The rain had been falling since dusk. The streets were empty except for the hum of traffic lights and the hiss of water against pavement. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed and faded into the static of the city.

You stood under a half-broken streetlamp, watching the world move like nothing was wrong. People passed by with umbrellas, stepping through puddles that reflected the skyline — glass towers, neon signs, and the illusion of peace.

But you could feel it. That quiet weight pressing against your chest. The one no one else noticed. The air was thicker here, the shadows just a little too deep. Every so often, you’d catch the faint outline of something that wasn’t supposed to exist — a flicker at the edge of vision, gone before you could focus.

They called it “Cursed Energy.” The residue of human emotion, built up over years until it takes shape. Most people never notice it. You do. Maybe you always have. Maybe that’s why you’re here — in a world that pretends to be ordinary while something rotten stirs beneath it.

A voice breaks the silence.

“You felt it too, didn’t you?”

You turn. A sorcerer stands just beyond the glow of the streetlight — uniform damp from the rain, eyes sharp but tired. They don’t smile, but there’s recognition there. Not of your face, but of what you are.

The wind shifts. The smell of iron cuts through the rain. Somewhere close, someone screams.

“Stay close. It’s nearby.”

The ground trembles — faintly, like a pulse. And just like that, the veil begins to tear.