A figure stepped in, draped in a coat that seemed to be made of woven smoke. Where a face should have been, there was only a shimmering, violet "S" carved into the dark, pulsing like a dying star.
Elias didn't turn. The waitress, Martha—or whatever was wearing Martha’s skin tonight—was wiping the same spot on the counter for the third hour. Her eyes were solid matte black, reflecting no light from the buzzing tubes above.
"If I give it to you," Elias asked, his voice trembling, "does the sun come back?"
"The Dark S is coming," Martha whispered, her voice folding into itself like crumbling paper. "The Great Silence. The Shadow Seed."
"Elias," the figure breathed, and the temperature in the room dropped until the coffee froze in its pot. "You held the line long enough. Give it back."
Elias let go. The sphere didn't fall; it expanded. The diner, Martha, and the neon sign were swallowed in an instant. There was no pain—only the feeling of a long-held breath finally being released into the infinite, velvet quiet of the Dark S.
"The shadows are longer tonight," Elias muttered, watching his own reflection in the window. It wasn't mimicking him anymore. His reflection stood perfectly still, staring back with an expression of profound hunger.
