Chapter Text
The bus heater hums, blowing dry, recycled air that smells like diesel and wet umbrellas, but it does nothing for the damp chill creeping into your socks. You press your forehead against the glass, letting the engine's dull vibration rattle straight into your teeth. Outside, the turnoff for your hometown dissolves into a murky gray smear.
Because, of course, it just had to rain today.
You stare down at the bright screen of your phone. Four years of distance doesn't wash away with a casual hello, so you force the easygoing persona you usually pull off over text. You snap a blurry photo of the drenched sky, type out That’s it, turning around! and hit send before you can overthink it. You instantly shove the phone deep into your coat pocket, unwilling to watch the typing bubbles appear.
When the brakes squeal, you don't stand right away. You hesitate, dragging your feet and pulling the strap of your heavy duffel bag tight across your chest like a barricade. The doors hiss open, severing the cabin's warmth. A gust of wind slaps your face, driving icy pinpricks of rain straight down your neck. You cringe, ducking your chin into your damp collar, and step down onto the concrete.
You grimace as the bus pulls away, leaving you huddled on the damp wood of the bench. Your fingers pick restlessly at the frayed strap of your duffel. You try to wait—you really do. You count red cars, stare at your waterlogged boots, avoid eye contact with strangers. But the moment a low rumble kicks up from a distant cloud, you say fuck it and start walking.
You used to swear you knew this town like the back of your hand. Every alley, every shortcut, every crack in the sidewalks. But as you walk, your muscle memory fails you. You turn right where the old 24-hour diner used to glow, only to find the slick, sterile glass of a gym. The tree-lined curve on Seventh Street is gone, replaced by a line of identical townhomes. You stop in the middle of the sidewalk, turning a slow circle as the street starts to look more and more foreign.
Then the sky finally gives up the act. The drizzle mutates into a deluge, a deafening wall of white noise that drowns out the distant highway. Rain hits the back of your neck in freezing rivets. You duck under the rusted frame of a construction awning, shivering as a pathetic puddle collects around your boots.
Your phone then vibrates in your pocket.
You pull it out, see your brother-in-law’s name flashing on the screen, and wince. You can practically picture him idling at the bus stop right now, gripping the steering wheel and marveling at your special brand of stupidity. He’s the only person in your family who doesn't tiptoe around you, which means he won't hesitate to tear you a new one for this.
You weigh your options. Ignore it, keep your pride, and risk hypothermia as the ice water finally breaches the inner soles of your boots, or answer it, take the hit, and get a dry seat.
Pride loses.
"Hey!" you chirp, your teeth clicking together as you plaster on a fake, manic enthusiasm. "You absolute legend. My most favorite person in the whole world!"
Silence on the line, followed by a long sigh that rattles through the speaker. "Where the hell are you? I’ve been staring at an empty bench for ten minutes."
"I’m walking," you say defensively, squinting through the rain at a street pole stripped of its sign. "It builds character."
"You're a dumbass," he says, the fond, exasperated cadence of his voice cutting right through your fake bravado. "Stay put before you end up in the next county. Give me a store name or something."
You glance up, staring at a frame of a building with no name, then down the block toward a muddy lot where a small park used to sit. Next to it sits a blindingly bright corporate coffee chain that you’re pretty sure sits on every other corner.
“I’ll… just send you my location,” you grumble. You pull the phone away to fight the map app, your soaked thumb sliding uselessly across the glass like a broken windshield wiper.
A second after the ping goes through, a burst of loud, crackling laughter erupts from the speaker.
"Are you at the new Starbucks on Fifth?!" he wheezes. "You only had to cross Center and Eighth Street! Where did you make the time to cross four lanes of traffic?!”
“Oh, fuck off,” you mutter, though a small, involuntary twitch at the corner of your mouth betrays you. "I was trying to take the old route back home!”
“So you walk several blocks without once thinking to check your phone to be sure that’s still possible?” He snorts. "Seriously, how do you survive?"
“I thought I’d be fine!” you snap, the defensive bite slipping out faster than you meant it to. The warmth drains from your chest, replaced by a cold, sudden ache as you stare at the sterile green coffee logo. "I thought this was the turn for Pine."
The laughter on the line cuts off, dropping into an abrupt, heavy silence.
"...Pine got re-zoned two years ago," he says softly. The easy, teasing edge in his voice vanishes, replaced by a hesitation that feels far too careful. "Guess... well. You've been gone a really long time."
The silence stretches, thick and suffocating over the hiss of the rain. The tease wasn't meant to hurt, but the truth of it hangs between you through the speaker—a quiet reminder that while you were away building a life elsewhere, the world here kept turning without you.
You swallow around the lump in your throat, pulling your hood down lower over your eyes.
"Yeah," you mumble. "Guess so."
He clears his throat, the gruff, familiar armor slamming back into place to cover the slip. "Just stay put. I’m ten minutes out. Try not to drown before I get there."
The line clicks dead.
You drop the phone back into your pocket and lean the back of your head against the damp brick. The silence that follows is deafening, filled only by the perpetual strike of rain on asphalt.
After a few minutes pass by, you become half-tempted to duck into the coffee shop to reclaim some warmth. Just when your feet start moving, a deep, shuddering bang vibrates straight through the soles of your boots.
You jump, your shoulder scraping the brick wall as a black sedan dips into the center lane. Its front bumper clips the asphalt with a sickening, metallic crunch, spraying a fan of muddy water high into the air before the car limps onward, exhaust coughing concerningly.
“Ouch,” you mutter, a tiny, dark smirk tugging at your lips.
Now that it has your attention, you spot the culprit. It’s an ugly, jagged rift right in the middle of the intersection, choked with black water. It doesn't look like a normal pothole—the puddle isn't overflowing despite the downpour. Instead, the water seems to swirl in the center of it before stopping, only to start all over when another car hits it.
Bored, shivering, and not wanting to deal with any verbal backlash for changing locations, you decide to make a game of it.
You lean back against the wall, fold your arms, and start picking out victims. A blue hatchback approaches—misses it by an inch. Boring. A massive delivery van rolls up—direct hit. The hole swallows half the van's front tire with a wet, hollow gulp, sending a spectacular wall of brown sludge splashing six feet into the air.
You let out a delighted, childish snort. It's cruel, sure, but watching unsuspecting locals wreck their alignments is easily the most entertaining thing that’s happened to you all day.
“Hey, dumbass! Turn around!”
The shout cuts through the rain, sharp and obnoxiously familiar. You spin around, wincing as two blinding high-beam headlights pin you against the brick. Behind the glare sits the Red Menace—that same beat-up, rusted-out truck you’ve spent years mocking, idling loudly at the curb.
‧₊˚ ☂︎₊˚⊹
You stare through the truck’s fogged windshield at the yellow house, but your mind refuses to pull up a match. It’s the same address, but the silhouette in front of you is a stranger. Over the last four years, your parents have made drastic changes from the foundation on up. The original frame you grew up in has been buried beneath steep rooflines, new siding, and bright accent trim that looks like something pulled from a magazine.
“Since when do we have a wrap-around porch?” you ask, your voice dropping as you swing the truck door open. You step down, expecting the soft crunch of old gravel, but your boots hit a thick layer of concrete instead.
Your brother-in-law unlatches his door, tossing your bag over his shoulder like it weighs nothing. “Two years ago? Maybe three. Your mom was talking about it for months before she finally broke your dad down.”
“Oh,” you say, the word catching in your throat.
You search your memory for a text, a photo, or an offhand comment during a rushed Sunday evening call, but come up blank. Back then, swamped under midterms, rent payments, and the exhausting hustle of living your life three hundred miles away, those calls had been background noise. You’d nodded along, offered automatic uh-huhs, and waited for an easy moment to say goodbye.
You kinda regret that now.
You stand at the bottom step, your eyes searching for something that belongs to you, but the old hand-painted garden stones are gone, buried under a slick bed of black mulch.
Before you can process the loss, the front door swings open, spilling a rectangle of warm, golden light across the wet porch. It frames a tall silhouette in an oversized black hoodie, dark smudged eyeliner, and a sharp scowl.
“Finally,” the shadow snaps, rolling her eyes so hard it looks painful. “Mom’s been breathing down my neck because you two were taking your sweet time.”
You stand frozen on the bottom step, trying to reconcile this brooding, dark-clad stranger with the bright, chatterbox kid who used to wear glittery tutus and cry if her socks weren't matching.
“Oh my god,” you breathe, taking an involuntary step back. “Who are you, and what did you do to my sister?”
Instead of an answer, a sneaker comes flying out of the doorway. It whistles past your ear and hits the lawn behind you with a wet thud.
From somewhere deeper inside, your mother’s sharp voice echoes through the house. “Quit acting like a toddler and grab your damn shoe!”
You scoop the damp shoe out of the grass and extend it at arm’s length like she’s contagious. She snatches it out of your grip with a vicious tug before disappearing back inside without another word.
“Well, alright then,” you mutter, pulling your hood down as you step into the entryway. “Vicious little gremlin.”
“Pot calling the kettle black,” your brother-in-law snorts, his boots thumping up the steps as he carries your bag inside. He sets it down with a sigh and gives you a knowing look. “Em told me you socked a guy in the nose once for looking at you wrong at that age.”
The casual mention of your older sister instantly kills your snappy comeback. The air leaves your lungs in a slow, aching exhale, leaving a hollow space right behind your ribs. You stare at the floorboards, biting the inside of your cheek, waiting for the sudden, sharp sting behind your eyes to pass.
“Of course she told you that,” you grumble. You kick your wet boots off, lining them up neatly against the wall—a small attempt to look like a considerate guest. “I was fourteen. And for the record, I was nothing like that.”
"You were pretty bad," he says simply, but he doesn't press it. He just gives your shoulder a lingering squeeze before turning toward the kitchen.
You swallow the growing lump in your throat, trying to shake off the pressing weight. You take a breath, plaster on a small, warm smile, and step toward the living room, ready to wrap your arms around your dad and pretend the last four years were just a long weekend.
“Hey, Dad—”
His head pops around the doorframe before you can finish. He doesn't step out. He doesn't reach for a hug or offer a smile. His eyes just drop straight down to the dark, widening puddle on the hardwood floor where your coat is dripping.
He looks back up, his eyes tired, mapped with new lines around his temples that you don't remember. His voice is a low, flat murmur. “You might want to hide that before your mother sees it.”
The smile stiffens on your face. You hold it for a second too long before letting it fall.
“Yeah,” you laugh, the sound thin and brittle. “Already on it.”
You peel the sodden, heavy weight of the coat from your shoulders, hugging it tight against your chest to catch the drips as he disappears back into the living room without another word.
You scoop up your bag next and step quickly up the stairs, leaving the faint hum of the kitchen behind. The air grows cooler as you reach the landing. Your feet navigate the carpeted hallway by memory alone—a path worn into your brain by a decade of midnight kitchen runs and rushed school mornings. You pass your parents’ closed door, then the silent, dark cavern of your younger sister’s room, before your hand finds the cool brass handle of the third door on the right.
The door opens with a long, low creak as the smell of stagnant air wafts over you. It’s like stepping into a room where the clocks stopped ticking. On your side, the bed is bare, and your desk is cleared off from when you packed up and left.
But on the other side, time hasn't moved at all.
Em’s bed sits perfectly made under the window, the dark blue comforter tucked snugly so not a single wrinkle breaks the surface. Her favorite wool cardigan still hangs over the back of the desk chair. On the dresser, a paper-back novel lies face-down, its spine creased at chapter nine, waiting for hands that aren't coming back to lift it.
While your family was quick to change the rest of your home, this room remains an untouched space left to collect dust. You drop your bag and jacket down by your bed before stepping over to her side of the room.
Slowly, you reach out and press your palm flat against her comforter. The fabric is stiff and freezing beneath your fingers. You hold your hand there, waiting for a warmth that never comes, staring at the empty pillow where a life used to rest.
You take a long, slow breath, swallowing down the sharp ache in your throat before it can turn into tears. You didn't come all this way just to break down the second you walked through the door.
As you go to turn away, a sudden glint of light catches your eye, drawing your gaze to the nightstand.
Sitting right on the edge, resting in the dust undisturbed, is a golden ring. Your breath hitches as you reach out, your fingers hesitating for a split second before lifting it into your palm. The weight of it settles against your skin, dense and freezing. It’s her class ring—custom-made, ornate, and impossibly bold. A detailed lion’s head forms the crest, its jaws locked tightly around an emerald that seems to drink in what little light remains in the room.
You turn it over in your hand, tracing the faint, worn engraving hidden along the inside of the band: Em — '09.
The last time you saw this ring, it wasn't sitting on a nightstand. It was a permanent fixture around her collarbone, hanging from a thin silver chain she never took off. She’d been terrified of wearing it on her hand, convinced it would slip off unnoticed. You can still picture her thumb mindlessly tracing the fierce, carved face of the lion whenever she was deep in thought.
It feels wrong seeing it here—naked, unchained, resting alone like a forgotten token. You know why your parents left it here, though. They left it because putting it away would mean accepting why it was sitting here in the first place.
Carefully, you set the ring back down, aligning the band with the faint impression it left in the dust. You linger for a heartbeat, watching the green stone catch the low light one last time, before finally turning your back to the room.
You spend the rest of the evening downstairs, performing the role of the person you used to be. You act like you hadn’t been gone for four years—like the house hasn’t grown new walls, like you didn't just stumble over a newly expanded doorframe, like you simply forgot where the dinner plates are kept. You force laughs at the right beats, keep your posture relaxed, and move through the kitchen with a practiced ease that makes your facial muscles ache when evening rolls around.
For a few hours, you almost manage to convince yourself that the lie is working.
But the hardest part isn't the forced cheer—it's the empty chair at the end of the kitchen table.
It sits there like a crater in the middle of the room. It’s where Em should be sitting, leaning her elbows on the wood, stealing rolls off your plate, and bluntly correcting Dad’s stories. But no one looks at it. You watch your mother carefully hand a bowl of mashed potatoes around the empty space. You see your dad’s gaze flick toward it, hesitate for a microsecond, and then refocus on his own glass. The entire family has spent years perfecting a strange, silent dance to navigate around the space without ever looking it in the eye.
“Eat some more,” your mother says softly. She doesn't wait for an answer before piling a massive second helping of pot roast onto your plate.
It’s her only way of saying I missed you, a language built on physical acts because the actual words carry too much weight. She doesn’t ask about the years of missed holidays or the calls you would ignore during them. She just sits across from you, her hands folded tight in her lap, searching your face for the little girl she raised.
Even your gremlin of a younger sister slowly lowers her guard when you recognize the faded band tee she’s wearing. Her eyes light up, the hostile wall cracking just enough for her to heatedly debate a B-side track you used to listen to on repeat in your bedroom. For three glorious minutes, a genuine, unforced smile breaks across her face. It’s the first real piece of your sister you’ve recognized all day, and you cling to the moment.
Your brother-in-law keeps the momentum going, filling the gaps with local gossip and throwing dry snark in your direction whenever the room gets too quiet. Next to him, Dad mostly listens, but every time you speak, you catch him looking at you with a quiet, shining pride that makes a lump form in your throat. He doesn't know how to bridge the distance either, so he just sits back, taking you in like a miracle he’s afraid to touch.
By the time the last dish is cleaned and the rain outside slows to a quiet drizzle, the sheer effort of the night catches up to you. Maintaining the illusion—carrying the weight of what’s unsaid while absorbing four years of unspoken love—has drained whatever energy you had left. You stand by the sink, your hands stiff from the hot water, feeling dead on your feet.
“I think I'm gonna head to bed,” you announce, wringing out the dishcloth and facing your mother.
“Already?” Her face falls for just a fraction of a second before her eyes drift to the stove clock. “Ah. I guess it is getting late. I hope you have sweet dreams, hun.”
She steps forward and gives you a hesitant, overly careful hug.
You make your way back up the stairs and slip into your old bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind you as you get ready for bed.
Except sleep never comes.
The bed feels like a narrow, uncomfortable shelf. The mattress is too stiff, the pillow too flat, and the silence of the house presses in on your eardrums until your own breathing sounds obnoxiously loud. You toss and turn, kicking the sheets into a tangled knot around your legs, but every time you roll over, your eyes land on the shadow across the room.
Em’s bed sits there in the dark, a cold, geometric block of emptiness. Even with your eyes shut, you can feel the void of it pulling at you.
Hours pass by in a slow, agonizing crawl as you subconsciously track the house’s quiet rhythms.
At 2:10 AM, you hear the refrigerator cycling on downstairs.
3:30 AM, you hear the heaters kick on as the temperature drops.
4:15 AM, a lonely night-shift commuter drives down the road past the house.
You lie flat on your back, staring up at the ceiling, watching the shadows slowly dissolve into a faint, sickly blue—that icy light of early morning just before the sun actually breaks the horizon.
By the time the first tentative chirp of a bird pierces the silence outside, the restlessness under your skin has turned into an outright itch.
You’ve reached that dangerous, bitter edge of exhaustion where your eyes feel full of sand and your brain is vibrating at a fever pitch, screaming for motion.
You can’t stay in this bed for another second.
You kick the comforter off with far more violence than intended; it slips off the mattress and heaps onto the floor in a tangled, pathetic pile. You don't care.
You roll out of bed, your knees popping loudly in the chill. You yank a pair of black leggings and a worn-out long-sleeve shirt from your bag, shoving your limbs through the fabric with jerky, furious movements. Every seam feels scratchy; every twist of the cloth makes you want to snap.
You turn for the door, desperate to escape the suffocating quiet, but your foot catches on the edge of the rug.
You stumble, catching yourself on your nightstand before you look up. In the dim, murky light of dawn, the gold band looks almost black against the wood—a small, dark smudge waiting in the dust. You stare at it, your jaw tight, your pulse drumming wildly in your ears.
Leaving it behind feels wrong—like walking out of a room and leaving a candle burning. Before logic can step in to talk you out of it, your hand moves on impulse. Your fingers sweep across the cold wood, scooping up the ring.
You don't examine it. You don't linger. You just shove the cold metal deep into the front pocket of your leggings, feeling its unexpected weight press hard against your hipbone, and turn your back on the room.
You pick your way down the stairs with exaggerated care, wincing at every low creak that echoes through the sleeping house. At the front door, you pass right by your own damp boots and reach for your dad’s work gear hanging on the wall pegs instead.
You drown in the sheer bulk of his work jacket, and your feet practically swim inside his boots. You look ridiculous—a kid playing dress-up in adult clothes—but as you slip out the door, the armor of his gear feels like the only thing keeping the chill morning breeze from cutting straight through you.
Outside, the scent of wet asphalt and nature greets you with a bitter tinge. The rain has finally ceased, leaving behind a low-hanging fog that clings to the streetlights. Your dad's boots make a wet scuff-thud against the pavement as you trudge along the sidewalk, moving with no real destination in mind.
You turn down Oak Street, expecting your feet to carry you along the cut-through behind the old corner store—the shortcut you’d taken every day of middle school. But your boot hits a hard, metallic barrier. You freeze. Where the overgrown bushes and worn dirt path used to be, a six-foot security fence now runs the entire length of the block, sealed with a digital keypad.
Further down, the empty lot where you and Em used to sit on the hood of her beat-up Camry has been paved over. In its place sits a twenty-four-hour chain pharmacy, its harsh white fluorescent lights humming in the fog. Even the massive oak tree that the neighborhood kids used to meet at has been cut down to make room for more homes.
A deep ache settles behind your ribs. It’s like drifting through a counterfeit version of your own childhood. Every freshly painted trim, every replaced street sign, every corporate logo feels like a quiet vote to erase the version of the town you kept preserved in your head.
The city slowly begins to stir around you. The fragile silence of dawn breaks as the first rush of morning traffic hisses over the slick pavement.
You step back against a brick wall as commuters emerge from identical new townhomes, moving with a brisk, practiced purpose. A woman in a sharp trench coat glides past, tapping away at her phone. A runner dodges around you without missing a beat. They belong here. They know the new street layouts, the new lights, the new rules. You’re the only one out of place.
By now, you’re sure the house is probably waking up. Your mother is likely standing in the kitchen hovering over an empty coffee pot, while your dad will probably stop by your room to find it empty.
Overhead, the bruised, bluish hue of dawn gives way as sharp needles of morning sunlight slice through the fractured clouds. The sudden glare hits the wet asphalt, turning the street into a blinding, shimmering mirror. It’s a gorgeous morning, but between the throbbing pulse of an exhaustion headache and the dread of walking back home, the light just feels overwhelming.
You trudge along the curb, your hand shoved deep into the pocket of your leggings. Your thumb compulsively traces the cold, intricate grooves of the ring, feeling the sharp, raised edges of the lion’s head and the smooth point of the emerald.
CRUNCH
A heavy, metallic slam followed by a reverberating pop shatters the calm morning air. The sound hits like a physical strike, vibrating straight through your skull and sending a sharp spike through your headache. Your hand snaps out of your pocket. Your dad’s boots clop against the wet concrete as you break into a clumsy run toward the noise.
Rounding the corner, a wave of déjà vu suddenly washes over you. You're back at the same intersection. The same jagged crater from yesterday sits in the middle of the lane, only this time it’s done some real damage.
The hole has swallowed the rear passenger side of a silver car. The tire, the rim, and half the bumper are gone, buried deep inside a wide, black rift in the asphalt that has nearly doubled in size since last night. The edges of the road around the car look paper-thin, spiderwebbed with fresh, dark cracks that run all the way to the curb.
Pacing just outside the car is a man in a tailored suit, his strides furious as he rakes his fingers through his hair.
“Hey! Are you alright?” you call out, your voice rough from exhaustion as you pull up near the edge of the sidewalk.
The man snaps his head around. His face is pale, flushed with the adrenaline of a sudden crash, his hands trembling as he gestures toward the wreck.
“Yeah! Yeah, I’m fine,” he yells, his voice cracking with exasperation. “But the car is fucked! Look at this! The damn city leaves a pit in the middle of a primary road!”
“Can’t argue with you on that,” you say, taking a hesitant step closer.
You edge along the side of the vehicle, eyeing the damage. A hole this massive shouldn't have been left unbarricaded. It was dangerous yesterday, but now—
You freeze.
Gurgle... crunch.
A strange, wet grinding sound echoes from deep within the fissure, barely louder than a whisper.
Then, the car moves.
It’s just a ghost of a shift at first—a slow, agonizing half-inch tilt toward the driver's side that makes you squeeze your eyes shut, positive your sleep-deprived brain is playing tricks on you. But as you open them, a fresh shower of loose gravel tumbles quietly down into the dark void beneath the rear tire.
A muffled thump echoes from deep below, followed by a sharp pop that vibrates straight up through the rubber soles of your boots.
The man stops pacing. For a single, terrifying heartbeat, the rising roar of the morning vanishes, swallowed by an uneasy silence. You look at him and see your own wide-eyed terror mirrored on his face. You’re both frozen, paralyzed by the same question…
What was that?
Another loud crack splits the air from beneath the undercarriage, followed by a sickening, grinding crunch that makes your stomach plummet.
With a thunderous bang, the front of the car drops. The bumper slams into the asphalt with enough force to shoot bits of stone into the air. The car’s frame violently shudders as the pavement starts to give way.
“Get back!” the man screams, but his voice sounds distant, muffled by the sudden, deafening groan of shifting earth.
You scramble backward, desperate to put distance between yourself and the widening maw, but your dad’s oversized boots catch against one another. Your legs tangle, tripping you up and sending you crashing hard onto the pavement.
It happens in the space between heartbeats. So sudden that there is no time to react, to think, to scream. It’s like a sudden exhale from the earth itself—a rushing wall of compressed air and collapsing stone—and just like that, the ground beneath you dissolves.
The last thing you see is the man’s back, scurrying away out of survival as he throws himself onto the curb, leaving you behind.
Gravity is infinitely more vicious than you expect. It doesn't just pull you down; it yanks you with a magnetic drag, as if the dark throat beneath the street is inhaling you. You watch, paralyzed, as the road disintegrates above, the edges of the crater folding inward like a closing eye.
A thick, choking cloud of concrete and pulverized earth erupts, instantly swallowing the morning sun. The roar of falling stone slams against your eardrums, drowning out your own choked scream.
You become a chaotic mess of flailing limbs, arms lashing out into the void, instinctively clawing for a handhold that isn't there.
Then, right against your thigh, your pocket grows searingly hot.
Your breath catches. Through the deafening roar of the collapse, you feel a buzzing thrum against your leg—a vibrating pulse, as if the gold ring is alive, thrashing against the fabric trying to claw its way out.
You jam your hand into your pocket, your fingers closing around it just as a fresh wave of turbulence spins you through the dark.
For one impossible heartbeat, the ring slips free from your grasp. In the swirling curtain of black dust, it catches a strange, unnatural phosphorescent glow—not sunlight, but a deep, emerald-green light bleeding up from the abyss. The carved lion’s head seems to shift in the gloom, its tiny jaws snapping shut in the dark.
You lunge for it, your fingertips brushing the band, but a massive wave of displaced air strikes you like a physical wall, batting your hand away.
The ring arcs upward, suspended for a fraction of a second against the descending ceiling of stone, before it’s sucked into a current of wind that smells of rot and decay.
A shelf of fractured asphalt shears away above, collapsing with a deafening thunderclap. The green light is snuffed out instantly. The sky disappears, sealed away by tons of debris.
The only sound left is the rushing wind roaring in your ears, pulling you faster and deeper into the dark.