Mr. Valen lived in the slum of District Forty Two, not the kind where people lived on the streets, but the kind where they lived paycheck to paycheck.
He lived in a nasty neighborhood teeming with three kinds of people: low earners who couldn't afford to live anywhere else, gang members, and drug addicts.
The only thing he wasn't on that list was a gang member—at least, not yet.
Mr. Valen stepped out of the taxi, while the sound of the engine faded into the hum of the city's constant noise.
He tossed a few crumpled bills at the driver before slamming the door shut, the metallic thud echoing in the air.
The taxi driver sped off, as though he didn't want to be around these parts for too long.
It left him standing at the foot of a crumbling, nondescript building, the smell of the place a potent mix of dystopian flair and weed.
The exterior was painted in washed-out shades of gray, the paint peeling in places, exposing patches of brick that looked like they'd been worn down by years of neglect.
His eyes trailed to the windows—grimy, the glass warped as if years of dirt had been pressed against them. And if one listened with enough patience, they would hear faint murmurs of muffled conversations through the cracks in the walls.
Mr. Valen's expression was neutral, unbothered, but there was something about the place that grated against the surface of his mind, suffocating him as if he wasn't supposed to be here.
The sidewalk beneath his feet was cracked and uneven, small puddles collecting in the crevices.
His shoes clicked sharply against the concrete as he walked toward the building's entrance.
But then he was interrupted.
"Hey," a man called out, his tone akin to a low hiss, seeking to gain attention in the most subtlest of ways, though Mr. Valen fancied it as anything but subtle.
The hiss came from a man—or the shell of a man.
What defined him? Where would one even begin?
Was it his sunken, lifeless eyes, dull yet shaking with anxiety, defined bags telling tales of his sleep-deprived nights?
Was it his skin, pale, with a sticky sheen to it?
Was it how his hands trembled, occasionally brushing against the purple handkerchief protruding from his pocket—a vivid hint of his affiliation with the Magenta?
He was all of these things, and yet his unreliable presence did not seem to deter Mr. Valen, who walked up to him.
He didn't know his name, nor did he care to ask. All he knew was that this guy sold good cigarettes or weed—the kind you couldn't get anywhere else.
"Can I get a cig?" Mr. Valen asked, his tone hushed as though fearing the walls might overhear.
Heeding his request, the plug, dove into the pocket of his hoodie like a scavenger searching for lost treasure.
From it, he retrieved a pack of cigarettes. "This one's on the house," he said lightly, opening the pack.
"It better be, you got me in trouble at work you know," Mr. Valen responded.
"Sorry man," the plug answered swiftly, too swiftly, his hands trembling slightly as he urged Mr. Valen to take a piece.
Mr. Valen, shrugging, took a single cigarette from the pack, and with familiar moments lit it up with a lighter he had on him.
The plug also lit a stick and the two stood there for a while, not a single word exchanged between them.
Soon after, Mr. Valen headed inside, walking toward the building's entrance.
Even before entry the faint smell of mildew wafted from the doorway, the kind of stale, damp air that clung to old, under-maintained buildings.
The door, an unassuming slab of metal, creaked slightly as he pushed it open with a firm shove.
Inside, the narrow hallway was dimly lit, fluorescent lights flickering intermittently overhead.
The walls were an even duller shade of beige, scratched and dented from years of wear.
A faint buzzing filled the air, mingling with the occasional clink of a distant pipe or the shuffle of footsteps from upstairs.
The air smelled of something faintly sour, was it the cheap cleaning products? Or was it something more organic—old food, maybe.
'It's not clean, but it's not unbearable either,' Mr. Valen thought as he breathed in the familiar stench.
He moved past a few doors, glancing at the scuff marks on the walls as he walked, the dull thud of his footsteps breaking the silence.
The hallway bent slightly, and faint noises seeped from neighboring apartments—a murmuring television, a couple arguing in hushed tones.
But none of it mattered.
None of it had anything to do with him.
Mr. Valen, arriving at his destination stopped in front of an apartment door, the number on it barely visible—partially obscured by peeling paint.
He knocked once, almost casually, the sound sharp against the silence, before unlocking the door and entering, "Of course no one's home, what's wrong with me?" he muttered as he looked around.
The room beyond was cramped but familiar, small enough to feel suffocating, yet with a certain kind of bleak comfort that suited his needs just fine.
He stepped inside, his eyes scanning the familiar, minimalist space.
The bare walls.
The small, worn-out sofa.
The mattress on the floor, unmade as usual.
The kitchen nook blended seamlessly into the rest of the room; there was nothing special about it, but at the same time, there was something oddly calming about the emptiness, the lack of pretense.
It was exactly what he needed, a space he could control, at least until Lia came back.
The door clicked shut behind him, the lock sliding into place with a soft, final snick.
He exhaled, his shoulders briefly tensing before relaxing as he walked straight to his reading table.
On the table, one could find a low end laptop, and with care, Mr. Valen opened it, opening a folder titled, porn.
Clicking on it revealed a picture he'd taken of a file, but that was not all, the table looked familiar, and if one paid attention they would notice that it was his boss's table, the one in Walter's office.
He'd stumbled on it during his first year, while cleaning Walter's office. What was documented there intrigued him—he didn't know why, but he felt compelled to take a picture. So he did.
The first picture was the front of the document titled: AN-15075 (The Whisper Stalker.)
The second picture was of the first page which continued the words, Lore type: Story.
The acronym 'AN' referred to 'anomaly,' and 'lore type' was a phrase Mr. Valen—try as he might—could not decipher.
He'd tried searching the web for those words but despite knowing what the words themselves meant, he could not piece together how they all fit in this context.
Letting out a breath he looked to the last page which was a rundown of the beast's abilities, It read:
AN-15075 is a humanoid beast with a slender figure and a height of ten feet. It possesses no hair, nor does it have any reproductive organs.
What it does possess are razor-sharp claws, a remarkable healing factor, and two bulging, unblinking eyes that look human in an uncanny way.
AN-15075 has jet-black skin that makes it nearly invisible in darkness.
It was confronted by a sworn party of Eagle Alliance operatives at the request of the clans around the east side of the Thornak Empire, exact date and time of discovery unknown.
Its ability to survive near the Unyielding battlefield speaks volumes about its resilience.
Its head is symmetrical, and on it is an unfaltering, wide smile exposing its surprisingly normal teeth, with a close resemblance to that of a wolf or lion.
Although it has no ears, it is extremely sensitive to sound, making it impossible to approach unaware.
It is highly intelligent, and was reported by locals to often mimic the sound of a human child to draw in its prey.
It is weak to fire, a weakness which the team managed to exploit to defeat it sustaining heavy losses in the process.
OOL: Unknown.
Status: Deceased.
As soon as Mr. Valen finished reading, he got up and crashed on the mattress, thinking to himself, "Why do I find this beast so fascinating?"
The report was obviously talking about Witches or Wizards, as he imagined that no normal human would be able to kill such a beast, and after doing some quick research, he noted that there was nowhere on planet Earth termed Thornak, meaning that they were referring to a world beyond the gates.
"This is exciting shit." Mr. Valen shuddered before muttering, "Last week, I found out where the beast was stored. But you need Level One clearance to access it—mine's only... ahhh!"
Mr. Valen suddenly groaned, a sudden headache assaulting him, so strongly that he tossed and turned.
"Fuck," he muttered, his eyes screwed shut, but then he opened them and he was in a white room.
Unfortunately, even in this room, the headache was still present, in fact, it grew worse, forcing him to blink again, and he was back in his room, and yet this was barely the end.
He blinked and he was in a forest, the sound of gunfire raging as a woman in a white robe led him amid a group of other scientists.
Then he transitioned to the white room, but this time he was playing chess against ten different computer systems simultaneously.
Then he was sparring with other children, sparks flying as they fought.
It went on repeatedly, scenes he didn't know or at least scenes he thought he didn't know, flashing, moving, changing constantly in his mind.
But that was not all, that was barely the worst part, what was worse was the smell, those constantly changing smells.
There was the smell of iron, there was the small of dried wood, there was the small of ash, the smell of sour mold, the smell of milk, of acid, of detergent, of rain, of plants, of strawberries—something was tweaking, tinkling, playing with his sense of smell, his own brain, his own mind, but he could not fight it, he could not fight himself.
He felt dead, alive, lied to, a myriad of emotions he didn't know how to explain, it was, in essence, overwhelming.
But then like the flip of a switch as though his mind and body could not take it anymore, he felt nothing, his squirming figure sizing all movement.
Was he dead?