The Relic Designer

Chapter 6 — The Apocalypse One Man Started

“It started with my parents coming home every night. Then more of them came—an entire house full of mothers and fathers. And now… someone just called me their husband.

All I did was drive through a tunnel that night when the world felt thinner than usual—and suddenly, my entire family came back.”

Ethan Cross stood frozen in the dim hallway of Nightfall Games Studio, his skin drained of color as he watched Serena Black walk away. Her fading silhouette was elegant, composed… and impossibly wrong.

He now understood—Serena wasn’t human. Not anymore. She was one of them. Just like the “parents” who had brought him cake three nights ago.

Serena had known what happened inside that tunnel.She had known Ethan would come here tonight to erase his creation.

Only after her figure vanished beyond the corridor did Ethan’s face regain a trace of warmth. The fat orange cat that had been lying motionless near the desk twitched, blinked twice, and came back to life, curling nervously at his feet.

“The roads are blocked because of the storm,” Ethan murmured, voice tight. “If I want answers, there’s only one person left to ask—Serena. But she’s… different. Unlike the others, she can move freely in daylight, as if the rules don’t apply to her.”

“Hey, Jackpot! What are you doing here?”

Wade Doyle, Nightfall’s ever-cheerful developer, scooped the cat into his arms, pressing his face into its fur like a proud father. “Ethan, man, maybe you should just stay. Even Jackpot doesn’t want to let you go.”

Ethan managed a faint smile. “He’s not attached to me. He just has a strong survival instinct.”

It was the first time he’d ever seen a cat play dead. No matter what had been happening around it earlier, Jackpot hadn’t moved an inch.

“Wade,” Ethan said, his tone quiet but firm, “you’re a good man. So listen carefully—don’t go out after dark. And stay away from that new colleague. There’s something very wrong with her.”

“I’ve seen the news,” Wade replied, his grin fading. “I know Silvershore’s been a mess lately. Don’t worry, brother. Take care of yourself. You ever need anything, you call me. We’ve been partners too long to quit now.”

He turned away, carrying the struggling cat back toward the office. Jackpot clawed helplessly at the glass door, meowing after Ethan with a voice that sounded almost human.

“If you follow me,” Ethan said under his breath, “you’ll see what hell really looks like.”

A bitter smile touched his lips. “That cat’s smart. Just not smart enough.”

Leaving Nightfall Games behind, Ethan didn’t head home. Instead, he found himself standing beneath the flickering awning of a bus station, rain drumming against the metal roof.

Before him stretched a city map—dense with lines and symbols, a labyrinth of routes and lives.

Silvershore was unlike any other city. Nineteen districts, each with its own soul. The eastern quarter glittered with towers of glass and wealth, where the elite indulged in pleasures beyond ordinary imagination. But Ethan lived in the old quarter—a place of narrow concrete corridors and suffocating air, where apartments crowded together like tombs stacked in the rain.

A century ago, Silvershore had been born from chaos—a haven for refugees, politicians, and merchants. Its diversity made it a world within a world. But now, under the twin storms of the digital and biological revolutions, the city stood at a crossroads, its brilliance flickering like a dying flame.

None of that mattered to Ethan. His eyes traced the bus lines, but his mind was full of darkness.He remembered every case file, every brutal story he had ever written.

“The Butcher Case. The Doll Dismemberment. The Stalker in the Alley. The Acid Man. The Red Pavilion Murders. The Dog Cellar. The River Corpse…”

He shuddered. Each crime replayed in his head like a projector that refused to shut off.

“And the urban legends,” he whispered. “So many of them…”

The Borrowed Lifespan. The Flesh Saint. The Hanging Man. The Night of Returning Souls. The Skin Gallery. The Headless Doctor. The Man-Eating Elevator.

Hospitals. Schools. Shopping malls. Apartments. Every place in the city seemed to have a reflection in his mind—a dark mirror waiting to come alive.

“If Serena is right,” Ethan said, “then my nightmares aren’t confined to the game. Every story I’ve ever imagined… might manifest in this city.”

He swallowed hard, his voice trembling. “God help me. I think I’ve started the end of the world.”

The clouds above were heavy, pressing lower by the minute. The city felt strangled, like a dying prisoner gasping for its last confession.

Ethan stared at the rain-slick street, pale as the mist. “If my head had been filled with nothing but dirty jokes, none of this would’ve happened.”

Serena was dangerous—he knew that—but she was also the only one who could give him answers.

At 5:30 p.m., she appeared under the office awning, holding a crimson umbrella. She looked as if she had expected him all along.

“You’ve been waiting for me, haven’t you?” she asked, voice soft beneath the rain.

“Just trying to decide which bus to take home.”

“Then… shall we go together?”

She tilted the umbrella between them, her shoulder brushing his. Her eyes were full of affection—but it wasn’t the affection of a lover. It was something warped, obsessive. The look a collector might give a rare artifact… or a predator admiring its prey.

When the bus arrived, Ethan let her board first, then took a place by the back door, watching her reflection in the rain-specked glass.

An hour later, they reached the old district.

The cluster of buildings ahead felt wrong—too silent, too dark.

Lillian Apartments, four towers arranged in a cross shape, rising above the cracked pavement. Serena lived in the one directly opposite Ethan’s own. He realized, uneasily, that she had probably been watching him from her window long before tonight.

“Don’t misunderstand,” she said as they stepped off the bus. “The murders around here have nothing to do with me. I’m just… trying to survive, same as anyone.”

Ethan glanced sideways. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes.

“So to stop being afraid,” he murmured, “you decided to eliminate everything that scared you?”

Her silence was answer enough. And with that silence came a memory—Detective Lorne’s warning, echoing in his mind.

They’re spreading.

Three days trapped in that cursed apartment, and now… the infection had moved beyond his walls.

They entered the courtyard of Lillian Apartments, the rain thinning into a mist that clung to their clothes. Inside the second tower, the smell of damp concrete and burnt paper filled the air.

On the third floor, an elderly woman was kneeling beside a small iron basin, burning stacks of paper money. Her frail voice muttered names into the smoke, bowing toward a framed photograph beside the fire.

Her hair was white as snow, but the man in the photo looked no older than forty. The living was paying respect to the dead—but the roles seemed inverted, unnatural.

“Her foster son took his own life three days ago,” Serena said quietly. “Everyone said he was kind—simple, gentle. No blood relation, yet he treated her like real family.”

Ethan nodded slowly. “Sometimes kindness hides a storm inside. The quiet ones are often the most complicated.”

He remembered the man—Mr. Zhao, the janitor who used to sweep the hallways with a soft smile, phone always playing music from a decade ago. He’d seemed content, but Ethan had noticed the strain behind that smile.

They had spoken a few times, sharing brief conversations at dusk. But last month, the man had vanished.

Ethan bowed slightly toward the photograph before Serena led him upstairs again.

The fifth floor smelled of mildew and iron. Clothes hung from a thin rope strung across the hall, brushing against exposed wires that buzzed faintly. The garments were dull, colorless—gray and white, swaying gently even though there was no wind.

The corridor stretched long and narrow. Every door was iron, scarred with rust. The faded red paper talismans on the frames clashed eerily with the bright “Fortune” symbols pasted at their centers, as though someone had tried too hard to invite peace into a place long abandoned by it.

“Here we are.”

Serena slid a key into the lock of Unit 2507. The door creaked open, and Ethan froze.

“This was his apartment,” he whispered. “Mr. Zhao’s place. He jumped from the balcony here… three days ago.”

Serena’s expression didn’t change. “It was empty, so I rented it.”

Ethan stared at her, uneasy. “He hasn’t even passed his seventh night. You really thought this was a good idea?”

For a moment, he almost laughed. Because he’d seen this scene before—inside one of his own games.

A husband, grieving his wife, sneaking back into the home they once shared.A séance.A flickering screen.And the chilling realization that he was watching his own death recorded from a camera that shouldn’t exist.

Now, standing in that apartment, Ethan could feel the air shift—the way reality bent around imagination, until both were indistinguishable.

And somewhere behind him, he thought he heard a whisper.Not from Serena.Not from the rain.But from the apartment itself.