Date: 12:15 AM, April 1, 2025

  Location: Pioneer Square, Seattle, Washington

  The windshield wipers of Sarah’s beat-up Honda thrashed against the rain, barely keeping up. Pioneer Square’s cobblestone streets glistened under flickering streetlights as she pulled into a parking lot near the shelter. The hum—those damn bells—rattled her bones, louder here, like it was coming from underground. She killed the engine, peering through the blur at the squat brick building ahead. A faded sign read “Hope’s Beacon Shelter”, but the windows were dark, the front door ajar.

  Jake’s last words looped in her head: “The shelter. Don’t come.” Too late for that. She grabbed her recorder, a cheap flashlight from the glovebox, and stepped out, rain soaking her jeans. The air smelled wrong—wet concrete mixed with something sour, metallic. Blood? She shook her head. Imagination running wild.

  The shouts she’d heard earlier were closer now, echoing from the alleys. She clicked on the flashlight, sweeping it across the lot. Empty, except for a dumpster overflowing with trash—and a smear of something dark trailing toward the shelter. Her gut clenched. “Jake, you better be okay,” she muttered, starting forward.

  Inside, the shelter was a tomb. The lobby stank of mildew and that sour tang, stronger now. Her flashlight caught on overturned chairs, a bulletin board plastered with flyers—“Join Us in Hope!”—and that worm symbol, scratched into the wood. Her recorder whirred as she whispered, “Pioneer Square shelter, 12:15 AM. Something’s off. No one here, but signs of a struggle.”

  A creak came from the hall ahead. She froze, beam darting to the shadows. “Hello? Jake?” No answer, just the bells, pulsing like a heartbeat. She edged forward, past a kitchen littered with spilled food—cans of soup, a loaf of bread torn open. Then she saw it: a trapdoor in the floor, half-hidden under a rug, propped open. The hum poured from it, thick and alive.

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  “Basement,” she breathed into the recorder. “Jake might be down there.” She hesitated, then descended, the wooden steps groaning under her weight. The air grew colder, damp, the smell sharpening into decay. Her flashlight flickered—cheap piece of junk—then steadied, revealing a concrete room. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with blankets, canned goods… and jars. Dozens of them, filled with cloudy liquid and floating shapes—fingers, eyes, chunks of flesh.

  Sarah gagged, stumbling back. “What the hell…” Her beam swept further, landing on a table covered in papers—maps of Seattle, marked with red Xs, and a sketch of that worm symbol, labeled “The Wyrm of Ascension”. Beside it, a photo: Jake, smiling, arm around a gaunt man in a robe, both holding tools—shovels, picks. Miners?

  Footsteps thudded above. She killed the light, crouching behind a shelf. Voices filtered down—low, urgent.

  “—Broodmind’s awake. The Patriarch says it’s time.”

  “Good. The Star Children hear us. Did you secure the hybrid?”

  “Upstairs. Still thrashing. Needs the Kiss again.”

  Sarah’s blood ran cold. Broodmind? Patriarch? She’d heard crazier conspiracy theories, but this… this was something else. The steps creaked—someone descending. She held her breath, recorder still running, as a figure stepped into view. Tall, robed, face shadowed—but their hands were wrong, too many fingers, tipped with claws. They sniffed the air, head tilting.

  “She’s here,” they rasped. “The unbeliever. I smell her fear.”

  Sarah bolted, flashlight clattering as she scrambled up the stairs. The figure hissed, lunging, but she burst into the lobby, slamming the trapdoor shut. It bucked under a blow from below, wood splintering. She ran for the exit, bursting into the rain as shouts erupted behind her.

  Outside, the square wasn’t empty anymore. Figures in hoods lined the streets, chanting in unison, their voices blending with the bells. One turned—four eyes, glowing—and pointed. “Heretic!” it screeched.

  Sarah sprinted for her car, keys fumbling in her shaking hands. Tires squealed as she peeled out, heart hammering. The shelter shrank in her rearview, but the chanting followed, a tide of sound swallowing the night.

  She didn’t see Jake. But she knew now: he wasn’t just caught up in something. He was part of it. And whatever “it” was, it was bigger than Seattle—bigger than anything she’d ever chased.