felt a chill creep up my spine. It wasn’t Achilles. I knew that laugh. It belonged to someone else. Someone who had been slipping through my thoughts, just out of reach, like the missing piece of the puzzle I couldn’t solve.

     Madeleine.

     I turned back toward the square, and there she was, standing at the edge of the shadows, her figure half-hidden in the mist that was beginning to settle over the city. She wasn’t looking at me, not directly. Her eyes were fixed on something in the distance, her expression unreadable. But I could feel it—the connection between us, the unspoken understanding that we were both caught in this web, tangled in Achilles’ game.

     She didn’t move, didn’t speak. The bell continued to toll, its sound vibrating through the stones beneath our feet, but she remained still, like a figure in a dream, just beyond the reach of reality.

     I wanted to call out to her, to close the distance between us, but something held me back. There was a tension in the air, a feeling that if I stepped forward, everything would unravel too quickly, that the careful balance Achilles had created would collapse before I was ready.

     And then, as suddenly as she had appeared, Madeleine turned and disappeared into the mist, her figure swallowed by the fog as though she had never been there at all.

     I stood in the square, the bell still ringing, my mind racing. The pieces were falling into place, but the picture they formed was still blurry, incomplete. Achilles had set the game in motion, but Madeleine was the key to unlocking it. And now, I had to find her before the final toll of the bell.

     Wit versus wit. Tone versus tocsin. The game was far from over, and the stakes had never been higher.

Chapter 13

     The fog had lifted, but the city felt no clearer. The streets had the same damp, oil-slick sheen, the air thick with the residue of something burned and buried. It was May now, but the cold clung to everything like a stubborn ghost. I stood in the middle of Ralston Street, where the printworks loomed like a mausoleum behind me. Achilles had vanished, and Madeleine—if she was even real—had slipped away like smoke in the dark.

     There were no signs of what had just unfolded. No bodies, no trap, no thick black liquid creeping over the floor like some sentient ooze. Just me, standing under the streetlight, my thoughts circling back to the same jagged edges they’d been scraping against for months.

     I tried to make sense of it—everything that had happened since February, since the city first began to unwind. Achilles had always been a step ahead, always pulling me deeper into his maze. But now I was starting to see something else: the cracks in his design, the places where the pattern didn’t hold. He wasn’t infallible. He had been leaving traces—intentionally or not. And somewhere, hidden in all those shadows and shifting echoes, was something that didn’t fit.

     The sluices had been closed for too long. The flow of information, of memory, had been bottled up, slowed to a trickle, and the more I tried to force it open, the more resistance I met. But now, as May settled in, something was beginning to shift. I could feel it—a pressure building behind the walls Achilles had constructed. Something was about to break.

     I returned to Pritchard’s clinic the next day, the dim, sterile light overhead flickering as I stepped into the waiting room. The air smelled of ether and old books, a stale mix of the living and the forgotten. The receptionist gave me a half-hearted glance, barely lifting her eyes from the magazine she was flipping through. Nothing ever changed here, except for the parts you couldn’t see.

     Pritchard was at his desk, his hands clasped in front of him, staring at the metrical radar as if it held some secret he hadn’t quite deciphered yet. He looked up when I entered, his expression calm, but there was something beneath it—something tired, as if the work of listening to the silence had worn him down.

     “You’ve come back,” he said, his voice barely a whisper, as though even speaking was a strain.

     “Achilles is slipping,” I replied, sitting down across from him. “There are gaps in his pattern. Places where the echo falls apart.”

     Pritchard nodded slowly. “He’s been keeping things closed for a long time,” he said. “But even he can’t stop everything from leaking out.”

     “What’s behind it?” I asked. “What’s he been hiding?”

     Pritchard leaned back, the radar still humming faintly on his desk. “Everything has its limits,” he said. “You can only lock things away for so long before the pressure builds. Ungifted sluices, blocked and boiling—eventually, they’ll burst.”

     I knew what he meant. Achilles had been sealing off the city, slowing the flow of information, of memory, but now the cracks were showing. The sluices were starting to give way, and with them, the truth—or some version of it—was beginning to spill out.

     But there was something else, too. A part of me, deep down, knew that whatever Achilles had hidden wasn’t just some secret or plot. It was bigger than that. The city had become a reflection of his control, his need to keep things orderly, predictable. And yet, there was chaos underneath. I had felt it—each time I saw Madeleine, each time Achilles vanished just as I was about to confront him.

     “What about her?” I asked, my voice low. “Madeleine. Is she part of it?”

     Pritchard’s eyes flickered with something unreadable, a brief flash of recognition or maybe regret. “She’s always been part of it,” he said. “Though I doubt she knows it. Achilles has a way of pulling people into his world without them realizing it.”

     “But why?” I pressed. “What does she have to do with him?”

     Pritchard looked away, as though the answer was somewhere in the shadows that lined the room. “She’s the reminder,” he said softly. “The one thing he can’t control. The one part of the story that doesn’t follow the rules.”

     I sat back, letting his words settle in. Madeleine was the deviation, the thing that had slipped through Achilles’ grasp. I had seen her more than once, each time fleeting, each time feeling like a half-remembered dream. She was woven into all of this, but I still didn’t understand how or why.

     And then it hit me: she was the key.

     If Achilles couldn’t control her, then she was the thread I needed to pull to unravel everything he had built. But the question remained: where was she, and why did she keep slipping away?

     “I need to find her,” I said, standing up. “Before it’s too late.”

     Pritchard gave a slow nod, but his expression was cautious. “Just remember,” he said, “once the sluices open, there’s no going back. Whatever Achilles has been hiding will come pouring out, and it might not be what you expect.”

     I left the clinic, the cold May air biting at my skin. The city felt different now, as though the tension that had been building for months was about to snap. I could sense it everywhere—the cracks in the streets, the way the buildings leaned just a little too close, like they were waiting for something to give.

     As I walked through the winding alleys, I caught glimpses of things out of the corner of my eye—shadows that moved too quickly, figures that disappeared before I could turn to face them. The city was alive in a way that felt unnatural, as though it was trying to speak, to warn me of something coming.

     And then, in the distance, I heard it. The sound of water, rushing and boiling, as if a dam had burst and the sluices had finally opened. I quickened my pace, following the sound, my heart pounding in time with the surging flow.

     The sluices were unblocked now, the dim places in the city where Achilles had hidden his secrets boiling over, releasing everything he had tried to contain. And somewhere, in the midst of that flood, was the answer I had been searching for—the truth about Achilles, about Madeleine, about the city itself.

     But as the water roared through the streets, I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was too late. Whatever was coming had already begun, and there was no stopping it now.

     The air inside the printworks was damp, thick with the smell of rotting paper and rusted machinery. It felt like the room was breathing, exhaling the past in slow, heavy sighs. I moved deeper into the darkness, my steps echoing across the cracked floor. Achilles had disappeared, but I could still feel him, a presence just out of reach, like a pulse thrumming faintly beneath the surface.

     I wasn’t sure how long I wandered through the maze of old printing presses and dusty shelving before I noticed the smell—sharp, chemical, almost sweet. It burned in my throat, a faint taste of ether on the air, as if the whole place had been soaked in something volatile. I covered my mouth with my sleeve, moving cautiously forward.

     Then I saw it: a faint glint of light reflected off something wet pooling on the floor, a thick, dark liquid that seemed to spread slowly outward from the base of an old industrial sink. I crouched down and touched it. It was warm, viscous, sliding off my fingers like the skin of an unroofed wet amoeba. Whatever this was, it wasn’t just water or ink. It felt alive, as though it was moving with a purpose all its own, creeping outward in thin, glistening tendrils.

     I straightened up, scanning the room, and that’s when I saw her.

     She was half-hidden behind a stack of dusty pallets near the far wall, her dark hair slick against her face, eyes wide and haunted. For a moment, I thought she was just another ghost—a memory lingering in the corners of my mind. But then she moved, a faint shift, as though trying to draw back further into the shadows.

     “Madeleine?” I whispered, not trusting my voice to carry any louder.

     She didn’t respond. Her gaze was distant, as if she were looking through me, her expression slack with something that wasn’t quite fear, but wasn’t far from it either. I took a step toward her, but she recoiled, her lips parting as if to speak—but no sound came out.

     And then, just as suddenly, she was gone. A flicker, a shift in the darkness, and the space where she’d been standing was empty. I spun around, my pulse hammering in my ears, searching for any sign of movement, but there was nothing except the distant drip of water and the muffled creak of old machinery settling.

     I was about to head back toward the exit when I heard a voice—low, calm, coming from just beyond the dim circle of light. “You’re always a step behind, aren’t you?”

     I turned to see Achilles standing there, his figure emerging slowly from the shadows like a memory coming into focus. He was dressed in a long, dark coat, his face half-lit by the faint glow filtering through the broken windows above. His eyes, as always, were steady and unreadable, watching me with the same quiet intensity I’d felt months ago, when this all began.

     “Where is she?” I demanded, though the words felt hollow even as I spoke them. “Where’s Madeleine?”

     Achilles tilted his head slightly, his lips curling into a faint smile. “She’s wherever she needs to be,” he said. “The question is—where do you need to be?”

     I took a step closer, the floor beneath me slick with that strange liquid, still spreading in slow, thin rivulets. “This ends now,” I said, my voice low and sharp. “No more games.”

     Achilles’ expression didn’t change. “Endings are funny things,” he replied. “They’re never quite as final as we’d like to believe.” He glanced down at the floor, where the dark liquid continued to pool and spread, and then back at me. “But you already know that, don’t you?”

     Before I could respond, there was a sudden hiss—a release of pressure from somewhere above. I looked up just in time to see a valve burst on one of the old pipes, sending a jet of steam cascading down into the room. The cloud spread out, thickening the air, making it difficult to see. I stumbled back, blinking against the haze, my throat burning from the taste of ether that clung to the mist.

     Through the shifting steam, I saw Achilles move. He stepped forward, his figure wavering like a reflection on water, and for a moment, I thought he was coming toward me. But then he stopped, his gaze fixed on something just past my shoulder.

     I turned and saw it too—a trap, crudely set with wires and rusted springs, rigged to the base of an old press. It was smeared with the same dark liquid that coated the floor, and I realized then that it had been arranged to catch anyone who wandered too close. A weepy trapper’s trick, something desperate and half-baked, but effective in its own grim way.

     Achilles gave a faint, dismissive laugh. “Someone’s been busy,” he murmured. “But not busy enough.”

     I heard a metallic snap, and suddenly, one of the wires gave way. The old press shifted, groaning under its own weight, and I felt the ground tremble as the whole contraption began to collapse. I dove to the side just as the machine came crashing down, hitting the floor with a wet, sickening thud, sending up a spray of that viscous liquid in all directions.

     When I looked up, Achilles was gone. The steam was thinning, dissipating into the cold air, and there was no sign of him anywhere in the room. The only sound was the slow drip of liquid pooling beneath the fallen press, mingling with the dust and debris.

     I stood up, my legs unsteady, and glanced back toward where I’d seen Madeleine. But there was nothing—no trace that she’d ever been there at all, no sign that any of this was real. It was as if the whole scene had been conjured from the darkness and then swallowed back into it, leaving me standing alone in the damp silence of the abandoned printworks.

     But I knew better. I had seen her, even if only for a moment, and that meant she was still out there, somewhere. Achilles hadn’t won yet. There were still too many questions unanswered, too many things left to be found.

     I took a step toward the door, the cold air brushing against my skin like a warning. The path ahead was still dark, but I could feel it—something was shifting, the pattern was breaking, and whatever lay beyond would soon come into the light.

   Next chapter

Chapter 12

     The air inside the printworks was damp, thick with the smell of rotting paper and rusted machinery. It felt like the room was breathing, exhaling the past in slow, heavy sighs. I moved deeper into the darkness, my steps echoing across the cracked floor. Achilles had disappeared, but I could still feel him, a presence just out of reach, like a pulse thrumming faintly beneath the surface.

     I wasn’t sure how long I wandered through the maze of old printing presses and dusty shelving before I noticed the smell—sharp, chemical, almost sweet. It burned in my throat, a faint taste of ether on the air, as if the whole place had been soaked in something volatile. I covered my mouth with my sleeve, moving cautiously forward.

     Then I saw it: a faint glint of light reflected off something wet pooling on the floor, a thick, dark liquid that seemed to spread slowly outward from the base of an old industrial sink. I crouched down and touched it. It was warm, viscous, sliding off my fingers like the skin of an unroofed wet amoeba. Whatever this was, it wasn’t just water or ink. It felt alive, as though it was moving with a purpose all its own, creeping outward in thin, glistening tendrils.

     I straightened up, scanning the room, and that’s when I saw her.

     She was half-hidden behind a stack of dusty pallets near the far wall, her dark hair slick against her face, eyes wide and haunted. For a moment, I thought she was just another ghost—a memory lingering in the corners of my mind. But then she moved, a faint shift, as though trying to draw back further into the shadows.

     “Madeleine?” I whispered, not trusting my voice to carry any louder.

     She didn’t respond. Her gaze was distant, as if she were looking through me, her expression slack with something that wasn’t quite fear, but wasn’t far from it either. I took a step toward her, but she recoiled, her lips parting as if to speak—but no sound came out.

     And then, just as suddenly, she was gone. A flicker, a shift in the darkness, and the space where she’d been standing was empty. I spun around, my pulse hammering in my ears, searching for any sign of movement, but there was nothing except the distant drip of water and the muffled creak of old machinery settling.

     I was about to head back toward the exit when I heard a voice—low, calm, coming from just beyond the dim circle of light. “You’re always a step behind, aren’t you?”

     I turned to see Achilles standing there, his figure emerging slowly from the shadows like a memory coming into focus. He was dressed in a long, dark coat, his face half-lit by the faint glow filtering through the broken windows above. His eyes, as always, were steady and unreadable, watching me with the same quiet intensity I’d felt months ago, when this all began.

     “Where is she?” I demanded, though the words felt hollow even as I spoke them. “Where’s Madeleine?”

     Achilles tilted his head slightly, his lips curling into a faint smile. “She’s wherever she needs to be,” he said. “The question is—where do you need to be?”

     I took a step closer, the floor beneath me slick with that strange liquid, still spreading in slow, thin rivulets. “This ends now,” I said, my voice low and sharp. “No more games.”

     Achilles’ expression didn’t change. “Endings are funny things,” he replied. “They’re never quite as final as we’d like to believe.” He glanced down at the floor, where the dark liquid continued to pool and spread, and then back at me. “But you already know that, don’t you?”

     Before I could respond, there was a sudden hiss—a release of pressure from somewhere above. I looked up just in time to see a valve burst on one of the old pipes, sending a jet of steam cascading down into the room. The cloud spread out, thickening the air, making it difficult to see. I stumbled back, blinking against the haze, my throat burning from the taste of ether that clung to the mist.

     Through the shifting steam, I saw Achilles move. He stepped forward, his figure wavering like a reflection on water, and for a moment, I thought he was coming toward me. But then he stopped, his gaze fixed on something just past my shoulder.

     I turned and saw it too—a trap, crudely set with wires and rusted springs, rigged to the base of an old press. It was smeared with the same dark liquid that coated the floor, and I realized then that it had been arranged to catch anyone who wandered too close. A weepy trapper’s trick, something desperate and half-baked, but effective in its own grim way.

     Achilles gave a faint, dismissive laugh. “Someone’s been busy,” he murmured. “But not busy enough.”

     I heard a metallic snap, and suddenly, one of the wires gave way. The old press shifted, groaning under its own weight, and I felt the ground tremble as the whole contraption began to collapse. I dove to the side just as the machine came crashing down, hitting the floor with a wet, sickening thud, sending up a spray of that viscous liquid in all directions.

     When I looked up, Achilles was gone. The steam was thinning, dissipating into the cold air, and there was no sign of him anywhere in the room. The only sound was the slow drip of liquid pooling beneath the fallen press, mingling with the dust and debris.

     I stood up, my legs unsteady, and glanced back toward where I’d seen Madeleine. But there was nothing—no trace that she’d ever been there at all, no sign that any of this was real. It was as if the whole scene had been conjured from the darkness and then swallowed back into it, leaving me standing alone in the damp silence of the abandoned printworks.

     But I knew better. I had seen her, even if only for a moment, and that meant she was still out there, somewhere. Achilles hadn’t won yet. There were still too many questions unanswered, too many things left to be found.

     I took a step toward the door, the cold air brushing against my skin like a warning. The path ahead was still dark, but I could feel it—something was shifting, the pattern was breaking, and whatever lay beyond would soon come into the light.

   Next chapter

Chapter 11

     The night was creeping back in, a darkness that seemed to curl around the edges of the city like smoke, soft and suffocating. I’d been tracing the map’s points for days, moving through places where time seemed to lose its grip—abandoned warehouses, empty lots, old tenements standing like gravestones to a past nobody remembered. Each spot was the same: nothing but the faint echo of something just out of reach, like a secret you almost understood.

     It felt like I was chasing a shadow, a pattern that kept folding in on itself. I could see where Achilles had left his marks—signs of passage, like swaths cut through a field. But whatever he was hiding, he had hidden it well, like a magician's sleight of hand, leaving behind only the sense that something was missing. I needed to look at the pieces differently, to find where the repetition began to blur the lines between what was real and what was just an echo.

     I was back at Pritchard’s clinic, though I hadn’t planned to be. The places on his map seemed to form a spiral around the city, with the clinic near the center, the eye of the storm. It had drawn me back here, though I wasn’t entirely sure why. Maybe it was Pritchard himself—there was something about the way he spoke, his quiet insistence that things weren’t as they seemed, that had stayed with me.

     The door to his office was half-open, and as I stepped inside, I saw him hunched over his desk, the metrical radar clutched in his hand, the needle twitching faintly. He looked up as I entered, his expression unreadable.

     “Back again?” he asked, as though he’d been expecting me.

     “There’s something I’m not seeing,” I said. “Something that doesn’t fit.”

     Pritchard’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And you think I might know what it is?”

     I hesitated, then nodded. “The places on your map,” I began. “They seem random, but there’s a pattern there, isn’t there?”

     He leaned back in his chair, the radar still humming faintly. “Patterns aren’t always what they appear to be,” he said. “Sometimes, it’s the repetition that hides the truth. Like a copy of a copy—each one just a little more blurred than the last.”

     “A ditto,” I muttered, the word surfacing from some dim recess of memory. “Something repeated, over and over, until the original is almost lost.”

     Pritchard’s faint smile returned. “Exactly,” he said. “Achilles has been working in swaths—marking out places that seem the same, each one an echo of the last. But somewhere in that pattern, there’s a deviation. Something that isn’t like the others.”

     I thought of the places I’d been, the empty buildings and forgotten corners. They were all alike, yet there had been moments—brief, fleeting—where I’d felt something different, a slight shift, like the air had changed. “If he’s hiding something,” I said, “it would be in the place that doesn’t fit. The place that isn’t just a repeat.”

    Pritchard nodded, setting the radar down on the desk. “But you have to find it first,” he said. “And that’s where it gets tricky. Because Achilles isn’t just marking places. He’s erasing them, one by one.”

     I felt a chill run down my spine. “Erasing them how?” 

    “Not in the literal sense,” he replied, his tone even. “But in memory, in perception. Making them disappear from the map, until they’re just gaps—places where time slips away.” 

    It was a thought that unsettled me, the idea that the city itself could be rewritten, its history folded over and concealed until there was nothing left but empty spaces. I turned back to the map, tracing my finger over the lines Pritchard had drawn. The dots blurred together, like the afterimage of a bright light. 

    “Where would he hide something like that?” I asked, half to myself.

     Pritchard’s voice was calm. “Where it would blend in,” he said. “Where it would seem like just another echo.”

     I stared at the map, the locations swirling in my mind. It was a riddle, a maze with no clear path, but I kept coming back to one point—a place I hadn’t visited yet. It was near the outskirts of the city, an old printing warehouse that had been shuttered for years, its windows dark and boarded up. I hadn’t thought much of it before, but now, it felt different. The name itself seemed to pulse in my memory, a faint whisper that grew louder the more I focused on it.

     I turned back to Pritchard. “There’s one more place,” I said, my voice low. “The old printworks on Ralston Street.”

     He didn’t react, just nodded slowly, as though he’d known I would say that. “It’s as good a place as any,” he said. “But remember, Achilles is counting on you to follow the pattern. To look where he expects.”

     I left the clinic, the air cold against my skin, the city’s dampness settling in. As I made my way to Ralston Street, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was walking into a trap of my own making, that I was playing into Achilles’ hands even as I tried to unravel his plan. But there was no other way. I had to see it through, to find the place where the echoes fell silent.

     The old printworks loomed ahead, its façade cracked and peeling, the dark windows staring blankly out at the street. I stepped inside, the air thick with the smell of old ink and paper. The machinery lay dormant, covered in dust, their forms barely visible in the gloom. It felt like stepping into a world that had been forgotten, a place where words no longer had meaning.

     As I moved deeper into the building, I noticed something—a slight glimmer on the floor, like a reflection of light where there should have been none. I crouched down, running my fingers over the surface. It was a small piece of mirrored glass, no larger than a coin, hidden beneath a layer of dust.

     And then I saw it. In the corner of the room, half-hidden by stacks of old newspapers, a figure stood motionless. The shadows obscured his face, but I knew who it was.

     “Achilles,” I said, the name catching in my throat.

     He didn’t speak, didn’t move. It was as if he were part of the room itself, a reflection of the emptiness around us. The glass in my hand felt cold, sharp against my skin, and for a moment, I wasn’t sure if it was Achilles I was seeing or just another echo—another copy of something that had already been erased.

     The silence stretched out, heavy and taut. Then, with a faint sound like the turning of a page, he was gone, leaving nothing behind but the dust and the darkness, and the hollow sense that I had missed something crucial, some deviation in the pattern that had slipped through my fingers.

   Next chapter

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