The Ambush
Dawn arrived as a bruised smear. Beyond the steppe, a feeble sun struggled to pierce the cottony clouds, offering no warmth. He felt the iron knot in his chest finally slacken; he had outrun the dark once more. Each breath felt like stolen plunder as he navigated the deserted streets toward the riverside avenue.
Number seventeen was a crumbling tenement, as exhausted as his own bones. He pushed the heavy metal door and stepped into the dim entryway, greeted by the stifling stench of urine — a decaying world he had long ago accepted. The elevator ascended with a heavy groan, hauling him toward the top floor.
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He unlocked the door, craving silence, but froze at the threshold. Night was already there. She was draped across his living room as if she had always held the keys. She watched him, motionless, a mocking glint in her eyes suggesting the game had never been his to win.
A shiver struck; the anaemic light scared her no more. She had colonized every corner of his home, turning his refuge into a trap. The rules had shifted. The realization hit him with the weight of a physical blow. “Who is responsible for this?” he thought in panic. His mind fractured within the thick gloom, demanding an answer from the Lords of the Unseen. They offered no reprieve.
With a slow gesture, she beckoned. Her shadow-fingers brushed his skin like cold velvet. The walls began to dissolve. Whether he was being consumed by the dark or becoming part of it, he could not tell.
(We are relocating here)
