I’ve been watching the streets again. Listening. The usual noise is there—sirens, deals, threats, the hum of a city pretending it’s still in control. But beneath that? Something new. Something wrong.
There’s a substance moving through the underworld. Not in bulk. Not in crates. It’s passed hand to hand, vial to vial, like a secret. They’re calling it The Pale.
It’s milky white. Chalky. Looks like powdered bone suspended in oil. Smells like nothing. Tastes like static, they say. And once it’s in your system, you’re not the same.
I’ve spoken to enforcers, smugglers, even a few of the old blood cults who’ve gone underground since the last purge. They all say the same thing: The Pale doesn’t just get you high—it opens something.
Users report visions. Not hallucinations—memories that aren’t theirs. Places they’ve never been. Languages they’ve never spoken. Some wake up with scars they didn’t have. One man swears he saw his own shadow move independently for three days. Another claims he spoke to a version of himself that had never been born.
And the side effects? They’re getting worse.
The factions are panicking. The old crime families are pointing fingers. The newer syndicates are stockpiling weapons. Even the street mages are going quiet. Nobody knows who’s behind it. Nobody knows where it’s coming from.
But I have a theory.
There’s a place beneath the city. Not tunnels. Not sewers. Older than that. The kind of place that was buried on purpose. I’ve seen fragments—maps that don’t match, blueprints with redacted layers. There’s something down there. A vault. A gate. A wound.
And I think someone opened it.
The Pale isn’t manufactured. It’s harvested. Scraped from the walls of whatever’s leaking into our world. Maybe it’s a creature. Maybe it’s a place. Maybe it’s a god that forgot how to die.
The drug is just the beginning. A taste. A lure.
And if you think I’m crazy, ask yourself: why are the rats leaving the east side? Why did the moon look wrong last week? Why did the mayor’s eyes flicker red during that press conference?
They know.
And now, so do you.