Elara didn't move at first. The scream had the cadence of madness, but the plaza was too quiet for theatrics.
"I told you! I told all of you—they're all dead!! They're zombies!"
The plaza was walled off by curved structures on all 4 sides, ramps and stairs led on a slight decline on each side. It required tunneling to walk out of the area, beautiful as it was. A low fountain burbled near the center, its basin carved from translucent stone. The water moved in tight spirals. Decorative. Useless.
Elara paused just before stepping into view. Her body tensed by instinct, one foot forward, one hand drifting toward her sleeve. The voice continued.
"The people you want to be—the job you all want so bad!! You have to die for it. One of us can be next, they can take one of us next!"
She crept closer to the corner, careful not to draw eyes. A small crowd had gathered under a vendor tarp stretched between buildings. Most of them weren't listening—just lingering out of boredom or some morbid curiosity.
The first pang hit her in the chest—Something like vertigo. She didn't belong here. Every surface reminded her. Every clean corner. Every scentless breeze. The Inner Circle wasn't just richer. It was untouchable.
The man at the center looked like he'd been standing there for hours. Rail-thin, mid-thirties, wearing a long overcoat that had been patched so many times it looked quilted. A black crescent had been stitched onto his left cheek—fabric, not tattoo. Nothing about the man was standard. A mark of his own making.
His hands moved constantly, flailing, pointing, pacing. Each word spat like it hurt him.
"They took my cousin's cousin, okay? Last week. Gone. Just gone. Told he got a scholarship. A scholarship! He couldn't read past a receipt!"
That drew a laugh from someone in the back.
The man spun immediately. "You laugh now—yeah, go ahead! But when your name shows up next, don't come crying to me, you baboons!"
He turned again, saw Elara—and froze.
"You."
She didn't flinch. But she stopped.
"You're new. I can tell."
He pointed straight at her. Not like he was accusing her of something. Like he'd been waiting.
"And you're not afraid of me," he added, quieter this time. "That's a terrible mistake, honestly."
Elara's first instinct was to walk away. But her legs didn't move.
He took a step forward.
"You've got the stink of the outer ring. And desperation. My second favorite kind of visitor."
The crowd shifted, stepping back in lazy, awkward choreography. No one defended her. No one interfered.
Elara tilted her head, studying him. She hid the fear and shock behind a mask of confusion. Then she took a slow step back. She made her expression look bored. Pretended to pity him. And finally, she turned and walked away.
But he followed.
"Hey—hey, don't be like that!" he called. "I'm not letting you get away from me that easy."
His voice carried, it didn't chase her, but it followed. His words were lingering at her back as she moved on. The streets narrowed around her, stone sloping gently beneath her steps. Foot traffic thinned. Her boots tapped softly against the tile as she slipped into a near-empty tavern.
The man followed her in without pause. And to Elara's surprise, no one was overly concerned.
Is this normal? No one cares that a crazy man is chasing a helpless girl? I guess this isnttoo different then the outer sectors either then.
The tavern was dim and narrow. Tables pushed against walls, one cracked window pulsing faint blue from an ad outside. The bartender barely looked up. One customer nursed something dark in the corner.
Elara didn't move far from the door. Let it swing shut behind her. Let the silence settle.
Truth walked in like he'd forgotten anyone else existed. Just pointed to a table near the back, metal legs uneven against the floor.
"Sit."
Elara didn't. Just looked at him.
He raised an eyebrow. "It's not dangerous."
"Didn't assume it was."
"Then why're you standing like I'm about to lunge?"
"I don't like being followed."
He shrugged. "You didn't tell me to stop."
Elara didn't answer. Didn't approach. Her fingers stayed loose, but ready.
The crazed man sat down anyway. Made a show of settling in, then leaned forward with his arms across the table like he was stretching.
"Sit," he said. "Your making a scene."
Elara stayed where she was.
"I'm not looking for help," she said flatly.
"Oh, well that's boring." He leaned back, like he had all the time in the world. "You sure? You've got that twitchy look. Like someone carrying something sharp and dangerous in their back pocket, I smell a lie."
"You don't even know my name."
"Names are clumsy. You can call me Truth."
She narrowed her eyes.
"That's not your real name."
"No," he agreed. "My real name's disgusting. And 'Truth' suits me better. I say things people don't like."
He leaned forward, one elbow on the table, his voice dropping. Truth had an odd way of speaking—his words weren't formal, but they were well enunciated, clear. He spoke in a strange rhythm, almost like triplets, and above all, he spoke fast. Elara had to work to keep up.
"I knew you'd show up. Been seeing signs since this morning. Knew from the moment the birds flew west. Happens every time something dangerous enters the Circle."
Elara's hand twitched near her coat again. She didn't sit. But she didn't leave either.
Still no response. Her weight shifted enough to keep her aligned with the doorway.
"Alright. You don't talk. Fine." He raised both hands, exaggerated. "Just thought you might want information."
Her stare held.
He added, "Not advice. I don't give advice. I just… notice things."
"Like what?"
"Well, your dress is nice—real nice—but it's almost three years out, which means clearance rack. And that badge you used?" Truth pointed to the pocket in Elara's overcoat, "Only issued for two-day work permits. So unless our guards suddenly got real interested in streetwear, well, slumwear—"
"I'm not here to talk about the dress." Elara tucked the badge that'd been hanging slightly out of her pocket.
How did I miss that? Annoying as he is, it's good I saw him this soon.
"Fair."
Silence returned. Truth tapped a finger to the table, slow and uneven.
Elara finally moved. Sat down opposite him, but kept her arms tight across her chest.
"I'm not paying you."
"Didn't ask you to."
"Then what do you want?"
Truth considered the question a little too long. "I don't know yet. Maybe nothing. Depends what you do next."
"I don't like riddles."
"I'm not good at giving straight answers to strangers."
That, finally, pulled a small twitch at her mouth. Not a smile. Closer to irritation.
He tilted his head, studying her.
"But you—YOU need something."