The dim light of the Sector 4 diner hummed, a low-frequency vibration that rattled my teeth. I stared at the Aether-compass on the grease-stained table, its needle twitching with an unnatural, rhythmic heat. Every pulse sent a crimson flare through the brass casing, casting long, bloody shadows against my empty coffee cup.
Outside, the rain didn't fall; it descended like liquid soot, clinging to the neon signs of the repair shops and the jagged silhouettes of the skyline. Sector 4 was a place where things went to be forgotten—including people. But this compass, a relic I’d lifted from a courier who looked far too terrified to be carrying mere scrap, was screaming to be noticed.
It wasn't pointing North. It wasn't even pointing toward the Great Spire. The needle was locked firmly on the "AETHER REPAIRS" shop directly across the cobblestone street.
That shop had been boarded up since the Great Collapse of ’19. The windows were opaque with decades of dust, and the heavy iron locks were fused with rust. Yet, as I watched, a faint, rhythmic blue glow began to seep through the cracks in the doorframe—perfectly synced with the red pulse of the compass in my hand.
The air in the diner suddenly tasted like ozone and old copper. The patrons around me—shadowy figures hunched over their bowls—didn't look up. In this part of the city, you learned early that noticing the impossible was a quick way to end up as part of the pavement.
I pulled my collar up, the leather damp and cold against my neck. I didn't have a choice. If the courier was dead and the compass was alive, the answer was behind those rusted doors.
