Lord Of The Stories

Leo woke up coughing.

His lungs ached. His hands scraped against cold metal as he rolled onto his side. His back was wet.

What the hell...?

He opened his eyes.

Dim blue light blinked from a busted fixture overhead. Pipes lined the ceiling like exposed veins. The floor was metal slick, rusted in places, dented in others. A low hum vibrated through the walls.

He sat up slowly, arms shaking.

He wasn't home.

This wasn't his room. It wasn't even close.

He looked around the cramped hallway, rusted railings, faded markings on the walls. A flickering sign in some half-dead language buzzed quietly: STORAGE.

"Where the hell am I?" he muttered under his breath.

He pushed himself to his feet, wobbling a little. His coat was damp. His shirt clung to his back like he'd been dropped in water. The air smelled like oil, metal, and something faintly burned.

He patted down his pockets.

Nothing.

No phone. No wallet. No keys.

Wait… one thing.

A folded slip of paper.

He opened it. Nothing on the front.

He flipped it over.

Then watched as a word appeared, like it was being written by an invisible pen.

Begin.

He stared at it for a long moment. His grip tightened.

Then he crumpled it and shoved it into his coat.

"Sure. Great. Very helpful," he muttered.

He moved toward the end of the hall, stepping carefully. The floor creaked beneath his boots. One door was marked Exit. He tried it.

It opened to a stairwell.

Each level up, the air got colder, but louder. Machinery clanged. Somewhere above, something hissed, steam maybe. Footsteps echoed once, then disappeared.

When he finally reached the top, he found a door with a bar handle and pushed it open.

The city hit him all at once.

He stepped out and froze.

Massive buildings loomed overhead, stacked together like they'd been bolted on top of one another. Pipes ran between them. Signs blinked in strange fonts. Some hung by wires. Others were just scratched into the walls.

Above everything, there was no sky, only a ceiling painted gold, with faint lights embedded in the structure. Fake daylight, locked at permanent dusk.

A tram hovered across a track three stories up. People moved in groups, fast and quiet, heads low.

He turned in a slow circle.

"What is this place?"

Nobody answered.

A man brushed past him, muttering something he didn't understand. Another glanced at him briefly, then kept walking.

Leo stayed still.

Okay. No sky. No phones. Language barrier. Everyone moving like they're late for something. And no one's panicking about the guy who just showed up from nowhere.

He backed up against the wall, trying to stay out of the way.

He walked for a while, keeping his head down.

The buildings got tighter the deeper he went. Narrower alleys. More grime. Most of the signs had arrows and numbers, but no real names. Some people wore coats that looked military. Others had small devices clipped to their wrists, he had none.

He passed a vendor steaming food in a dented metal cart. The smell was greasy, unfamiliar.

"Hey," Leo said, stepping closer.

The woman running the cart looked up. Her eyes scanned him fast, coat, shoes, hands.

"You lost?" she asked.

Her voice was rough, but clear.

Leo blinked. "You speak English?"

"No," she replied. Then smirked. "Lucky guess."

He exhaled. "Where… am I? What city is this?"

She didn't answer right away. Just handed a customer a metal-wrapped roll, took a few coins, and waved them off.

Finally, she looked back at him. "Twilight."

"That's the name of the city?"

"It's what we call it down here. You from the ceiling or something?"

Ceiling?

"I… yeah," Leo said. "Something like that."

She looked at him for another second. "No wristband, no tag, no record. You came in undocumented."

"I don't know what that means."

"It means," she said, folding her arms, "you should keep walking."

Leo nodded. "Right."

He kept moving.

Eventually, he found a mirror nailed to the side of a building, cracked, streaked with grime. He stared at his reflection.

Same face. Same hair. Same scar on his thumb. Same eyes, but…

Something looked wrong. Off. Like he'd been stretched just a little.

He muttered to himself, "This isn't Earth. Not even close."

A screen across the street blinked to life. An official-looking face appeared—gray hood, pale skin. A robotic voice echoed from a speaker nearby:

"Reminder: All travelers must carry identification. Enforcer sweeps will begin at sunset. Failure to comply may result in detainment."

Leo felt it in his chest.

No ID. No documents. No idea what time it was.

He glanced around.

Three men in matching coats passed down the block, quiet, fast, scanning people as they walked. No badges, no smiles.

He didn't wait.

He moved the other direction, ducked into a side street, and kept his eyes low.

He finally found a bench near an empty rail line. One man was sleeping nearby, head against a crate. A woman sat cross-legged, reading a folded booklet with no title.

Leo sat on the edge of the bench, elbows on knees, watching his breath fog in the cold air.

He rubbed his hands together, trying to think.

You clicked yes.

This is the result.

Was this what that fox-thing meant?

He pulled the crumpled paper from his pocket again.

Still one word.

Begin.

"I'm trying," he muttered.

He folded it again and tucked it away.

His stomach growled.

No food. No map. No idea who he was supposed to talk to—or if anyone here would care.

One thing was clear.

If he stood out too much, he'd end up just like those ghosts from the warning screen.

A loud horn echoed in the distance, followed by a mechanical whine. A tram skimmed across a rail overhead, its underside flickering with red light.

Leo looked up, watching it pass.

He stood slowly and wiped his hands on his coat. His fingers were still shaking.

He didn't know where to go. He couldn't ask for help. Every time he opened his mouth, someone looked at him like he'd stepped out of a story they hadn't written.

"Alright," he muttered, "just walk. Don't stop moving."

He turned down another narrow street and disappeared into the flow of people. Everyone was in a hurry. Everyone looked tired.

Halfway down the block, he noticed something strange.

A man had stopped walking.

He stood by a wall, half-hidden behind a pillar, watching the crowd. His eyes tracked people like a scanner. Not hostile—just too focused.

Leo didn't know why he noticed him. Something about the way he stood. The way he didn't move with the flow.

Their eyes met for half a second.

Then Leo looked away.

He kept walking. Faster now. Turned a corner.

Don't run. Just stay normal. Blend in.

He ducked into a narrow alley with a broken pipe steaming into the air and leaned against the wall. His heart was pounding again.

Was that guy following him?

He waited.

Footsteps echoed faintly on the metal grating beyond the alley.

Then… they stopped.

Silence.

Leo held his breath.

Ten seconds. Fifteen.

Nothing.

Finally, he peeked out.

The street was busy again. The man was gone.

Leo exhaled. "Too early to be paranoid," he said under his breath.

He stepped back into the flow of the crowd and kept walking, head down, hands in pockets.

He didn't notice the pair of boots that had stopped on the rooftop above.

Or the figure crouched in the shadows, watching him.

****

Inside a nearby building, a communicator crackled to life.

"Found him," a voice said. "Unregistered male. Mid-twenties. Matches no records. Entered from Gate Seven. No faction, no ID."

There was a pause.

Then the reply came, low and sharp.

"Keep eyes on him. Don't approach yet. Let's see if he writes his own way in… or falls out."