Chapter1: The Unseen Whisper

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    "Did you hear that?" Claire asked, her voice barely above a whisper. She clutched her coat tighter, the fabric bunched in her trembling fingers. The city buzzed around them—honking cars, distant laughter, the occasional clatter of a falling bottle—but underneath it all was something else. Something... wrong.

    David smirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "No, but I saw you flinch." He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, feigning nonchalance, but Claire knew better. His voice had that tight edge, the one he got when he was trying too hard to be the rational one.

    They kept walking, their footsteps a hollow echo against the brick walls of the alley. Normally, the sound would be familiar, comforting even—a steady rhythm of two people moving through the city. But tonight, it was different. The echoes felt... off. Stretched. Like something else was walking just half a step behind them.

    "Maybe we're just tired," David said too quickly. "We’ve been out for hours. It’s nothing."

    Claire nodded absently, but unease coiled in her stomach. It wasn’t nothing. The alley felt wrong—like they’d stepped into a space that had been waiting for them, anticipating their arrival.

    Then, it came again. A sound. Soft. Barely more than a whisper of movement.

    She froze.

    David did too. This time, he’d heard it.

    The air between them thickened, every nerve in Claire’s body screaming that they shouldn’t be here. That they should leave. Now.

    "We need to keep moving," David muttered, his voice lower now, as if speaking too loudly would make things worse. "Probably just some drunk guy messing around."

    Claire wanted to believe him. Wanted to brush it off, laugh about it later. But she couldn’t. Because she could feel it now. The weight of unseen eyes.

    Then—

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    A figure.

    It stood just at the edge of the flickering streetlight, its body too still, too tall. A wide-brimmed hat cast its face into shadow, but it was watching them. Not moving. Not breathing. Just there.

    Claire’s breath hitched. "Okay," she whispered, her pulse hammering against her ribs. "That’s not just some guy."

    David grabbed her arm. "We’re leaving. Now."

    But Claire couldn’t move.

    Because the figure—this thing—was wrong. It wasn’t just its presence, or the eerie stillness, or the way it seemed to drink in the darkness around it. It was the silence.

    The alley had gone completely, unnaturally quiet. No distant car horns. No hum of city life. Just a vacuum of sound so absolute that Claire could hear the blood rushing in her ears.

    Then—

    It moved.

    A single step forward. A boot clicking softly against the pavement.

    That sound, sharp in the dead silence, made Claire’s knees lock.

    "Claire," David hissed, yanking at her arm.

    But she was rooted to the spot, staring at the figure as dread curled up her spine like ice water.

    Then it spoke.

    Not a growl. Not a whisper.

    A voice so soft it barely stirred the air, but sharp enough to slice through her bones.

    "Don’t run."

    It wasn’t a warning. It was a command.

    David didn’t wait to find out what it meant. He pulled her hard, snapping her out of the trance, dragging her toward the street.

    But those words—those terrible, simple words—clung to her like frost.

    Don’t run.

    And deep in her gut, she knew—

    If they ran, they wouldn’t make it.