Melos is a district known for its empty mornings and compact nightly activities. It resides near the ring of the Fifth, to make it accessible to those in the Fourth as well. Despite its apparent enjoyment and fanfare, no one truly lives in Melos. It’s often associated with dead ends and bottomless tabs.

Kwong’s only been there a couple times. Back when they were an Enforcer and the precinct took them to drinks for their birthday, and as a poorly thought out gift from Mike when they moved into Lokra. Both those times the sun had long set and the night was brightly lit by street lamps and glowing signs. Now, during the day, Kwong feels that there’s nothing here, that no life resides in these quiet roads.

There doesn’t seem to be any cool winds either.

Kwong puts the bike to a crawling pace and glances down at the last order. It’s a request for a radio repair. It would be annoying, calling a repairman from Arklo all the way to Melos, a three-hour journey on a busy day, if it didn’t finally give Kwong a moment of peace. Their breathing is finally steadying.

The address, 74BG, leads Kwong to hover outside a boarded-up town home. Spray paint litters the front with HAUNTED! KEEP OUT! in bright bubbly pink letters. Kwong stares at the ticket and cuts the engine. The motorcycle clunks to the ground, helping them propel off it smoothly with practiced ease. Kwong clicks on the HAZARD lights once more and folds the ticket into their pocket as they head up the cobbled stone path.

The building clearly looks like the survivor of a fire or an explosion, the windows above the first floor having been blown out. Scorch marks litter the bricks around the entrances and small patches of grass from what was probably once a garden remain dead.

This is 74, Kwong thinks, glancing on either side of the building. There’s a small narrow path on the right, nearly covered in broken glass and hidden under discarded planks of wood. Kwong frowns and follows it, thick boots preventing shards from digging into them. Reaching the end of the home, the path turns a corner and directs them to another structure. Cellar doors labeled with A PLACE OF WORSHIP in the same bubbly pink. A neon sign hangs loosely above, dull with no electricity running through it. PRAYER WILL GUIDE YOU it warns. Beside the doors are some sort of shrines featuring religious iconography Kwong is unfamiliar with.

I get it, Kwong realizes. 74 Below Ground. Hilarious.

Kwong bends their knees and strains themselves for what feels like the millionth time today to heave the doors open. They groan but eventually, the wood swings around on its hinges and Kwong is looking down at a narrow ladder.

“It’s never simple,” Kwong mutters, hiking their jumpsuit up higher on their waist and tightening the sleeves around their hips. They secure their backpack before turning around to start their descent.

The first step is easy, the second creaks.

The third is met with a terrible chill.

What light fluttered through the smog of Crosstone suddenly vanished against them. Kwong shivers, knowing that when they look up, something tall and sinister will meet them. They’re unable to stop themselves, peeling their gaze from the splintered rungs of the ladder, moving from clawed feet and grey rags and landing on a mask of a weeping woman.

The shadow looks down at Kwong, as if perplexed by their nature as much as they are by it. And then it moves faster than Kwong can register. It brings its blade down from the left.

“Shit!” Kwong grunts, their cheek stinging as they push away, adrenaline pumping through their veins. The ladder is old, refuses to move with Kwong and they lose their footing and their grasp. Kwong is falling.

The ground rushes up to meet them, pain blossoming in the back of their eyelids where the inky darkness meets red embers and it smells like smoke.

Kwong groans as needles shoot through their shoulder, which took the brunt of the landing, and curls in on themself.

They don’t know how long they lay there, eyes tightly shut and breathing in deeply. Maybe seconds, maybe minutes, but eventually, Kwong’s exhaling slowly through their nose and the pain has subsided some from its initial explosion. Carefully, they open their eyes to glance at the entrance from which they came. There is nothing there anymore, no lingering shadow, no smoke. Only the sun bleeds through the open door.

“That was a helluva fall,” a voice says, soft enough Kwong nearly misses it.

Kwong springs forward, ignoring the immediate retaliation of their shoulder and glancing around. The cellar is mostly empty. Prayer rugs litter the cold concrete floor, all leading up to a small stage at the very end. There, Kwong spots the radio, crackling as if unable to filter anything through its speaker but white noise. Beside it is a man, whose body is stretched out comfortably.

The stranger slowly sits up, pushing himself off his elbows to give Kwong a proper smile. The mechanic notices two things, the sunglasses that rest effortlessly on the bridge of his nose, and the thick ink that mars the hand that extends itself in some makeshift greeting. Snakes, dark and curling, cover nearly all of the exposed pale skin.

Kwong is unsure, thrown off from the harsh landing and the echoing pain, but the tattoos look as if they’re shifting.

“What’s wrong?” The stranger asks, pleased with himself. He sounds happy, grinning shamelessly.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” 

THE STRANGER: End.