Reality didn't crumble all at once. It broke in whispers, like frost spidering across a windowpane before shattering under its own weight.

At least, that's how it felt to Leo Valdez at 5:00 AM on a Thursday, though the wrongness had been building for weeks. Little things at first—pencils rolling uphill on his desk, his reflection lingering a moment too long in the windows, the taste of static in the air before rain that never came.

He lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling where the dawnlight played with the shadows. Except, these weren't normal shadows. They moved wrong, bending in ways the early morning light shouldn't allow. Shapes formed and dissolved—too deliberate to be random, too fleeting to make sense. Like the day before, when he'd seen Katie Chen's shadow split in three during gym class, right before she stopped coming to school.

The air in his room was dense, as if it had forgotten how to move.

Leo's chest rose and fell with shallow, uneven breaths. He counted the beats, trying to steady himself. His worn Iron Man bedsheets were twisted around his legs, damp with sweat. His body felt heavy, as though the weight of the unseen threads that hummed around him was pressing him into the mattress.

The LED display on his alarm clock glowed 5:01, blinking rhythmically, like a pulse. The same time it had shown yesterday morning, and the morning before. Leo had changed the batteries twice.

(Clocks don't have heartbeats, he told himself. Except maybe they do, and maybe time itself was sick.)

Something shifted in the corner of his room.

The electrical outlet, cracked and yellowed from years of use, blinked at him. Yes, blinked—two sharp flashes of light, so quick he almost convinced himself he'd imagined it. Like the morse code his dad had taught him last summer. Dit-dit. A letter 'I'. Or maybe a warning.

Almost.

Leo sat up too fast, the blood rushing from his head. The room tilted for a moment before steadying itself. He clutched his blanket like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the real world. Behind his dresser, something chittered and scraped against the wall. Not mice. Never mice.

Outlets didn't blink. Posters didn't ripple like fabric. Shadows didn't coil at the edges of your vision, whispering in a language you couldn't name but somehow understood in your nightmares.

Except they did.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand, rattling against the empty can of Mountain Dew from last night. The sound cut through the thick silence like a blade. The same message, every morning, no matter how many times he blocked the number or factory reset his phone.

Leo grabbed it, his fingers clumsy, and squinted at the screen.

A text. No number. No name.

You see them now, don't you? The threads? They saw you first.

The letters crawled across the screen like living things, rearranging themselves when he wasn't looking directly at them. Sometimes they spelled other messages in the corner of his eye. Names of the missing. Dates that hadn't happened yet. Leo's breath hitched. He dropped the phone onto the bed and stared at it as though it might bite him.

The room was no longer still.

Thin, glowing strands shimmered into existence, stretching between the objects in his room. They connected his desk lamp to his Xbox, to the humming mini-fridge, and looped back to the tangled charger cable by his bed. They pulsed faintly, as though alive, carrying energy—or something worse. The same threads he'd seen wrapped around Jessica Winters' wrist in Physics yesterday, tugging gently every time she raised her hand.

The whispers came back, low and insistent, scratching at the edges of his thoughts. They spoke of hunger and patience, of a tapestry woven from stolen moments and borrowed breaths.

Leo pressed his palms against his temples, squeezing his eyes shut. "Not now," he muttered. "Not today."

But the threads didn't care. They never did.

The bathroom mirror reflected a boy Leo barely recognized.

Freckled skin, unruly black hair, hazel eyes rimmed with dark shadows from too many sleepless nights. His mother's eyes, though hers had started changing last week, flickering between colors like a broken kaleidoscope. He reached up to rub at his face, but his hand froze halfway there.

The edges of his reflection rippled, faint distortions bending the light. It wasn't the glass. It wasn't him.

It was the threads.

They hovered faintly around the mirror, curling and twisting in lazy spirals, as though testing the boundaries of reality. One reached out toward his reflection's throat, and Leo felt phantom pressure against his windpipe.

He turned away before they could do more.

His phone buzzed again, the sound sharp and intrusive.

The threads are just the beginning. Watch for the Weaver in gray. He's been watching you since the storm.

The words carved themselves into his mind, jagged and permanent. The storm—three months ago, when the sky had turned the color of television static and birds fell from the clouds like rain.

Leo didn't bother responding. He let the phone fall onto the countertop and gripped the edges of the sink until his knuckles turned white. The whispers in his head were louder now, overlapping voices that didn't belong to him. Some he recognized—Katie Chen's laugh, Mr. Peterson's morning announcements from two weeks ago, Jessica Winters humming that song she always did when solving equations.

Downstairs, the smell of pancakes drifted through the air, cutting through the noise in Leo's mind. The same breakfast his mom had made every morning this week, even though she used to hate cooking.

He paused at the kitchen doorway, one hand resting lightly on the frame. His mom stood at the stove, flipping pancakes with a calm efficiency that felt almost surreal. The same mechanical movements, the same angle of her arm, the same small smile that never quite reached her eyes.

Her humming drifted through the room, soft and sweet. But the tune felt off, like a melody from a dream you couldn't quite remember. Notes that shouldn't exist, played in an order that hurt his teeth.

Leo's gaze drifted to the shadows around her. They moved wrong, curling toward her body in thin tendrils before recoiling, as if afraid to touch her. Or as if they'd already taken what they needed.

"Blueberries or chocolate chips?" she asked, her voice light and casual. She turned to him, smiling.

For a moment, her face wasn't her face.

It flickered, replaced by a swirling void of shadows. Endless and deep, it pulled at Leo, whispering promises he couldn't understand. His stomach churned, bile rising in his throat. In that void, he saw faces—dozens of them, pressed against some invisible barrier like insects in amber.

He blinked, and she was his mom again.

"Blueberries," Leo said, his voice barely above a whisper. Like yesterday. Like always.

Sliding into his usual seat, he stared at the syrup pooling on his plate. The amber liquid moved against gravity, forming patterns that looked almost like letters. Across the table, his dad lowered the tablet he'd been scrolling through. His salt-and-pepper hair was sticking up in every direction, and his face was unusually pale. A thin thread wrapped around his wrist, pulsing in time with his heartbeat.

"Christ on a bicycle," his dad muttered, the words cutting the silence. "That's the third one this week."

Leo looked up sharply. "Third what?"

"Jessica Winters," his dad said, his voice heavy. "She's gone. Vanished last night."

Jessica Winters. The girl from AP Physics who wore rainbow shoelaces and doodled galaxies in the margins of her notebook. Who'd looked right at Leo yesterday and mouthed something that might have been "help" or "run" before the threads pulled her attention back to her equations.

The fork slipped from Leo's fingers, clattering against the plate. In the sound, he heard screaming.

"They'll find her," his mom said, her tone too bright, too forced. A thread slithered from her sleeve, reaching toward Leo's plate.

"They won't," Leo said quietly. "Just like they won't find Katie, or Mr. Peterson, or any of the others."

His parents turned toward him. His mom's face tightened in concern, though her expression took too long to change, like a video buffering. His dad's expression darkened, suspicion flickering in his eyes. The thread around his wrist pulsed faster.

"What do you mean, Leo?" his dad asked, his voice sharper than before. "What others?"

Leo opened his mouth, but no words came out. How could he explain it? The threads took her. They're taking all of them. They're taking you too, piece by piece, memory by memory.

"Nothing," he mumbled, pushing his plate away. "Never mind."

The world outside looked normal at first glance.

Mrs. Henderson shuffled down the sidewalk with her pug, Meatball, waddling along behind her. Except Meatball had died last spring—Leo had helped bury him in the backyard. The garbage truck roared past, Kenny behind the wheel like he'd been for as long as Leo could remember, even though Kenny's daughter had posted about his retirement party on Facebook months ago.

Everything seemed ordinary.

But the light bent wrong around the edges of things. The air was heavy, like a storm was brewing just beneath the surface. And the whispers—they were still there, faint but persistent, carried on a wind that didn't stir the leaves. They spoke of a hunger older than time, of spaces between spaces where lost things went to scream.

By the rusty chain-link fence that separated the high school from the abandoned drive-in theater, a man in a gray suit was waiting.

Leo stopped in his tracks.

The man's silver hair caught the sunlight, but instead of reflecting it, the light seemed to disappear, swallowed into the strands. His smile was too wide, his teeth too sharp, his presence too wrong. Where his shadow should have been, threads writhed and twisted like dying snakes.

The threads around him pulsed violently, jagged and erratic. They reached out toward Leo, slicing through the air like claws. Each one hummed with a different stolen voice, a different borrowed life.

When the man tilted his head, the world tilted with him. Reality creaked and groaned like ice in spring, threatening to break.

Leo blinked, and the man was gone.

But the threads remained, vibrating with a warning Leo didn't yet understand. Or maybe he did understand, but that knowledge lived in the parts of his mind he'd locked away, in memories that tasted like static and smelled like burning time.

Sometimes, Leo would think later, the worst part wasn't seeing the monsters.

The worst part was realizing they'd always been there, waiting for him to notice. And now that he had, they would never let him look away again.

In his pocket, his phone buzzed one last time:

Welcome to the unraveling, Leo Valdez. Try not to scream—it only encourages them.

The Jeep's engine died with a shudder that seemed to echo Leo's own exhaustion. Dawn painted the school parking lot in watery colors, transforming the familiar buildings of Millbrook High into looming shadows against a sky that couldn't quite decide if it wanted to be morning. He hadn't slept – couldn't sleep, not with the threads burning behind his eyelids every time he tried. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Jessica's face, the way she'd tried to warn him just before the threads had pulled her away.

Jessica's usual parking spot gaped empty before him, a void that seemed to pulse with untold secrets. The threads around it writhed like wounded serpents, their usual silvery sheen replaced by something darker, corrupted. They reminded him of dead veins, black and twisted, pulsing with a sickness that made his stomach churn. Leo's fingers tightened on the steering wheel until his knuckles bleached white, the leather cover creaking under his grip.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Another message from the man in gray: *Watch the patterns. They're getting bolder.*

The morning unfolded around him with deceptive normalcy. Students shuffled between classes, their conversations a distant hum beneath the persistent whisper of the threads. But beneath that veneer of routine, something had shifted. The air itself felt wrong, as if reality had been stretched too thin and might tear at any moment. Even the fluorescent lights overhead seemed to flicker in patterns that shouldn't exist, casting shadows that moved independently of their sources.

Whispers followed him through the halls, each conversation a piece of a puzzle he was afraid to solve.

"Her mother called at midnight—"

"They found her phone by the mill—"

"Just like the others—"

"First Katie, then Mr. Peterson, now Jessica—"

Leo kept his head down, trying to shut out their voices. The threads connecting the students pulsed with an unsettling urgency, as if counting down to something he couldn't quite grasp. Each step through the corridors felt like wading through invisible spiderwebs, the threads clinging and pulling at him with growing insistence. They seemed thicker today, more numerous, as if whatever was happening was accelerating.

His locker wouldn't open at first. The combination that had worked for three years suddenly felt wrong, the numbers sliding away from his memory like water. When he finally got it open, a note fell out – a page torn from Jessica's notebook, covered in her distinctive galaxy doodles. But between the stars and planets, she'd written something in frantic, jagged letters: *They're in the walls. They're in our heads. Don't let them complete the pattern.*

AP Physics was an exercise in controlled panic. Jessica's empty desk sat like an accusation, the threads around it twisted into grotesque knots that seemed to whisper her name. Mr. Peterson's lecture on Kirchhoff's Laws drifted through the air, words losing meaning before they reached Leo's ears. How could anyone care about electrical current when reality itself was unraveling?

The equations on the board started shifting when Leo looked at them too long, rearranging themselves into symbols that made his head hurt. Between the lines of mathematical formulas, he could see other patterns emerging – the same ones he'd been tracking since the disappearances began.

"Mr. Valdez!"

The sharp call jolted him from his thoughts. Peterson stood at the front of the room, his expression a mixture of concern and irritation. But there was something else there too – a flicker of recognition, maybe even fear, when their eyes met.

"Since you find the back wall so fascinating, perhaps you'd care to explain Kirchhoff's Current Law to the class?"

Heat crawled up Leo's neck as he stood on unsteady legs. The threads around Peterson writhed anxiously, as if responding to some unseen tension. "The sum of currents entering a node equals the sum leaving it," he recited mechanically, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. "Conservation of charge."

"And why is that important?" Peterson pressed, his eyes never leaving Leo's face.

Because everything has to balance, Leo thought. Like the pattern forming across town. Like the threads that were pulling them all toward something terrible.

"Because energy can't be created or destroyed," he said instead. "It just changes form."

Peterson's expression flickered again. "Indeed," he said softly. "Everything transforms, doesn't it?"

Mike found him at lunch, sliding into the seat across from him with a grace that belied his concern. The cafeteria lights above their table buzzed erratically, casting strange shadows across his friend's face. "You look like death warmed over," he observed, his usual humor tempered by worry.

Leo stared at his untouched food. The cafeteria buzzed around them, a cocoon of noise that offered temporary shelter from the threads' persistent hum. But even here, he could see them – countless glowing strands connecting students to each other, to the building, to something vast and hungry that lurked just beyond his understanding.

"They're getting worse," he confided, voice barely above a whisper. "The threads – they're changing. And Jessica... she's part of something bigger. Something we can't even begin to understand."

Mike leaned forward, pizza forgotten. "What do you mean?"

Leo grabbed a napkin, his hands trembling slightly as he sketched. "The disappearances. It's not random. Cedar Street." He marked a point. "Maple Avenue." Another point. "Birch Lane. Oak Road." The pen moved with desperate precision, connecting points until a pattern emerged.

Mike's breath caught. "A pentagram? You're serious?"

"They're not just taking people," Leo said, the words bitter on his tongue. "They're building something. Creating a pattern that's bigger than any of us. And look at the dates." He scribbled them down. "Three days between each one. If the pattern holds..."

"Someone else disappears tonight," Mike finished, his face pale.

The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting momentary shadows that seemed to move with purpose. In that brief darkness, Leo caught glimpses of shapes that shouldn't exist, forms that defied description. The threads around them pulsed with increasing urgency, as if responding to some silent signal.

"There's more," Leo said, pulling out his phone. He showed Mike the messages from the man in gray, the warnings about patterns and threads. "Someone knows what's happening. And I think... I think we're supposed to stop it."

Mike studied the messages, his expression troubled. "What about that detective? Chen? You said the threads around her were different."

"Yeah." Leo glanced around the cafeteria, noting how the threads seemed to point toward the police station like compass needles. "They're clearer around her. More purposeful. Like she's meant to be part of this."

"And you want to tell her everything? About the threads, the pattern, all of it?"

"Got a better idea?"

Detective Sarah Chen's office felt like stepping into a different world. The threads here were ancient, thick with years of secrets and sorrow. They wound through case files and coffee cups, pulsing with a clarity that made Leo's head spin. Pictures of missing persons lined the walls – Katie Chen, Mr. Peterson, Jessica Winters, and others Leo didn't recognize. But when he looked closely, he could see threads connecting them all, forming a web of disappearances that stretched back further than he'd realized.

Chen looked up as they approached, her eyes sharp enough to cut. Dark circles under her eyes suggested she hadn't been sleeping either. "Can I help you?"

Leo swallowed hard, feeling the weight of unknown watchers pressing down. The threads around Chen swirled with purpose, almost eager. "I know something about the disappearances," he managed, each word careful and measured.

She studied him with an intensity that suggested she saw more than she should. Files on her desk shifted slightly, though there was no breeze. "Do you now?"

"They're connected," Leo began, the words spilling out like water from a broken dam. "Not just physically or socially. There's energy – threads – binding them together. Making patterns. A pentagram across town, with three days between each disappearance."

The room shifted before Chen could respond. Temperature plummeted, shadows deepening into pools of liquid darkness. The threads vibrated with such violence that Leo thought they might snap. Papers scattered across Chen's desk, though again, there was no wind.

Chen's hand moved to her weapon as darkness coalesced in the corner, twisting into a form that hurt to look at. No features, no face – just absence given shape and purpose. Threads of pure darkness radiated from it, reaching toward them with hungry purpose.

*Watcher*, the word carved itself into Leo's mind with glacial precision. *You see too much.*

"You can't shoot it," he warned as Chen drew her weapon. "It's not... it's not something bullets can touch."

The shadow-thing lingered, a tear in reality's fabric. Its darkness seemed to pulse in time with the threads around Jessica's photo on the wall. For a moment, Leo thought he heard her voice, distant and distorted: *Don't let them complete the pattern.*

Then it dissolved back into nothing. But its presence left a mark, a coldness that settled into their bones. The threads in the room had changed color, darkening like storm clouds.

Chen lowered her gun slowly, her expression unreadable. A thread wrapped around her wrist pulsed with an urgent rhythm. "Five minutes," she said. "Explain everything."

Leo met her gaze, feeling the threads pull tighter around them all. "Everything's connected," he said quietly. "The missing kids, the threads, that thing we just saw. There's a pattern forming across town, and if we don't figure out why, more people are going to disappear. Tonight."

In the silence that followed, the threads hummed with anticipation, weaving patterns that would change everything. On Chen's desk, her coffee cup began to vibrate, the liquid inside forming shapes that looked almost like letters.

The game had begun, and they were already running out of time.

Outside the police station, a man in a gray suit watched from across the street, silver hair catching light that shouldn't exist. He smiled, revealing teeth that were just slightly too sharp, and vanished between one heartbeat and the next.

The threads were tightening, and night was coming.

The evening air in Millbrook carried an unnatural chill, heavy with the weight of things unseen. Leo and Mike left the police station in a haze, the confrontation with the shadow-thing leaving an electric hum in their ears. Detective Chen had promised to dig deeper, but her face betrayed the same dread that churned in Leo’s gut. She believed him—or at least believed enough to act.

But belief didn’t make the threads stop. If anything, they were worse now, thickening like smoke over a fire about to rage out of control.

"Do you feel that?" Mike asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Feel what?"

"The static. Like the air’s vibrating."

Leo nodded. He hadn’t said it out loud, but the threads were louder now, their whispers bleeding into his mind like an old radio stuck between stations. They weren’t just tugging—they were screaming, pulling him toward Cedar Street. Toward the next point in the pentagram.

Mike hesitated, then pulled out his phone. "I’ll map the closest route. If someone’s disappearing tonight, we need to get there first."

Leo wanted to argue, to tell Mike that rushing in was a bad idea. But the threads wouldn’t let him think clearly. They yanked at his very being, compelling him to move, to act. It felt like drowning in the weight of unseen forces, each thread binding tighter as the minutes ticked away.

The house on Cedar Street loomed at the edge of town, a skeletal silhouette against the fading twilight. Its shutters hung crooked, and the porch sagged under the weight of time and neglect. No lights flickered within; only the faint rustle of the wind and the creak of loose boards greeted them as they approached.

But it wasn’t empty. The threads told Leo that much. They writhed around the house like living things, pulsating with a darkness that made him shiver.

"We shouldn’t be here," Mike muttered, his earlier resolve fading as they stepped onto the porch. The boards groaned under their weight, and the smell of mildew and decay clawed at their noses.

"We don’t have a choice," Leo replied, his voice tight. "The pattern leads here. Whatever’s happening—"

The front door swung open with a sound like a dying breath, cutting him off. They froze, staring into the yawning darkness beyond.

A single light flickered inside, casting long, shifting shadows that seemed to move with a will of their own. At the far end of the hall stood a figure—a man in gray, his silver hair catching the dim light like a predator’s glint. His sharp smile was unchanged, but his eyes held something ancient, something that promised suffering.

"Good evening," the man said, his voice smooth as silk but undercut with a serrated edge. "You’re early."

"Who are you?" Leo demanded, fists clenched. "What do you want?"

The man in gray tilted his head, his smile widening. "Names are irrelevant, but you may call me Riven. As for what I want... it’s already in motion. The question is, what are you willing to do to stop it?"

Riven stepped forward, and the air seemed to contract around him. The threads in the room lashed violently, pulling at Leo and Mike with invisible hands. They were no longer silvery but blackened, charred by some unseen fire.

"You see the patterns, don’t you?" Riven continued, his tone almost gentle. "Beautiful, aren’t they? Every thread, every point of light, weaving something far greater than the sum of its parts. And you..." He gestured toward Leo, his eyes narrowing. "You’re the only one who can see the whole picture."

"What are you talking about?" Leo snapped, though he already knew. The threads had chosen him for a reason. They showed him things no one else could see, pulling him into a web he didn’t understand.

Riven’s smile faltered, replaced by something colder. "The pattern is incomplete," he said, his voice dropping to a low growl. "Tonight, another thread will be severed, and the design will grow stronger. Unless, of course, you wish to intervene."

The sound of footsteps on creaking stairs made them spin around. A shadow moved at the edge of the room, flickering in and out of existence like a dying candle flame. It wasn’t human—that much was clear. Its form shifted constantly, limbs stretching and bending in ways that defied logic. And its eyes... they glowed with a hunger that turned Leo’s stomach.

"Meet the Harbinger," Riven said with a flourish. "A servant of the pattern. You see, the threads demand sacrifice. Without it, they unravel. Chaos reigns. Surely, you wouldn’t want that?"

The Harbinger lunged, its movements fluid and alien. Mike barely had time to shove Leo out of the way before it struck, its claws raking deep grooves into the floor where they had stood.

"Run!" Leo shouted, grabbing Mike’s arm and pulling him toward the back of the house. They stumbled through darkened rooms, the Harbinger’s guttural growls echoing behind them.

"Where the hell are we going?" Mike panted.

"I don’t know!" Leo admitted, his voice cracking. The threads were everywhere now, forming a labyrinth that twisted his perception. Doors appeared where there shouldn’t be any, hallways stretched endlessly, and the Harbinger’s presence seemed to seep through the walls.

They burst into a room that felt... wrong. The walls pulsed like a heartbeat, and in the center stood an altar draped in crimson fabric. Symbols Leo didn’t recognize were etched into its surface, glowing faintly. Above it, threads converged into a single point—a tangled, writhing knot that seemed to radiate malevolence.

"This is it," Leo whispered, his eyes locked on the altar. "This is where it’s happening."

A sudden, deafening crack split the air as the Harbinger barreled into the room. Its form expanded, limbs stretching impossibly wide to block any escape. Leo felt the threads pulling him toward the altar, urging him to act, but he didn’t know how or why.

Riven’s voice echoed from somewhere unseen, calm and taunting. "You can break the pattern, Leo. But it will cost you. Are you willing to pay the price?"

The Harbinger lunged again, and this time there was nowhere to run.