The hallway stank of cheap disinfectant and yesterday's desperation.
Evelyn pushed through the crowd with her badge in one hand and a determined scowl. Marcus followed close behind, his usual casual demeanor replaced by quiet concern. The building was old, its walls yellowed from years of smoke and sweat, neighbors peeking through barely-open doors, whispering.
Evelyn flashed her badge at the nearest uniformed officer.
"Detective Waller. I require immediate access to apartment 4B. Franklin Yates?"
The officer gave a brief nod.
"Affirmative. Resident lived alone. His sister arrived from Brooklyn earlier this morning—she's currently inside."
Without hesitation, Evelyn ducked beneath the yellow tape and entered.
The apartment was a still life of sudden absence. A half-drunk coffee mug sat beside a headset and a bowl of uneaten noodles. The muted TV showed Morgana's face mid-smile in a paused interview.
The sister, a tired woman in her forties, stood near the couch, wringing her hands. Her voice cracked as she spoke.
"He mentioned the device helped him sleep, said it cleared his mind. But then... he changed. Became withdrawn. Always smiling, like he was privy to something I wasn't."
Evelyn softened her tone.
"Did he ever express discomfort? Physical pain? From the headset?"
"No, quite the opposite. He described it as peaceful... as if nothing else mattered anymore. Not bills, not his work, not even me. Calls stopped—uncharacteristic for him."
She hesitated, eyes trembling.
"He was afraid of heights. Couldn't even stand on the balcony."
Evelyn turned toward the window as the curtains fluttered slightly in the draft from the open sliding glass door.
"And now?"
The sister whispered,
"He walked right off. Like he was summoned."
Later, Evelyn stepped out into the hallway and exhaled sharply. The air felt heavier, her thoughts sharper. The pieces were starting to fit.
Marcus was already waiting in the car, scanning data feeds.
"Any useful intel?" he asked, eyes on the screen.
"He wasn't suicidal. There was external influence. The headset didn't just dull pain—it rewired his brain," Evelyn replied, sliding into the seat.
"Mind control?" Marcus frowned.
"More insidious. Obedience," she muttered.
The car fell silent. No more jokes. No sarcastic banter. Just wheels rolling toward a storm they hadn't yet seen.
Night crept over the city like smoke.
HeartEater crouched silently on a rooftop, the wind tugging at his cloak. Below, a figure moved through the alley with deliberate steps. The headset glowed faintly on their head.
He followed.
Leaping across rooftops with the silence of a ghost, he kept his distance. The figure met with another—a man in a black suit standing beside a nondescript van. They exchanged a small crate. No words. No transaction. Just understanding.
HeartEater narrowed his eyes.
Then the figure turned and walked away, still calm, still wearing that faint blue glow. Something was very wrong.
Elsewhere, Evelyn's phone rang. A call from dispatch. A body had been found near midtown—fallen from a building.
Eyes completely blue. No signs of trauma beyond the fall. A melted imprint from the headset still on the temple.
The next morning, Evelyn called Marcus before the sun had finished rising.
"Another incident. Midtown. Same headset involved. I want interviews with anyone who had contact—family, friends, associates. Understood?"
They arrived at a modest apartment complex. Evelyn went inside alone.
The mother of the victim sat in a small kitchen, holding a photo of her son.
"He was passionate about music. They promised the headset would enhance his experience... make things better. But after a week, he was unrecognizable. Barely spoke. Smiled as if trapped in a dream he couldn't escape."
Evelyn asked questions carefully, respectfully. She took photos of the room, noted receipts, and quietly pocketed a sales brochure for the headset resting near the phone.
Back in the car, she dropped the headset on Marcus's lap.
"Trace its origin. Full supply chain. Manufacturer, distributors, any shell companies."
"On it," Marcus nodded, already typing.
That night, a silent alarm tripped in a downtown bank. But the security system didn't call the cops—it went dark.
HeartEater slipped in through the rooftop skylight, landing among shadows. Five masked men moved with eerie synchronicity. All wore the headset. Their eyes glowed faintly, faces slack.
He reached for his sickles—then stopped.
They weren't resisting him. They didn't even see him.
Three civilians stepped out from the shadows, armed. Their eyes were blank, fingers tightening on triggers.
HeartEater surged forward.
He struck with precision—open palms, nerve strikes. Disarmed the civilians, incapacitated the robbers. No blades. No fight. Just damage control.
But something hissed.
A sharp sting at the base of his neck.
He staggered.
A dart. Or a probe. He touched the spot. No blood. But numbness spread down his spine.
Then, a flicker. A pulse.
The headset on one unconscious civilian flashed—then exploded.
Light. Force. Noise.
All of them. Simultaneously.
The headset-wearers convulsed, bodies falling lifeless, eyes still glowing.
HeartEater stood in the aftermath. Breath heavy. Ears ringing.
Blood on marble. Glass shattered. Peaceful corpses scattered like broken statues.
Sirens wailed in the distance. Red and blue lights flashed at the bank's front.
He moved.
Not toward them. Away—through the back.
His cloak snapped behind him as he vanished into the night.
Alone. Unseen.
The war had just begun.