There are no stars in the sky.

The smog that covers Crosstone, entrapping the city in a never-ending sense of evening, is suffocating. It’s cold, the tail end of winter spiraling up to rush past the two of them on the roof. The streets below seem impossibly loud, sirens blaring against roaring crowds as firetrucks speed towards a rising smoke. The Harold Banks building is burning, flames unfurling through the windows and painting red tones on the dark blank canvas above. These flames are the only source of bright light, overpowering everything else and warming Kwong’s back. The smell of fumes reaches them even here, nearly five blocks away and four stories higher.

It’s at this highest point, with a heat nipping at their neck, that Kwong watches Quinton dance precariously on the ledge. Each step Kwong takes towards her is punctuated by another step Quinton takes in the waltz towards the edge. Her coat is childishly playing to the shine of the fire behind them, highlighting the railing she’s crossed over. 

“Quinton.”

"There must be another way."

There’s silence, and then laughter stumbles from Quinton’s throat, shaking her grey hair around her cheeks until another cool burst of wind sweeps it away with the embers.

“There is no other way,” she replies. Her voice sounds off, a mimic of her usual tone, a premade recording filtering through speakers. The white noise that was nearly a hum before grows louder, more intense, only interrupted by the crackling of the burning building.

 “Quinton,” Kwong whispers, stepping forward. 

There is no more space to waltz, there is only the fall.

“Quinton!” Kwong tries again, shouting over the white noise and the fire. “Don’t!”

The shout seems to carry, despite the static. Quinton stops her swaying movement. For the first time since they’ve arrived on this roof, Kwong sees her hesitate. She turns to face them, a small smile resting comfortably on her face.

“Don’t be afraid,” she whispers.

“Afraid of what?” Kwong calls out, reaching the railing.

Quinton shrugs and opens her mouth but Kwong is no longer able to hear her over the blaring white noise. Her tongue cleans her teeth, her lips move and then her shoulders shake as if she’s laughing at a joke Kwong will never be able to understand. And then her body tips back. Kwong instinctively moves forward, reaching out, the fumes watering their eyes.

But this moment has already happened, and Kwong knows what they see behind their eyelids. Darkness, and when they open their eyes, Quinton is gone. Kwong’s fingers grasp at floating embers.

Horror seeps into their blood and clots their veins, rooting them in place against the metal barricade. Suddenly, its safety feels like entrapment. All sound is gone, seeming to have fallen away with Quinton, leaving Kwong alone on the roof.

“Quinton?” Kwong coughs, the fire in their lungs making it difficult to breathe. Or maybe it is the immeasurable panic that grips at their throat, tightening with each passing second.

There is no spoken reply from the edge of the building, but it does answer. It twists into form, crawling from somewhere beneath, and spilling into itself like sentient oil. It dribbles onto the warming ground, small at first, but with each drop it gains a sense of body Kwong cannot understand. The shape twists, elongating itself and grows deep holes of red, for eyes and a mouth. As it slithers closer, opening itself to share its massive fangs, it watches Kwong with recognizable patience. It’s waiting, Kwong realizes, always waiting for the moment they twist away. But this moment has already happened, and as Kwong turns to run, a hissing sound interrupts the silence and sharp pain shoots through their neck.

And then there’s nothing.

Kwong shoots forward, breathing heavy.

Their apartment is dark, the windows, bare of curtains, showcase the sky right before dawn. The sheets around them are soaked with sweat and the loose hair tie Kwong uses at night has slipped away between the pillows. Despite the small fan that resides by their bedside desperately spinning, Kwong feels feverish and sticky. It’s as if Spring decided to end prematurely, giving way for rolling Summer heat.

A dull ache rests at the center of their head and Kwong, with unsteady hands, reaches up to gently rub between their brows. It does nothing to soothe them, but eventually, the familiar ringing in their ears subsides and the quiet reminder of their neighbors’ tumultuous relationship filters in.

Shouting and a pot slamming to the floor. It echoes through their shared walls in their cramped apartments, making the plants that hang from the ceiling shake in warning.

“Fuck,” Kwong mutters, falling back into bed, throwing the wet sheets to the floor for now. Their pillow follows soon after when they turn their cheek and feel the wet spots from sweat. Another pot slams against the floor, the yelling too muffled to make out what this particular fight was about. If Kwong hazards a guess, it’s probably because rent is due in two days and neither of them have saved for it. Kwong understands this frustration personally.

Only having moved in two months ago, money wasn’t a luxury Kwong could spare until Mike hired them.

Kwong sighs, pulling their palms up to cover their eyes, cooling if only for a moment. Behind their eyelids, a darkness sits still before sparks of red seem to shoot across the vast space.

“What were you trying to tell me?” Kwong mutters to themself. “What did you want me to do?”

Kwong’s plants shake with the tremor of another thrown pot, this time against the wall rather than the floor.

THE STRANGER, Pt. 1