11:57 PM – Old Railway Station (Aryan's POV)
The air smelled like rust and rain.
The old railway station had been abandoned for years, left to rot like a forgotten memory. The platform was cracked, weeds pushing through the gaps in the concrete. A rusted-out train car sat motionless on the tracks, its windows shattered, its metal frame eaten away by time.
The only source of light was a flickering streetlamp near the entrance. It buzzed weakly, casting long, jagged shadows across the empty station.
I pulled my jacket tighter around me, my fingers brushing against the pocketknife I'd shoved inside. Just in case.
A train whistle howled in the distance—somewhere far away, where the tracks were still alive.
Here, everything was dead.
Except for the feeling.
That heavy, sinking feeling that I wasn't alone.
I forced my breathing to stay steady, my footsteps light as I stepped onto the platform. The silence here wasn't normal. It wasn't the peaceful kind of quiet. It was too still, like the place itself was holding its breath.
A gust of wind blew through the station, rattling a loose metal sign.
Platform 3. The paint had peeled away in places, the numbers barely visible beneath years of dust and decay.
I clenched my jaw.
The caller had told me to come. Alone.
I was here.
But they weren't.
Yet.
I checked my phone—12:00 AM.
Right on time.
A footstep echoed from the darkness.
I froze.
It wasn't mine.
I turned sharply, scanning the shadows. The dim light stretched across the empty tracks, touching the edges of the broken train car.
Nothing.
And then—
"You came."
The voice came from behind me.
I whipped around.
A man stepped out from the shadows, his movements slow, deliberate. He was tall, dressed in a dark coat, the hood pulled up just enough to hide his face. His hands were shoved in his pockets, as if this was just another casual meeting.
Except it wasn't.
My fingers curled into fists. "Who are you?"
The man tilted his head slightly, as if considering me. "That's not the question you should be asking."
I swallowed hard, forcing my voice to stay even. "Fine. Who is Reyza Vale?"
He exhaled, and for the first time, I saw a shift in his posture. A barely-there hesitation.
"A mistake," he said finally.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you need."
Frustration burned in my chest. "My father—"
"Knows exactly who I am."
My stomach clenched. "You're—"
"No." The man cut in before I could finish. "But I knew him. I knew all of them."
All of who?
I opened my mouth to demand more, but then I saw it.
The scar.
A deep, jagged mark on his wrist, barely visible beneath the sleeve of his coat. It looked old, like something that had been carved into his skin long ago.
Not an accident.
A mark.
A warning.
Something twisted inside me.
"Go home, Aryan," the man said softly. "You don't want to be part of this."
My heart pounded. "I already am."
For the first time, his expression shifted.
Not anger. Not frustration.
Something worse.
Pity.
And then—before I could say anything else—he turned.
Stepped back into the shadows.
And disappeared.
Leaving me standing there.
Alone.
With nothing.
Except the truth I had always feared.
I wasn't supposed to find out about Reyza Vale.
Because people who did—
Didn't live long enough to ask more questions.