The rain in Eldridge City didn't fall; it assaulted. It came down in sheets, turning the streets into rivers of oil-slicked neon, the kind that reflected the city's gaudy heartbeat—blues, pinks, and greens from signs promising cheap liquor, cheaper thrills, and dreams that cost more than anyone could afford. Haruaki Asahi pedaled through it all, his thighs burning as he leaned into the handlebars of his rusting bike. The delivery bag strapped to his back was soaked, the smell of greasy takeout mingling with the city's stench of diesel and desperation. At seventeen, he was just another ghost in the urban sprawl, invisible to the glittering towers of the super rich and the suits who lived in them.
His phone buzzed against his thigh, the cracked screen barely legible through the rain. Another order: 12A, Crimson Towers, ASAP. No tip. Haruaki swore under his breath, the words lost in the downpour. Crimson Towers was one of those places—glass and steel stabbing into the sky, home to people who ordered $50 ramen bowls and didn't think twice about stiffing the kid who biked through a monsoon to deliver them. He pedaled harder, the bike's chain grinding like it was as fed up as he was. His dark hair clung to his forehead, water dripping into his eyes, but he didn't bother wiping it away. What was the point? The city didn't care, and neither did he.
Eldridge wasn't just a city; it was a machine that chewed up people like Haruaki and spat them out. He'd been on his own since he was thirteen, after his parents vanished in a way no one bothered to explain. No family, no savings, just a one-room apartment in the Lower District with a leaky roof and a mattress that smelled like mildew. The delivery gig paid enough to keep the lights on—barely. Every night was the same: pedal, deliver, dodge drunks and gangbangers, repeat. The only thing that kept him going was the stubborn refusal to let the city win.
Crimson Towers loomed ahead, its mirrored facade reflecting the storm like a giant middle finger to the rest of the world. The lobby was a cathedral of excess—marble floors, gold-trimmed chandeliers, and a security guard who looked at Haruaki like he was something stuck to his shoe. "Delivery," Haruaki muttered, flashing his phone. The guard waved him through, barely glancing up from his tablet. The elevator was all mirrors, forcing Haruaki to confront his reflection: sharp cheekbones, brown eyes sunken from too many late nights, and a scowl that had settled into his face like a permanent fixture. His jacket was threadbare, the logo of the delivery service peeling off the sleeve. He looked like what he was—a kid the city had already forgotten.
The penthouse floor was quiet, the kind of quiet that felt expensive. The air smelled of leather and something floral, probably from some overpriced diffuser the tenant had flown in from halfway across the world. Haruaki knocked on the door of 12A, shifting the weight of the delivery bag. No answer. He knocked again, harder. The door creaked open before his knuckles hit a third time, revealing a man who looked like he'd stepped out of a different century.
He was old—ancient, really—with a face like crumpled parchment, all lines and shadows. His suit was tailored, the kind of thing you'd see on the cover of a finance magazine, but it was frayed at the cuffs, faded in places, like he'd been wearing it for decades. His eyes, though, were what stopped Haruaki cold. They burned, too bright, too alive for a body that looked one breath from collapsing. "You're late," the man rasped, his voice like gravel scraped across stone.
"Traffic. Rain. You know how it is." Haruaki held out the takeout bag, eager to get this over with and get back to the streets. The man didn't move to take it. Instead, he stared at Haruaki, those unnatural eyes narrowing as if they could see straight through him.
"You're the one," the old man muttered, almost to himself. Before Haruaki could ask what the hell that meant, the man stumbled forward, clutching his chest. A low, guttural sound escaped him, and he fell to his knees, his hands clawing at the air. Something metallic clattered to the polished hardwood floor—a key, no bigger than a house key, but glowing with a faint, golden light that pulsed like a heartbeat.
"Hey, you okay?" Haruaki dropped to the floor beside him, the takeout bag forgotten. Blood seeped through the man's shirt, dark and glistening, spreading across his chest. There was no wound, no cut, no sign of a weapon—just blood, like his body was tearing itself apart from the inside. Haruaki's hands hovered, useless. He'd seen enough street fights to know what death looked like, but this was different. Wrong.
"Take it," the man gasped, his trembling hand shoving the glowing key toward Haruaki. It was warm against his palm, almost alive, its light flickering in time with the man's ragged breaths. "The Veil… it's breaking. Find it… before they do." His voice cracked, and his burning eyes locked onto Haruaki's, unyielding even as his body failed. "You're… Fractureborn."
The word hit like a shockwave. Haruaki's skin prickled, the air around him growing heavy, oppressive, like the world was holding its breath. The key pulsed in his hand, its warmth spreading up his arm, into his chest. He wanted to ask what it meant—Fractureborn, the Veil, any of it—but the old man's head lolled back, his eyes dimming as the life drained out of him. He collapsed, a lifeless heap on the penthouse floor, the blood pooling beneath him like spilled ink.
Haruaki staggered back, his heart slamming against his ribs. The key was still in his hand, its glow dimming to a faint shimmer. He should've called someone—cops, an ambulance, anyone. But his phone felt like a brick in his pocket, and the key… it was like it was whispering to him, urging him to move, to run. He stuffed it into his jacket, grabbed his bag, and bolted for the elevator, the man's final word echoing in his skull: Fractureborn.
The ride down was a blur, the mirrored walls throwing his panicked reflection back at him. His mind raced. Who was that guy? What was the Veil? And why did that word—Fractureborn—feel like it had been carved into his bones? The elevator dinged, and he stumbled out into the lobby, ignoring the guard's bored glance. Outside, the rain had stopped, leaving the city glistening under the neon glow. But something was off. The signs flickered too fast, their colors bleeding into each other like a glitch in reality. The air felt thick, charged, like the moment before a lightning strike.
Haruaki climbed onto his bike, his hands shaking as he gripped the handlebars. The key in his pocket felt heavier than it should, a weight that wasn't just physical. He glanced across the street, into the alley beside Crimson Towers. A shadow moved—too tall, too thin, its outline wrong in a way that made his stomach lurch. Eyes glowed from the darkness, not human, not animal, but something else entirely, like embers about to ignite. They locked onto him, and for a moment, the world seemed to stutter, the streetlights dimming, the sounds of the city fading to a low hum.
He didn't think. He pedaled, hard, the bike's tires skidding on the wet pavement. The alley blurred past, but he could feel those eyes on him, tracking him through the streets. His apartment was miles away, in the Lower District, but he didn't know where else to go. The key burned against his chest, a reminder of the dying man's words. The Veil is breaking. Whatever that meant, Haruaki knew one thing: his last delivery had just turned his life into something he didn't understand—and something he wasn't sure he could survive.
As he rode, the city seemed to shift around him. A street sign twisted, its letters unreadable for a split second. A pedestrian's shadow stretched too long, flickering like a flame. Haruaki's breath came in short gasps, his mind screaming at him to keep moving, to get away. But from what? And to where? The key in his pocket pulsed once, twice, and he swore he heard a whisper—not in his ears, but in his head. Find it.
He didn't know what he was supposed to find, but he knew one thing: Eldridge City wasn't what it seemed. And neither was he.