The stranger drew closer, the crimson balloon in his hand trembling ever so slightly in the thin, restless breeze. "Are you alright?" he rasped, his voice hoarse yet threaded with genuine concern, as he offered the balloon to me, his arm outstretched.
"I'm fine," I blurted, my voice catching in my throat. Damn it, of all times, Erin had to hand the body back now!
He stared at me, his eyes narrowing as they scanned every inch of my face. "Your eyes changed. I'm worried. And your clothes—look at you, all ragged and torn! Are you sure you're alright?"
"Really, I'm alright—no need to fuss over me. And what's that supposed to mean about my eyes, anyway?"
"They were red before. Now they're blue. Not that it matters, I suppose." He shrugged, pressing the balloon toward me again, this time with a faint, almost invisible smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
'No way, not a chance,' I thought, but my mouth refused to cooperate.
"Go on, take it. I insist."
Dusk bled slowly across the city, casting golden-orange hues between the buildings that seemed to devour the light. The artificial sun—lifeless and almost mechanical—set sluggish between rows of buildings that seemed to swallow the last shreds of light, leaving Orcicea Doom swaddled in a velvet gloom. Along the roadside, slender coral lamps blinked to life one after another, casting a pale, wavering glow that danced across the pavement like ghostly fingers. The air itself felt heavy, as if the whole city was holding its breath.
He tilted his head back, gaze drifting up to the streetlights as they flickered on, each one a counterfeit star in a sky. "Anyway, the people from above never seem to care for my balloons," he murmured, his words slipping into a hush. "No one really knows why, but up there, balloons just don't find a home." His sigh hung in the air.
No wonder, I thought, glancing down at the balloon now nestled in my hand.
A human face was painted across its latex red skin—pale as moonlight, as if someone had pressed a porcelain mask against its surface. White makeup blanketed the cheeks and brow, a stark contrast to the single black mark perched arrogantly near the nose.
This balloon was a perfect mirror of the one who'd given it.
Maybe there's no harm in just taking it. Honestly, it beats stretching out this pointless chit-chat any longer.
I reached for the balloon, letting the string curl around my fingers. The balloon floated lightly in the air.
"Maybe I should try using an owl instead," he mused, eyes gleaming with wild ideas. "I hear owls are all the rage up above these days."
"You know, the name Tytoal-ba actually comes from its founder? Back when they built that advanced city atop the corpse of a giant turtle," he continued.
"Corpse of a giant turtle?" I nearly choked on the air.
He nodded, "Tytoal-ba only exists because an owl, sent by the Idea of Knowledge, saved its people from the disaster of the giant turtle. They joined forces, slew the beast, and—since their island was ruined—they built their city right on its remains. That's Tytoal-ba for you."
I was floored. This sort of tale usually belonged to the lips of old storytellers, not a failed clown. Erin's knowledge of Tytoal-ba was patchy at best, despite the city above being so advanced.
"That's why it makes sense for me to use an owl for my next act," he went on, a broad grin spreading across his face like a sunrise after a storm.
"Right, of course, hahaha…" My laugh tumbled out, awkward as a three-legged cat.
Suddenly, he clapped me on the shoulder—hard, as if he meant to hammer his intentions right into my bones. My urge to escape evaporated instantly. "You see where I'm coming from, don't you?" He gave me another hearty slap, and for a split second, I thought Erin might just force her way out of my mouth.
"Uh, yeah…" I tried to wriggle free from his grip, but it was useless—his hand was a steel shackle.
At last, he let go, exhaling a long, weary sigh. "Sorry, my last performance didn't exactly bring the house down up in the world above." He patted my shoulder again—a jolt of energy rippling through me.
"So, when I meet someone who's on the same wavelength, I just get a little… excited," he admitted, eyes sparkling with a wild, feverish light.
"I've got a few other tricks up my sleeve, if you're interested," he offered, his hand already diving into the depths of his bag, quick as a fox on the scent.
"Alright, that's plenty, thanks," I cut in quickly, trying to put a little distance between us.
He chuckled, a raspy sound that danced on the edge of mockery. "Maybe you oughta head up top sometime. Kids like you need a bit more entertainment in their lives. You don't wanna end up as gloomy as the Wetlands, do you?"
All I could do was nod, biting back a bitter laugh. This guy was really off his rocker, I thought.
"How about I bring my show down here to the Wetlands, huh? You show up once, toss me a few pointers—think I'd fit in, putting on a show for folks down here?" he said, giving my back a hearty slap, the kind that nearly rattled my soul loose. Honestly, if Erin decided to leap out of my mouth right now, I wouldn't blame him.
"Who knows, maybe you lot would be a bit happier if I performed down here," he went on.
Sorry, but we Wetlands folk are doing just fine, even if the place is all shadows and smells like a third-rate country clinging to its last breath.
"Ahh, sorry, there I go rambling again. Just take the balloon, will you? And sorry for bumping into you," he said. I ducked my head, my thanks barely more than a whisper.
The figure in the fedora strode away, his silhouette melting into the patchwork shadows cast by the streetlights. Oddly enough, his face stuck in my mind—especially that brown mark near his nose, nagging at the edge of familiarity.
Erin once said this guy was dangerous. But honestly, he felt more like an energy leech—his chatter could suck the life right out of you. It didn't feel safe to ask where I was; with my luck, he'd probably follow me all the way home. And when Erin called someone unsafe, well, my skin prickled for reasons I couldn't quite name.
Suddenly, he spun around, doffed his fedora, and waved it high, his voice cutting through the twilight like a thrown knife. "If you ever come to a show, don't forget my name!"
"Cabalena Cachiman."
Then he was truly gone. His quick words and light steps vanished into the dying light, leaving nothing but his name hanging in the air—a spell, an invitation I had every intention of ignoring.
Between my fingers, the balloon with its painted face spun slowly. Not the joyful spin of a party favor, but the heavy, inevitable orbit of a dead planet—slow, ponderous, and impossible to escape.
The balloon itself was an anomaly. Its skin was thin latex, yet it felt oddly dense in my hand, as if it held more than just air. Printed across its surface was the face of a man—a face you'd call unremarkable at first glance: a faint jawline, lips pressed tight as though holding back a verdict, and those eyes… Ah, the eyes. Just two simple black dots, yet somehow, they held a depth that defied reason. They stared straight ahead—not at me, but through me.
And then there was the mark. That familiar blemish. Right beside the nose, a jet-black spot no bigger than a pinky nail. It didn't look like a natural mole—its shape was too perfect, too deliberate, as if a careless god had spilled a drop of ink and left it to dry into a permanent flaw. The mark drew the eye, demanded attention, became the axis of the entire familiar face.
It was my hand spinning it, I knew that. My thumb nudged the surface gently, coaxing it to rotate on some invisible axis.
I broke into a run, breath ragged as I sliced through the muggy air of the western sector—a forsaken stretch where even the light seemed reluctant to linger. Deep Rotorua, I thought, can't be far now. The gaping ruins and the sharp tang of old iron told me we were deep in the west: the place of the incident, where abandoned warehouses and derelict factories stood like monuments to failure, and vagrants slunk through the shadows.
I hadn't gone more than a few steps when a strange chill crept up my neck. Goosebumps prickled my skin. My shadow stretched, growing longer and wider, as if the streetlights had become spotlights, exposing every sin. Each step felt heavier, the ground itself seeming to clutch at my feet, unwilling to let me flee any farther.
Then—the balloon. The human-faced balloon spun, slowly, deliberately, until its gaze locked onto mine. Those painted eyes bored into me, stripping away every layer, seeing everything I tried to hide.
Without warning, the balloon burst.
Not with a bang that split the sky, but with a silent explosion that swallowed every sound. One second—POP—and the world froze. The gentle breeze vanished, the whisper of rusted metal fell mute, even my own heartbeat seemed to forget its rhythm.
Shreds of latex drifted down to the dusk-stained ground. I staggered back—one step, two—my legs suddenly heavy as molten lead.
And then—something, or someone, pressed a hand to my forehead.
Cold and heavy—like a slab of wet marble freshly hauled from the grave. The touch was eerily familiar, as if I'd felt it just moments ago.
I looked up. That face. The black mark near his nose was burned into my memory, impossible to forget.
"So you're the one Aiden and Ramlen were talking about?" His voice was flat, devoid of any warmth. With his other hand, he traced my cheek, his fingers pressing against my lips. The chill wasn't the sting of ice, but the lifeless cold of porcelain—smooth, dense, and utterly unnatural. "Sorry about the balloon. I'll get you another if you come with me."
Desperation took over—instinct, not thought, not plan. Just the wild lunge of a cornered animal.
My jaw snapped shut.
Cabalena's grip on my forehead faltered, just for a split second, but it was enough. I wrenched myself free, the taste of his fingers lingering—cold, bitter, leaving a phantom trace against the walls of my mouth.
His eyes widened—not in pain, but in pure, unfiltered surprise.
"You've got the book, don't you?" he asked, shaking his hand, sending my saliva flying in all directions. The cheeriness in his voice was a poor disguise.
"How do you think I feel?" I shot back, inching toward the stretch of shadow cast by the streetlamp."How do you think that makes me feel?" Cabalena said, his tone suddenly weary as he drifted toward the stretch of shadow beneath the streetlamp.
"My performance flopped, and when I finally dragged myself home, there's my apprentice, knocked out, and my studio in ruins." He lowered his gaze, staring into the darkness pooling on the asphalt. His words lost their usual lilt, softening until they barely carried.
Slowly, his hand slipped into the shadow, vanishing as if it had dipped beneath the surface of dark water. "But I've never been able to get angry. Not since I was a kid."
"My ma used to say, anger is just proof of fear and frustration—a sign of weakness," he went on.
"As a clown, anger's a luxury I can't afford. We don't need fear or frustration to make people happy."
Suddenly, I felt something lurking close—too close.
From the depths of my own shadow, something began to surface—Cabalena's hand, first just a wisp of black smoke, then solidifying into pale flesh and bone, silent and spectral. His shoulder, his head, his whole body flowed out of my shadow, reaching for the bag I clutched to my chest. I barely managed to leap back in time, dodging his grasp by a hair's breadth.
"What the hell!" I hissed, breath coming in ragged bursts. This guy was nothing like Ramlen or Aiden—how in the world could he slip into shadows like that? Powers like this… they were eerily similar to Erin's black sphere.
Cabalena offered a thin smile, eyes narrowing with something like admiration. "I'm honestly a little impressed. You're the first person who's ever managed to escape my Hall of Miro."
He stepped forward, his shadow flickering and twisting beneath the streetlight. "How about you help me out with my next show?"
"Aiden and Ramlen were a mess on stage," he went on, his tone as breezy as if he were discussing the weather. "But you… you've got potential." He snapped his fingers, pointing straight at me.
"Call it payment for knocking them out. In that state, it'll take them a good month to recover."
"Are you out of your mind!" The words exploded from my mouth before I could stop them. In a moment like this, I desperately needed Erin—but all I got was silence.
"What a pity. I thought we were the same," Cabalena replied, his voice dropping an octave, suddenly heavy with disappointment. He strolled casually toward the edge of the pavement, his steps so light they barely left a mark. One foot slipped into the darkness, then the other, and in the blink of an eye, his body was swallowed whole—gone, devoured by the shadows.
The sky, which had clung to its last scraps of light, finally surrendered to night. The Artificial Sun dipped below the horizon, leaving the Wetlands wrapped in the arms of darkness. Here and there, the coral lamps flickered to life in the western sector—a feeble sign that life still clung on.
One thing was certain: this was royally screwed.
Cabalena was gone.
I ran, cutting through the thickening chill, and stopped beneath a streetlamp's glow. Its yellow light dripped down my shoulders, thin and uncertain.
I clenched my fists, willing the black sphere to appear—the only hope I had left. Nothing. No sphere, just veins straining and screaming in silence. Erin, damn it, why would you pick now to fall asleep?
The Artificial Sun was gone for good. The Wetlands, as far as the eye could see, had become a sea of shadows. I stood at its heart, a sailor without a compass, surrounded by darkness that could spit Cabalena out at any moment, from any direction.
I cursed under my breath—I'll be damned.