By Monday morning, Brandon tried to shake the unease. The city had rhythms—work, study, errands—but lately, even routine felt brittle, like a film stretched too tight. He buried himself in job hunting, updating résumés, scheduling mock interviews, keeping his focus sharp and practical. The promise of control was a comfort, even as New Ashara's pulse crept through the walls.
He sat at the dining table, laptop open, fresh coffee steaming beside him. His mom moved around in the background, dusting shelves and humming to a local station. The music was bright, but beyond the melody, Brandon caught faint skips of static—the kind that sounded like whispers layered under the tune.
"You're gonna wear that keyboard out before someone hires you," she teased, passing with a basket of folded towels.
Brandon smiled, but his eyes kept flicking to the overhead light, which blinked and steadied, blinked again—never quite dead, never quite stable.
"Trying to get ahead. Couple IT recruiters emailed me back—one wants networking experience. Maybe an interview this week."
"That's good news!" She set the towels aside, hopeful. "Things fall into place when you keep steady."
He nodded, wanting to believe her, searching for her certainty, but the hush in the room was heavy. For a moment, it pressed back the weight in his chest.
Then, mid-song, the radio dropped into a long, silent pause. The fridge stopped humming. Lights flickered and failed—just for a breathless instant. In the blackness, Brandon's heart hammered loud enough to hear.
With a click, power snapped back. Everything normal. Almost.
His mom sighed. "Not again. Third time this week."
Brandon's pulse raced, but he forced a simple response. "Must be city maintenance."
She shook her head. "Hope they figure it out soon. Ashara gets strange when it's restless."
He watched the kitchen clock—the red second hand stuck for a beat, then moved, breaking the spell.
That evening, Brandon met Tariq at a diner just off University Row. Neon signs bled pink and blue across their booth, making their faces look like the ghosts of people neither quite recognized.
Tariq eyed him over a half-eaten burger. "Job hunt stressing you out, or did you get haunted last night?"
Brandon spun the straw in his drink, shoulders tense. "The power keeps cutting. Even at home. Just glitches. Wiring."
"Bro, it's New Ashara. The city was built on 'almost'—almost stable, almost fixed." Tariq grinned, but his eyes narrowed. "Still, you think it's all random?"
Brandon hesitated, thinking of the patterns he'd found with Tariq—the blackouts, the code tags, the way data seemed to rearrange itself behind the city's skin.
"Maybe. Maybe not. You ever just feel… watched?"
Tariq pointed a fry. "That's what makes you good at this. Noticing weird stuff. But balance logic with living, alright? You can't debug a haunted city."
Brandon cracked a smile, tension breaking for a split second. "Secret to enlightenment, huh?"
"That, and fries." Tariq stuffed another in his mouth. "Did you finish those CompTIA labs? We need those certs if we wanna get work before the apocalypse hits."
Brandon chuckled. "Or before the lights go out for good."
They both laughed. But when the lights flickered above them, a neon buzz filled the quiet. The moment lingered, unspoken, and Brandon's unease settled in again.
Later that week, home with his parents after sunset. His father worked on a battered chair, sanding the wood while rain-darkened air curled onto the porch. The smell of sawdust and damp earth hung between them.
"Evening, son," his father said, nodding. "I hear you've been busy."
"Trying. Job search mostly. Feels pointless sometimes."
"You cast anyway." They stood in easy silence.
His father paused the sandpaper, gaze lingering beyond the yard. "Your mother says you seem distracted. Anything we should know?"
Brandon hesitated, then admitted, "Just… the city feels off. Trouble with power. People—everyone—on edge."
His father set the sandpaper aside, eyes catching Brandon's. "Ashara's survived worse. But it's the kind of place where you learn to read the rhythm or it'll grind you down. Just—stay grounded."
Brandon nodded, the advice echoing in his ears. "Yeah. I know."
His father smiled, softer now. "Don't lose yourself chasing shadows. There's always plenty of them here."
Brandon snorted, the fear easing for a moment as his mother's humming reached the porch.
"Go help your mom," his father said. "Or she'll repaint everything again out of boredom."
Brandon's laugh chased away the tension. The sound of home—the porch light buzzing, the kitchen bustling, the city's heartbeat faint beneath it all—restored something steady in him.
On the drive to meet Maya, the sky was low and metallic, rain pooling along the curb. Something was wrong with the traffic lights along Main—they blinked red in perfect sequence, each holding for a moment as if marking his progress. Every intersection repeated the dance, then the last turned green just as Brandon crossed beneath.
He slowed, watching neon shimmer across rain-streaked glass.
The moment he cleared the intersection, all the lights behind him flashed green, one after another.
His grip tightened; dread curled beneath his ribs.
"Just coincidence," he whispered.
Yet, like pulses from a buried heart, the signals kept coming.
And as New Ashara settled into its uneasy sleep, Brandon realized: some things didn't want to be ignored. Not anymore.