With an exhausted hydraulic sigh, the air suspension gave way. The Cometa bus[1] shuddered and came to a halt at the platform. Through the glass stained by the dust of six hours on the road, the landscape revealed itself not as a city, but as a beast of concrete sleeping under a blanket of gray smog. The "Frontier," according to Silas. Hell on Earth, according to me.
Beneath the thick fabric of the denim jacket, the right pocket bulged, concealing the provisional plastic prosthesis and the latent energy pulsing underneath, a force I tried to ignore. My left hand, white with tension, crushed the backpack strap.
"Everyone off!" The driver's shout broke the stupor.
Stiff from the journey, my legs obeyed reluctantly. The aisle became a river of rushing bodies, exhaling the sour smell of sweat and anxiety, pushing to escape that metal tube.
A resounding slap. That was how the bus station welcomed me as I stepped onto the asphalt. Honking, shouts from street vendors, the distant roar of diesel engines, and incomprehensible announcements on static-filled loudspeakers. Unlike the silent embrace of the Espinhaço[2] Mountains, the noise here tried to devour you.
Following the flow of the human herd, I left the terminal. My fingers pinched the business card. Rua da Consolação, 909.
On the sidewalk, my attempt to orient myself via GPS was interrupted.
On the horizon, the setting sun bled oranges and purples over the skyscrapers, tinting the glass facades. But as I fixed my gaze on the crowd crossing the crosswalk, reality blinked. Not like a biological glitch, but as if a film of cellophane had been violently ripped from my cornea.
The modern world—the steel of the cars, the concrete of the poles, the neon of the snack bars—remained. But now, superimposed upon it, the Spiritual Frontier manifested itself.
The shadows cast by the buildings ceased to be merely the absence of light. They became viscous. They oozed down the walls like living tar, pulsing with a silent, ancient hunger. In the dark alleys, toothed, crouching silhouettes watched the passersby like predators on the savanna.
"Screw ethics, I want those numbers tripled by tomorrow! If you have to fire the whole department, fire them!"
The harsh voice cut through the air. An expensive suit brushed past, carrying an executive on the phone. Upon his shoulders, however, lay not just Italian fabric. An oily shadow writhed, embracing him like a "caring" boa constrictor. The energy emanating from it was icy, dark, vibrating with selfish ambition. The mark of Umbra, the Malevolent. A man feeding Chaos, blind to the monster he carried on his back.
Bile rose in my throat.
"Hey, lady, get out of the way!"
The blur of a cyclist whizzed past, handlebars grazing my hip. Adrenaline spiked. And when the blood accelerates, the Gift responds.
Beneath the jacket, the absence of flesh filled with heat. The phantom arm lit up, radiating the comforting stability of Aureus, like a bonfire crackling in the middle of a blizzard. My neck snapped around, eyes scanning the surrounding faces for witnesses to the light leaking through the fabric.
No one. The zombie march continued. Blind to the war, they saw only a stressed man where I saw a host of destruction.
"Quiet," the whisper came out trembling, directed at the light under my sleeve.
I took a deep breath, forcing the glow to dim. Crossing the street felt like diving into deep waters; the spiritual density of that place crushed my lungs.
Steps down, the air in the subway station was stale, charged with static electricity. Gray bodies passed through the turnstiles; young people leaning against the walls seemed drained, as if their vitality had been sucked out by invisible straws.
But at the end of the platform, an island of stillness broke the flow.
A worn overcoat. A static posture amidst the chaos. He wasn't looking at my face. His focus, precise and predatory, was on my right arm.
Black eyes. No iris, no white. Just two wells of infinite darkness staring back. His lips pulled back, revealing serrated teeth, too sharp for a human, resembling the deadly rows of a shark.
An icy chill ran up my spine, bringing back Silas's voice: The shadows will smell the scent of your light.
With a metallic crash and a violent displacement of air, the train arrived, slicing the line of sight. The doors opened, and the pressure of the crowd threw me inside the car.
On the other side of the dirty glass, as speed increased and the tunnel approached, the figure with eyes of tar raised a hand. A finger traced his neck in a slow, deliberate slit.
Silas's card crumpled in my left hand, knuckles white. The line had been crossed. The safety of the corrals and mountains was left behind. The territory was theirs now.
A rhythmic, solid pulsation responded in place of my right arm. The train plunged into the darkness of the tunnel, and I went with it, carrying the only light capable of tearing through those shadows.
[1] Cometa buses belong to Viação Cometa, a Brazilian intercity bus company, one of the most traditional and well-known in the country, especially in the Southeast region.
[2] Known by its full name, the "Serra do Espinhaço" is the only mountain range in Brazil, stretching for approximately 1,200 km between Minas Gerais and Bahia.