Echo of the Departed

 Benjamin stepped off the train and into the dimly lit platform of Newark Station, the hiss of the departing train echoing through the cavernous space as it continued down the tracks, bypassing the station like the last few ghosts of the city’s former life. The air here felt colder than New York, with a bite that seemed to sink into his bones, exacerbated by the eerie quiet that blanketed the once-bustling terminal. He pulled his coat tighter around his shoulders and glanced up at the rusted metal beams overhead. The station had seen better days—years of neglect were clear in the flickering lights and the faint smell of decay that seemed to cling to every surface. There was a time when Newark Station had been a hub of activity, a gateway between New York’s relentless energy and Newark’s industrial underbelly. But the riots had changed everything. Now, with the curfew in place, trains rarely stopped here after dark, and the few that did barely lingered long enough to let passengers ...

Benjamin moved cautiously down the cracked and uneven sidewalks, keeping to the shadows cast by the dim, flickering streetlights. The curfew was in full effect, and the police were on high alert. Sirens echoed faintly in the distance, a constant reminder of the heavy grip the city had felt since the riots broke out over a year ago. The streets were empty, save for the occasional flash of headlights cutting through the gloom. Storefronts were shuttered, some scarred by broken windows hastily boarded up, graffiti smeared across their surfaces. The once-busy streets were now marked by decay and neglect. The closer he got to QXT’s, the more the world seemed to shift, the air thick with a heaviness that felt unnatural. He pulled the hood of his jacket tighter over his head, trying to blend into the darkness, not wanting to draw the attention of the police. Their presence was never far off, and while Benjamin had business tonight, he couldn’t afford to get stopped. As Benjamin approached the...