The darkening sky was looming overhead, the street-lamps on full-blast, lighting up the desolate, lonely streets. Aesthetically pleasing brick buildings lined the road, the pavement suffering few blemishes and imperfections

Thankfully, Luna and S1 took all of the monster parts from the manifestation--and I carried no weapons on me--so I didn’t have anything suspicious on my person. Even so, the time was late enough that the moon was out and visible; a bad omen.

This street was distinctly residential and so, it was devoid of life outside of the lights shining through the windows. The dim sound of an engine could be heard off in the distance, occupying some other road, but here, nothing.

Eventually, though my hesitancy and trepidation in entering such a risky environment slowed my walking, I had made my way back to my provisional home.

Lights are on. Fuck.

I decided to just face the music. There was a back door but that required clambering I was not confident in succeeding with. Therefore, I had to take the front door.

I turned the key in the door and with one smooth action, it opened; that only happened when it wasn’t locked. They were still awake.

Tentatively, I pushed the door open and stepped past the threshold, the bold lights precluding any possible attempt of sneaking in. That, and the obvious, distinctive sound that turning the key and opening the door made. My only hope--the television--wasn’t even turned on so masking the sound was an impossibility.

“Charlotte,” Came an old, gravelly voice from the living room--the voice of a man who smoked many cigarettes in his venerable life. The complimentary, feminine voice was suspiciously absent.

HIs intonation floated through to where I was, with one foot on the first step of the stairs, unable to ascend any further into my room. Having been noticed, I didn’t even bother taking another step higher. Reluctantly, I trailed my way into the livingroom.

On the comfy armchair I seldom sat on was my grandfather, grey in hair and mostly bald. He was a frail-looking man of indeterminate height for he rarely stood up; I didn’t know if even I was taller than him.

I felt too awkward to take a seat myself, uncomfortable under his discerning gaze.

His eyes travelled over my face, staring hard at my cheek, my nose.

“Where have you been?” His voice was level, calm. I couldn’t see any emotion in his stern face.

“I was with a friend.” My answer was laconic, though truthful. I was a bad liar, getting flustered and answering impulsively. Lies just got tangled up and messy.

“Which friend was this?” His implication was obvious; ‘I have friends?’

“A friend I made recently at school,” It was the most plausible scenario, knowing me.

“Is she in one of your classes?”

“No,” The question was unexpected--I couldn’t formulate a convincing reply in time.

“Why were you staying out so late?” His questioning was relentless.

“We lost track of time.”

“Lost track of time doing what?”

“I was too engrossed in a book,” A nice, wholesome activity.

“How did a book cut you on the face?” His voice was firm, and much colder than the previous questions. His gaze was piercing through me, making me sweat subtly.

Fuck. I forgot that I got hit.

Instinctively, my hand went to my cheek, directly to where I was cut. As soon as I touched the dried blood, I withdrew my finger, the sting racing through my cheek but disappearing in an instant.

“I-I don’t know. I didn’t notice it...”

“What about school? Why are you absent from school?” He didn’t even take any time to ponder over my answer, probably instantly dismissing it as a lie.

I guess they called home after all.

“I lost track of time when I left to eat lunch,” It was a generic lie but there was too little time to come up with something more plausible. I was starting to suspect that he would just not believe anything I would say.

“Charlotte,” He began, pausing, to let the emphasis and weight of what he was about to say sink. In. My hair was standing on end. “From now on, you’re not allowed to stay out after school; you’ll be going straight home. Also, you’re not allowed to leave school while it’s still going on. Do you understand?”

I weakly nodded my head, his strong, domineering tone intimidating.

“Good. Go to your room.” Though he was physically unimpressive, the power and authority he emenated when speaking--the distinctive aura of a man who was not unused to violence--made one submissive under his persecution.

Timidly, I fled to my room, where I stayed the rest of the night.

For the next day, I went to school as I usually did. I sat through the same old classes, answering questions perfectly and listening to the teacher, seeing into the future and making the whole thing a total waste of time.

I was queried, actually, on my absences but once I said that I was feeling ill and left early, they merely reprimanded me to inform the school that I wasn’t feeling well and they didn’t investigate any further--most likely because they had already contacted my grandfather.

Once school was finished--and I was bored out of my mind--I hopped on a bus and went straight home, just like I had been told to. While I might’ve skipped school the two days before, I wasn’t naturally a rebellious person; the little bit of trouble I had already gotten myself into was more than enough for me.

Similarly, the story didn’t change much for the next day or the day after. I woke up, ate breakfast, did my morning ablutions, got dressed, and went to school. Once school was over, I rode the bus straight home. Rinse and repeat.

By the time Friday had rolled around, I had nearly forgotten that the beginning of this week was so abnormal; that’s how long ago Monday and Tuesday were. Perhaps my absentmindedness and detached engagement with my schooling contributed to that dissonance.

None-the-less, Friday did happen, and I did sleep once it did.

And then came Saturday.

Normally, I’m cooped up in my room on a weekend, reading a book or watching television--the standard, listless, aimless activities many teenagers engage in. However, similarly to last Saturday, I informed my guardians that I was leaving the house. Last time, I did have to answer a few detailed questions about where I was, who I was going with, and how long I would be gone--for such an activity was so unbecoming of me that they were suspicious.

This time, though I would’ve imagined that they would’ve been more suspicious, more cautious, they seemed fine with my desire to simply go out for a jog.

Which is strange because jogging is also something that I didn’t do--which was perceptible evident. Maybe my demeanour when I tell the truth is just more trustworthy?

Because I never go out for exercise, I wore just a t-shirt and some trousers, unsuitable clothing for the chilly weather we were currently experiencing; I was hoping I’d warm up a bit once I got going. I did bring a bag with me, however.

Once I stepped out and was far enough away from my house that I felt was a comfortable distance, I withdrew my phone, plugged in my earphones, and started to jog.

I had never jogged before so I didn’t really know what you’re supposed to do. Nor did I have a plan. So, instead, I just began wandering around a leisurely speed, brisk but unintensive.

The city was somewhat nicely segmented; the river ran throughout the whole thing but the centre was, obviously, the city centre (it was where all the tall and large buildings were, like the museum and the G.U.G. building). If you followed the river East, you’d find yourself at the docks, which was a lot more industrial.

Residentially, people resided all over the city. However, there were sort of three bands, with one encompassing the docks, another encompassing the city centre, and the third where I lived, the distinctly, purposefully residential area.

People mostly stayed where they lived; if they lived in the docks, they’d go to school at the docks and worked at the docks.

However, I used to live in the city centre and, right now, I quite fancied distancing myself quite a bit and so, with my destination in mind, I got to jogging.

I didn’t know how long I would be jogging for--the answer I told my grandfather was just an estimate--but I jogged with for a good half-hour or so before sitting down on a bench in a park, exhausted.

I know it was uncomely of me as I was sprawled out on the cold, hard, wooden seat but I just didn’t have the energy to care; I was having a well-deserved rest, just listening to the birds chirping early in the morning and the somewhat distant sounds of children playing.

Eventually, however, with all the aches and pains infusing my body, I pulled myself up to my feet. The sun was high in the sky, nearing its zenith, and my body had already burned all the energy it absorbed from breakfast; I was hungry.

I had lived here until not that long ago so I knew some places which sold food that I liked (and I had taken some money with me in foresight for this sort of scenario).

However, as soon as I stood up from the bench, a short black-haired man wearing a scruffy suit came jogging up to me, a bag flapping by his side. He had a disarming look on his face and, seeing how his intention seemed to be to interact with me, I stood my ground, no matter how much I didn’t want to.

“Excuse me, miss,” He spoke between heavy pants, seemingly out of breath. “I have-I have something to give you.” I was maintaining a respectful distance as he began to rummage in his bag.

To my surprise, he pulled out a letter. It was surprising because he rummaged for a long time to get only a letter. It was bright white with a wax seal--something I had only ever seen in fiction. I wonder if they can be made out of candle wax?

He handed the letter to me while turning it over, prominently displaying my name on the blank, white space written in delectably appealing calligraphy.

Once the letter left his hand, he began his immediate retreat. Suspiciously brisk. To be handed a letter while I wasn’t even home, to say the least, it was certainly perplexing.

Firstly, to actually hand me a letter, they’d need to know my location before-hand. That, in this case, was impossible, since even I didn’t know where I was going to go. Someone was following me?

The realisation sent a shiver down my spine, and I instantly swept my gaze across the surroundings.

There were children playing innocently with a ball--they might’ve been young teenagers. There were people jogging through, dressed in athletic wear. There were also people sitting on the benches dotted about the pathways. All these people had blended into the background before but now, even their mere presence was unsettling.

With my heart thumping fast and hard in my chest, I unsteadily lowered myself back down onto the bench and opened by the letter.

Dear Charlotte Flett,

This letter is to remind you that there is a debt upon your person.

This debt has fallen to you over the passing of the previous debtor, Lucas Flett.

The debt outstanding is a £5000.

The debt is due to be paid by the end of the month.

The debt will be collected at the place of business of the debtee.

If otherwise indisposed, we will have someone sent to collect the debt on the auspicious day.

That was it; the letter ended there and there were no indications as to who it was sent by--not that I needed any indication, having already known about it.

While thinly veiled, it was a threat, clearly; giving me the letter alone in person provided credence to the final line.

I was starting to dizzy, my head lightheaded and feeling faint--thankfully, I was already sitting down.

This is real. This is all too real.

What was Lucas doing? Why did he get into so much debt? It’s barely even been a week and yet, he’s gotten me into so much shit!

I didn’t think that the debt was real, at first. Nor did I think that they would act on it; there are many debts that are wiped out when the debtor dies, like student debt.

I felt my emotions all riling up inside me, my heart thumping away like a steam train, the blood pumping through my body like coal. I was hot, incredibly hot, and my eyes were unfocused; my mind was all over the place.

I needed to clear my head. I didn’t know that consciously but I intuitively understood that my body was not good currently. Desperately, I wanted to escape this situation.

And so, I ran away.

I got up and fled from the park. I’m sure it must’ve looked suspicious, such an abrupt and sudden exit, but I couldn’t help myself, much less think over such trivialities.

I knew this city, where I was, and I just let my body take me away--any direction that was heading away from the park was fine.

I was weak and my runs and jogs were interspersed with what could only be considered a brisk walk but the buildings passed by quickly in my delirious state, the revolving, grey-brown architecture passing by in my peripheral vision.

I was watching my feet, maneuvering in between obstacles and people fluidly, and crossing roads where there were no cars, but that did not mean I was navigating the city. Truthfully, I didn’t know where I was going.

But finally, after who knows how long I was walking or running, I stopped. My body was still hot and sweaty and uncomfortable, yes, but that was due to the large amount of exercise rather rather some internal issue.

Simultaneously, I felt exhausted but also invigorated; I was full of energy but also enervated. The best way to explain it would be like falling into a state of pseudo-hypomania when sleep deprived--phantom energy fills your body.

Aches were crawling all over my body but I ignored them; a captivating sight befell my eyes.

There was a building--relatively small in size, considering it was situated in the city centre. It was a typically stout collection of homes--about four, single-floor apartments, with two on the ground floor and two on the second floor. Except, however, on large, distinct, things; it was a hive.

Giant masses of grey, concrete-like tendrils were coiled around the house, sticking out like toothpicks stabbed in meat. It looked like an octopus had exploded from inside.

The street was deserted and I had only just turned the corner--the building was still quite a bit away from me--but it was clearly a recent hive. There were people wearing the uniform of the G.U.G. stationed outside the building, with cars plastered with a livery clearly designating what organisation they belonged to.

What’s going on? Has no user come to clear the hive yet?

My compulsions overtook me and I found myself drifting towards the cordoned-off area, like a balloon in a strong wind. However, as I approached, one of the G.U.G. workers--a middle-aged looking woman with an authoritative stance that exuded experience--caught sight of me and quickly walked up to me.

“This area is off-limits,” She missed no beat, directly and confidently informing me to step no further.

“I’m a user registered with the G.U.G.” I proffered instinctively, not thinking over my actions. “I have my identity card with me,” I reached within my bag and pulled out the small piece of glossy plastic, showing it to her.

“Are you a user answering the report for this hive?” Her tone was swift and incisive, clearly not wanting to waste any time.

“No, I was just wandering around and stumbled across here but I’m willing to help out.” What am I doing?

“It’s good your here but could you tell me your rank? It’s a weak hive so I’m afraid I must advise you of going in there alone if you’re lower than a C-rank; the residents have already evacuated.” Her tone was firm but not rude; it felt like she was giving me advice because she cared.

“I’m a C-rank user and I’m here to help.” I don’t know why but I felt a strong, inexplicable urge to enter the hive, even so far as to lie about myself to do so. In hindsight, it was ridiculously dangerous for me to do so, when no one knew I was there and no other user in sight, but the danger of the situation completely failed to register for me.

I was placing so much confidence in something when I hadn’t even used my Specialisation.

“Then it’s good your here. I’ll leave you to do your thing.” She stepped back after she said that and only now did I notice that some of her partners were watching our exchange from afar, presumably so they could come to her aid quickly if needed.

Now, I was clear to enter the hive. To enter the hive. Alone. I’ve only been in two actual hives, and both times nearly died. What was I doing? Something incredibly stupid, apparently.