Rain returned like it always did in Duskgrave—hard, fast, and thick enough to drown the lights. It ran black through the alley gutters, mixing with coolant spills and crushed glimmerleaf, making the streets shine like veins under dim neon pulses.
Xander Croft stood beneath the overhang of a rusted awning, arms crossed, gaze locked on a blank spot in the crowd.
Something wasn't right.
He'd done the job. The glitch node was clean. But last night's image—that symbol—still burned behind his eyes like static imprinted on his brain.
It wasn't just visual. It was deep, like it had touched something under his skin.
He reached into his jacket, pulling out the cracked datapad.
The log file from the patch was empty. No activity trace. Not even residual echo.
Like the moment hadn't happened.
He ran the scan again.
Nothing.
"Croft!" a voice called from behind. "You ghosting or just staring into the void again?"
Xander turned. Nuel James grinned at him through the curtain of rain, his shaggy dark hair plastered to his forehead.
Xander frowned. "You're early."
"Got bored. Figured we'd hit the south lot before the gangs sweep it."
"Not much left in the south lot."
"Yeah, well… I heard something else. Rumor is, a scav crew disappeared near Sector Twelve last night."
Xander's hand tightened on the datapad.
"Which part?" he asked.
Nuel shrugged, clearly enjoying the reaction. "Some old tunnel. Tech wouldn't sync. They lost contact. A few freaked and ran. Others? Didn't come back at all."
"Any names?"
"No one we know."
But that didn't settle the knot in Xander's gut. He shoved the pad back into his coat and fell in beside Nuel.
They walked in silence for a few blocks. Metal walkways gave way to crumbling ferrocrete. The further south they went, the worse the air tasted—like something chemical had spilled years ago and never stopped evaporating.
The lot sat beyond the old water plant, fenced off with rusted spikes and tattered warning signs. Inside, the remains of shattered tech glinted like bones in the dark.
Nuel hopped the fence first, landing with a soft grunt. Xander followed.
It was always quiet here. Too quiet.
Xander moved toward a collapsed vending unit half-buried under a tarp of grime and cables. He started prying it open when he felt it again.
A pulse.
Low. Subtle. Like a heartbeat echoing through metal.
He froze.
"Nuel… you feel that?"
His friend paused, looking up from a pile of scorched processors. "Feel what?"
Xander stepped away from the machine. The pulse grew stronger, coming from somewhere below the surface. He crouched, pressing his hand to the ground.
And then—just for a second—he heard it.
A whisper.
It wasn't language. It was frequency. A sound pattern, encoded and layered like a song slowed to the pace of decay.
It said nothing.
But it recognized him.
Suddenly, the vending unit's remains sparked.
A thin trail of light etched itself across the metal—a glowing symbol, curved and silver.
The same one.
Xander stumbled back, breath caught in his throat.
"Nuel, do you see that!?"
"What the hell—" Nuel stepped closer, squinting.
Then the light flared.
A shockwave burst outward, silent but felt—like pressure slamming into the bones. The air bent. Time seemed to skip.
The symbol vanished.
Silence.
Even the rain paused, frozen in air for a breath before resuming.
Xander's hands trembled. "That's twice now."
Nuel looked pale. "You're not crazy. I saw it too."
"Then what the hell is it?"
Before either could answer, a new noise bloomed in the distance.
A mechanical scream.
It wasn't natural. It came from deep below—low and long, like metal tearing through earth. The sky above them flickered. Lights overhead blinked and dimmed in sequence, like something crawling through the city's electrical veins.
Nuel stepped closer, whispering, "We need to go."
Xander nodded—but didn't move.
Because something new had begun.
In the corner of his vision, a faint shimmer traced down his arm. A vein of silver light, pulsing beneath the skin. Only for a second.
Then gone.
---
That night, Xander couldn't sleep.
He sat in his corner, staring at the wall, wrapped in a static-blanket to keep the chill out. The datapad flickered in his lap, running loop scans of the vending machine footage. Every time it hit the symbol frame, it crashed.
He tried again. And again.
Crash. Corrupt. Reboot.
The symbol didn't want to be remembered.
His comm clicked. A private channel opened.
Juno.
Xander answered. "What did you give me?"
The old scav's voice came through broken, distorted. "Didn't… know. Wasn't supposed to open. You triggered it."
"Triggered what?"
Silence. Then static.
Then one final word before the signal cut entirely.
"Circuitborn."
---
Xander stood suddenly. A cold shiver ran through him, not from fear—but from instinct. Something had shifted.
The lights above flickered.
And on the far wall of his hideout, lines began to burn into the metal—glowing silver, carving themselves from nothing. They wove a shape:
The eye. The coil. The mark.
He stepped back, breath shallow.
Then, without warning—
Everything went black.
His power died. The comms. The walls. The lights. Even the sound.
And in that dead silence, something moved behind him.
No footsteps. No breath.
Just a whisper, in the same frequency as before—just a single word.
"Found."