Into the Quiet
POV: Silas
Location: Old Terminal Rail Yard, Detroit
Time: Late Night
I couldn't sleep. Again.
Every time I closed my eyes, the belt pulsed like it knew I was trying to ignore it. Like it was tapping its fingers on the inside of my skull. It had been like that all day. Pacing shadows. Stretching tension. I couldn't eat. I couldn't focus. Not even when Isaiah started cracking jokes over dinner.
So, I gave up.
I pulled on a hoodie, laced my boots tight, and packed the belt in the bottom of my backpack like it was some kind of cursed weapon. Slipped out the back door just after 11PM. Mom was asleep. Dad had been reading in the den, but the light was off now. House was quiet.
The city, less so.
I headed north. Past crumbling fences and streetlights that flickered like dying fireflies. The air was colder near the industrial zone, where the buildings started to look more like skeletons than homes. No cars. Just wind, dust, and the occasional raccoon.
The Old Terminal Yard sat behind a long stretch of graffiti-stained concrete. A rusted sign hung sideways: DETROIT TERMINAL RAIL CO.
Place had been dead for years. Isaiah brought me here once to shoot footage for a drone project. Said it was good for moody atmosphere. Said it had "history."
I remembered it had quiet.
That's what I needed now.
I stepped over broken rails and through weeds tall enough to reach my thighs. The metal shipping crates were stacked like forgotten toy blocks, half-covered in vines and street art. I picked a clearing between two tilted light towers and dropped my bag.
I pulled the belt out.
Held it.
Took a deep breath.
"Alright," I muttered. "Let's see what the hell you are."
I fastened it around my waist.
The response was immediate.
Warmth surged through my core, spreading into my arms, down my spine. My skin prickled like the air had changed pressure. My vision sharpened. I could hear things — distant things. A bottle rolling half a block away. The flap of a pigeon's wing overhead.
I clenched my fists.
Power hummed just beneath the surface of my skin.
First test: strength.
I walked over to a rusted-out crate and threw a straight punch.
CLANG.
Metal caved in like tin foil. Pain vibrated up my arm, but not enough to stop me.
I reeled back, shaking my fingers. "Okay. That's new."
Second test: mobility.
I backed up, took a breath, and jumped.
Launched nearly ten feet forward — overshot the edge of a low platform and skidded across it. My shoulder clipped a beam. I hissed.
"Alright. Too much. Gotta scale it."
I tried again — smaller jump, this time vertical. Landed light on top of a shipping container. My legs felt spring-loaded. Not weightless, just… recalibrated.
Still needed control.
Third test: the shadows.
I stood in a pool of moonlight, took a few steps until I was back in the dark, then reached out with my right hand.
"Come on…"
Nothing.
I closed my eyes.
Focused.
Something shifted near a pile of tires. A long shape bent unnaturally — like the shadow was stretching toward me.
I opened my eyes.
The black smear slithered forward, rising like smoke turned solid. It hovered in front of my hand. Waiting.
I gritted my teeth and visualized something simple.
A blade.
The shadow hardened. The edge took shape — short, jagged, almost crude. I grabbed it. It felt like cool metal. Balanced.
I swung it once.
It stayed solid.
I turned and faced a nearby crate. Took a deep breath and slashed.
The shadow blade cut through rusted steel — not clean, but enough to leave a deep gash. Then it flickered. The shape trembled, then melted back into mist.
My breathing was faster now.
Chest rising. Muscles humming. I felt lightheaded — like I'd just run a lap without realizing it.
That thing had weight.
Fourth test: personal shadow.
I looked down at the shadow cast by my own body — faint, broken in pieces by the debris around me. I focused on it.
"Let's try armor."
I imagined it crawling up me — feet first, up to my arms, maybe a bracer or a shin guard.
The shadow stirred.
Then it moved.
It crept up my boot like oil climbing fabric. Stretched over my shin. Hardened into a rough, layered surface. Dark plating that felt weightless but strong. Another tendril climbed my forearm, wrapped around, and snapped tight.
I exhaled. Slowly.
Flexed. The armor moved with me.
Then the ache started.
Not sharp. Not injury. Just… drain.
Like the belt was a siphon pulling from a well I didn't know had a bottom.
My fingers twitched. I dropped to one knee, shadow armor already fading. Breath shaky.
"Okay," I muttered. "So, there's a limit."
I sat down. Let my back rest against the crate. Stared up at the cloud-covered stars. The belt's pulse slowed with mine. Like it had run the same sprint.
Then I heard it.
A cough.
I was on my feet in a second, stance wide, breath caught.
Nothing moved.
Then I saw it — resting near a half-burnt trash barrel across the yard.
A smartphone.
Light blinking.
Recording.
I walked over. Picked it up. Scanned the screen.
Footage was already saved.
Someone had been here.
I looked around — still no one in sight. Just wind and weeds and rust.
But someone had seen.
And now someone had proof.