Chapter 1: When the Sun Died
It was the day the sky broke.
John Gou stood at the window of his family's apartment, staring out into the endless, gray sky that had swallowed the sun. For three days, the light had been dimming — softer, weaker, as if the very life of the world were leaking away. And now, finally, it was gone.
No dawn. No warmth. Only cold twilight that stretched forever.
Behind him, his brother Jake paced nervously, muttering curses under his breath. Their mother, Cherlyn, sat by the table, clutching her rosary, lips trembling in silent prayer. The apartment building, Tower 9, creaked in the strange silence that had come with the darkness. No cars outside. No voices. No city noise. Just the occasional distant scream — quickly cut off.
"John..." Jake said, stopping by the door. "We need to get out. This place... it's not safe."
"Where are we going to go?" John replied, turning away from the window. "It's the same everywhere. There's no light. No power. Just... them."
As if summoned by his words, a low scratching echoed from the hallway. Like fingernails on concrete. Both brothers froze.
Cherlyn tightened her grip on the rosary. "They're here again," she whispered. "The shadows. The Hollow Ones."
Jake grabbed a kitchen knife. John took the metal bar they had salvaged from the broken stair rail. They waited, breath held, as the scraping grew louder — closer. Then, silence.
A soft knock at the door.
Jake stepped back. John raised the bar. The knock came again, followed by a slow, heavy push. The door creaked, wood cracking as pressure built against it.
"Help me!" John hissed. Jake ran to brace the door. They leaned their full weight against it as something on the other side shoved — hard. The wood groaned, splintering at the edges.
Cherlyn whimpered. "Don't let it in... don't let it in..."
The thing on the other side paused. Like it was listening. Playing. Then a soft whisper — breathy and cold — slid through the crack in the door.
"Soon."
And just like that... the pressure stopped. The presence faded. The hallway fell silent again.
John didn't move. Neither did Jake. For a long moment they stood frozen, listening for any sound, any sign. But there was nothing. Only the quiet breathing of their mother behind them.
"Is it gone?" Jake asked.
John slowly lowered the metal bar. "For now."
They backed away from the door and turned on the battery-powered lantern sitting on the kitchen counter. A faint glow filled the room, casting nervous shadows across the peeling walls. Hunger gnawed at their stomachs. There was no food left. They would have to scavenge.
"Stay close," John ordered. "We go to the upper floors. Maybe the other apartments have something left."
They opened the door cautiously. The hallway outside was dark, lit only by the dim red glow of the emergency lights. The walls were stained, smeared with old blood. Some doors hung open, their insides gutted and torn. Others were sealed tight — or worse, covered in strange symbols drawn in ash and charcoal.
Rick, the building's old mechanic, stepped from the stairwell, dragging a bag of cans behind him. His eyes were wide, shaking. "Don't go up," he rasped. "They're up there. Waiting."
"We don't have a choice," John said.
Rick grunted and shuffled past, disappearing into the darkness. His whispers trailed behind him. "No gods left... only them..."
The group climbed slowly. Jake led the way with his knife drawn. The air smelled of rot and old fire. On the 9th floor, they found what was left of an apartment — door ripped from its frame, blood splattered across the floor. A hand lay in the hall, severed, fingers still twitching.
Lina, the nurse, peeked from another doorway. "You shouldn't be here," she whispered. "It's feeding time."
"Feeding?" Jake asked.
"They come in the dark," she said. "They eat what's left." Her eyes were wild, unfocused. She closed the door, locking herself inside.
As they moved, the building groaned. Somewhere far below, a scream rose and fell. The sound of dragging — something heavy scraping along the floor — echoed up the stairwell.
Jake gripped his brother's arm. "John... the light's fading."
And then — darkness. Like a switch flipped, the emergency lights blinked out. Total black.
From the shadows came whispers. Footsteps. And the soft giggle of children.
"The Twins," Cherlyn gasped. "They're awake."
Panic surged. They ran — blindly — toward the nearest door. John slammed it open, dragging his family inside. Jake shoved the door shut as the sound of approaching footsteps grew louder.
Inside the room, it was cold. Empty. Broken furniture lay scattered. But for now — safety.
John collapsed against the wall, heart racing. Outside, the shadows moved. Scraped. Waited.
They lit a single candle. Its trembling flame cast long, thin shadows across the walls. Every creak, every distant moan of the tower made them jump.
"What happened to the world?" Jake whispered.
John shook his head. "God left. That's what Rick said. The sky broke, the light died... and we were left behind."
"Maybe we deserve this," Cherlyn said softly. "Maybe the sins of mankind..."
"Stop it!" Jake snapped. "We're not dead yet."
But they all felt it — the hopelessness. The weight of being forgotten.
Somewhere in the distance, above the clouds, something ancient stirred. Watching.
And smiling.