All Mark wanted was to cut through the alleyway—just a quick shortcut, a narrow passage between two decaying buildings that would shave ten minutes off his walk. The night had stretched long and loud, full of laughter that didn’t belong to him, and he craved quiet. Familiar walls. His bed.

But the alley wasn’t quiet.
It was too quiet.

The moment he stepped into its mouth, the air shifted—cooler, stiller, like walking into a room after the last candle had been snuffed out. The hum of distant traffic thinned behind him, replaced by something heavier. The sound of silence… listening back.

He quickened his pace, hands buried in his pockets, trying not to look at the graffiti-smeared walls or the puddles that reflected the streetlights like blind eyes. He just needed to make it through. Just needed to—

Stop.

At the far end of the alley, a silhouette stood motionless. Perfectly centered. Unmoving.

Mark’s steps halted. His breath hitched.
His heart thudded against his ribs like it wanted out.

It was probably just someone waiting for a ride.
Someone checking their phone.
Someone… harmless.

Still, the air thickened around him. It pressed against his skin, sticky and cold, like cobwebs. He tried to will his feet forward, but they didn’t move. The silence between him and the figure stretched, brittle and sharp.

Then, with the slow, deliberate grace of a puppet on a string, the silhouette’s head tilted sideways.
Not curious. Not confused.
Knowing.

There was no sound. No shuffle. Just that one gesture—and it shattered something deep inside him.

A hand rose. Pale. Gloved in white. Two fingers pressed to its temple in a mock salute. A silent, theatrical acknowledgment.

A taunt.

Mark’s throat tightened. His body screamed to run, but the figure took a step first—gliding instead of walking, its feet skimming the ground like it was made of shadow instead of skin. It was closer now. Closer than it should’ve been.

He whipped around. The alley behind him stretched long and empty, a tunnel swallowed in fog. His exit might as well have been a mile away. He turned back, but the figure was still mid-path. It hadn’t moved again.

And yet it felt right there.

The cold truth settled in his bones like a sickness:
He was not going to make it out the way he came in.

The figure raised its hand again, slow as molasses. In it was something small. Something that caught the flicker of a weak streetlamp above.

A key.

Not a weapon. Not a threat. A simple, silver key.

But there was no door. No lock. No explanation.

It held it aloft like an offering.
Or a command.

Mark staggered back, his spine colliding with the damp brick wall. His hands splayed against it, searching for something to hold, some way to ground himself. He was trapped—couldn’t go forward, couldn’t go back.

The figure moved again. A second glide.
Then a third.

Each step erased the space between them.
Each step devoured the sound from the world.

He blinked.
The figure was gone.

No.
Not gone.

It was right in front of him now.

He hadn’t seen it move. Hadn’t heard a thing. But the gloved hand hovered just inches from his chest, the key dangling between pale fingers.

Up close, the figure wasn’t just cloaked in shadow—it was shadow. No face. No eyes. Just a void in the shape of a man, outlined by the streetlamp’s twitching glow.

Mark’s breath caught as the key was pressed into his hand.

He didn’t reach for it. He didn’t want it.
But he held it now. Cold. Real. Heavy with meaning he didn’t understand.

The figure leaned forward, slow and soundless. Mark’s skin crawled, every nerve alight with dread. It didn’t speak. It didn’t have to.

He knew.

This key… it wasn’t for a place.
It was for a choice.
One he didn’t know he’d made.

The next moment shattered like glass.

The alley behind him vanished, swallowed in black. The sky above twisted into smoke. The world folded in on itself—and Mark, clutching the key like a lifeline, fell into the darkness without ever moving his feet.

And the alleyway,
which was supposed to be his shortcut home,
had never existed at all.