The alley Zoya led him into did not look like a place where someone survived anything.
Cracked walls. A leaning telephone pole wrapped in old election posters. A drain that smelled like someone had given up on cleaning it in 1995.
But the air?
Wrong.
Thick.
Heavy.
Like it remembered shadows.
Manraj slowed as the alley narrowed, the number in his chest pulsing dully, synchronizing with something ahead.
29…
29…
29…
Zoya noticed.
"Good," she murmured. "That means we're close."
"Close to what?" he asked.
She didn't answer.
Not because she didn't want to—
Because she didn't know how to put it into words yet.
---
THE PLACE AZHAR RETURNED TO
The alley opened into a small courtyard hidden behind old tenements. A single tree grew in the center — thin, bent, branches reaching in awkward directions like it had grown around invisible walls.
Manraj felt something pull toward it.
Zoya stopped walking.
Her Silence rose around her like a low hum.
"…This is it."
Manraj frowned.
"A tree?"
Zoya shook her head.
"The anchor."
He blinked.
"What anchor?"
Zoya took a slow step forward.
"Azhar didn't live anywhere," she said. "He didn't sleep in a bed. Didn't keep a home. Shadows like him don't root in places like we do."
She gestured toward the crooked tree.
"He rooted here."
Manraj felt a chill run through him.
"What does that mean?"
"Anchors keep the world steady for people with unstable cores," Zoya said quietly. "Places where they can re-align themselves. Places they can return to. And for Azhar…"
Her voice thinned.
"…this was the only place that felt like his."
Manraj stepped closer, brushing his fingers along the uneven bark.
The tree shuddered.
Zoya's hand shot out.
"DON'T—!"
But it was too late.
A shadow rippled down the bark like ink sliding through veins.
Manraj yanked his hand back.
"What—what was that?!"
Zoya swallowed.
"Residual anchor-energy." Her voice was tight. "Azhar's shadow remembers he was here. Trees hold impressions better than stone."
The air shifted.
A breeze that wasn't a breeze.
A pressure that wasn't physical.
It pressed against Manraj's chest like a palm.
The number pulsed.
29 → 29 → 28
Manraj stiffened.
"Zoya…"
"I know," she whispered. "It felt that."
---
THE UNDER-ROOT REACTS
A rumble vibrated through the ground.
Not loud. Not strong.
But intentional.
"It's testing this place," Zoya said, moving in front of him. "It can feel Azhar's imprint. It can feel you. And it's trying to decide which one is closer."
Manraj pressed a hand to his chest.
The burn wasn't pain anymore.
It was recognition.
"It's… sniffing," he whispered.
Zoya grimaced. "Yeah. Great. Love being hunted by a horror that uses sonar based on your heartbeat."
The shadow on the tree stretched.
Longer.
Thinner.
Moving like a puppet dragged upward by unseen strings.
Manraj stumbled backward.
"Zoya—it's forming something."
"I see it," she hissed.
The shadow elongated—
then snapped into a shape that made both of them freeze.
A silhouette.
Tall.
Thin.
Hair hanging in loose strands.
And then—
a familiar tilt of the head.
Manraj's voice cracked.
"Azhar?"
Zoya grabbed his wrist with brutal force.
"No. That's NOT him."
The silhouette sharpened.
Azhar's outline.
Azhar's posture.
Azhar's presence.
But wrong.
So wrong.
It was hollow. Stretched. Copied from memory like a corrupted sketch.
It raised one hand toward Manraj.
Not reaching.
Pointing.
And when the shadow spoke, the voice was fragmented, echoing from somewhere impossibly deep beneath the ground:
"…ves…sel…"
Manraj flinched.
Zoya shoved him behind her.
"BACK. UP. NOW."
The shadow-Azhar's form flickered violently.
The tree bark split.
Dark veins pulsed beneath it.
Zoya cursed.
"It's trying to BUILD a shape around the anchor. It's learning his outline."
Manraj's chest heaved.
"It's using Azhar AGAIN—"
"NO," Zoya snapped. "It doesn't have Azhar. It has his VOID. His absence."
The shadow raised its head—slowly—
—and its eyes opened.
Two pits of absolute black.
Old. Ancient. Starving.
It whispered:
"…the light… is near…"
Manraj felt the air punch out of his lungs.
"It sees me."
Zoya didn't wait.
Her Silence detonated outward—raw, violent, white-cracking force.
The shadow-Azhar shattered into a thousand pieces—
—but the fragments didn't fall.
They slid across the ground, ooze-like, pooling into a thin black spiral around the tree.
Manraj grabbed her arm.
"Zoya—what is it doing?"
Zoya's face went pale.
"It's making a MARK."
The spiral widened.
A slow-turning sigil formed beneath their feet.
A tracking sigil.
Except—
This wasn't for the Under-Root to find them.
This was for the Under-Root to follow.
"Zoya—!"
"I KNOW!"
She slammed her Silence down again, cracking the ground.
The sigil recoiled.
But didn't break.
Manraj stepped forward instinctively.
The number in his chest pulsed harder.
28 → 28 → 28
Zoya snapped at him:
"STOP! Don't go near it—your core is feeding it!"
He froze mid-step.
"But we have to break it!"
Zoya looked around.
Her voice dropped to a sharp whisper:
"We can't. We're on its territory. Anchors aren't neutral. This place remembers Azhar more than it remembers you."
Manraj's breath hitched.
"So it's choosing him?"
"No," she said.
"It's choosing the one who left the biggest wound."
The spiral pulsed once.
Twice.
And a final whisper seeped up from the earth:
"…ves sel… ne ar…"
Manraj shivered.
Zoya grabbed him again.
"We're leaving. NOW."
"But the sigil—"
"We can't break it," she said, voice trembling but steady. "But we can stay ahead of it."
She pulled him out of the courtyard, the tree trembling behind them like something beneath it was waking.
The moment they stepped into open street—
28 dropped to 27.
Manraj gas
ped.
"Zoya—!"
"I know," she whispered, taking his hand again.
Her Silence sparked at her fingertips.
"Manraj… that wasn't a summon."
He swallowed.
"What was it?"
She met his gaze with a truth she didn't want to speak.
"It marked you."
The number throbbed again.
27.
The Under-Root pulsed back.
And the hunt tightened.