Newark

 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 off. The station was no longer a destination, but a waypoint—a place to pass through and avoid.

The hollow sound of his footsteps echoed off the cracked tiles as he made his way down the platform. The station was nearly empty, save for a few shadows lingering at the far end, barely visible through the gloom. Benjamin couldn’t tell if they were waiting for the next train or simply loitering in the shadows. Either way, he had no intention of finding out.

The thick smell of diesel and dust hung in the air, mixing with the faint traces of something more sinister—something older and more oppressive. It wasn’t just the neglect of the station that made it feel so heavy; it was the sense of abandonment that clung to every corner. Parts of the platform had been cordoned off with rusting gates and yellowed signs, warning of maintenance that would never come. The once-grand waiting area had been shut down, closed to the public as the city funneled its dwindling resources into maintaining only the most necessary services.

On the far side of the station, where the windows had long since been boarded up, shadows moved with a slow, unnatural flow, their presence barely noticeable in the corner of Benjamin’s vision. He didn’t need to look directly at them to know what they were. Wraiths. They lingered in places like this, where the veil between worlds was thin, feeding off the grief, despair, and memories of a city on the edge. They didn’t approach him, but their presence was palpable, a constant reminder of the supernatural undercurrent running beneath Newark’s surface.

Benjamin pushed forward, making his way toward the narrow stairwell that led out of the station. The curfew meant that most of Newark was locked down tight, and the streets outside the station would be just as desolate as the platform. He could already picture the boarded-up shops, the burnt-out cars that had been left to rust, and the eerie silence that had settled over the Ironbound district since the riots. But QXT’s was still open, still operating like some sort of hidden underworld beneath the city’s crumbling infrastructure.

As he reached the exit, Benjamin’s hand brushed against the cool, chipped metal of the turnstile, and he paused for a moment, glancing back over his shoulder. The station behind him was empty, but the shadows clung to the far walls, just out of reach of the flickering lights. The last train had come and gone, and now the silence was absolute.

Stepping out into the frigid night air, he pulled up the collar of his coat and started down the cracked pavement, away from the station and into the decaying heart of Newark.