Snow was falling—slow and solemn—like the ashes of a world too old to burn. Each flake seemed to carry a memory: that of a winter that no longer forgives. New York was sinking beneath the shroud, numb, almost forgotten by itself. It wasn't silence—it was a waiting.
Two blocks from Madison Square Garden, a deserted park. Shivering streetlights, wan light, black trees raising skeletal branches toward an ashen sky. The air held that metallic taste—rust, or blood. And beneath that dull canopy, a figure.
Sitting on a frozen bench, hood drawn up, Jinra Voss stared without truly seeing. Seventeen, today. And already emptied of her springs. Her worn-out coat kept nothing in—not the cold, not the world.
Her eyes, two dulled blades, were fixed on the starless sky—a bottomless well, as mute as the void she carried inside.
The phone buzzed.
The sound, almost indecent, sliced through the air like a slap.
She answered without haste, her voice flat, unfamiliar even to herself.
— Yes.
— May I speak with Jinra Voss?
— Speaking.
Silence. Then the voice, cold and bureaucratic:
— You need to come collect your inheritance.
She didn't respond immediately. The word floated there—strange, misplaced.
— Today?
— Your mother's will requires it. On your seventeenth birthday.
Her lips barely parted. She looked toward the distant buildings, draped in garlands and meaningless lights. A celebration that did not belong to her.
— I forgot.
Pause.
— Did your friends wish you happy birthday this morning?
She gave a joyless snort, more breath than laughter.
— I don't have friends. And I don't care.
A beat. Then:
— Well… happy birthday.
— Thanks.
She drew a breath; the air tore at her from the inside.
— This inheritance… what is it?
— A USB key.
She blinked. A short, dry laugh—almost a tic.
— Seriously? You could've mailed it.
— That's not allowed. It must be delivered in person. It's… stipulated.
— Fine. Do what you want.
She hung up.
The silence returned, denser than before.
She held the phone a moment longer, as if the object might answer something she hadn't yet understood. Then slipped it into her pocket.
The snowflakes, now thickening, tangled with bluish neon lights, drawing fleeting arabesques around her.
She stood.
Her steps crunched over frozen snow. Each footprint seemed heavier than the last.
---
II. Hollow Shadows
New York shimmered like an illusion too fragile to believe in anymore. Windows screamed in red and gold. Auto-tuned carols blared through overloaded speakers. And at the heart of this frenzy, Jinra drifted, invisible. A blot of shadow between two neon signs.
She slipped into a narrow alley. Half-faded graffiti, walls slick with frost and neglect. The air reeked of a dead city: cold grease, garbage, loneliness.
Back against the wall, she closed her eyes. Just for a few seconds.
— Evening, gorgeous.
She didn't open them right away. She knew that voice. Not him, not them—but that voice. The voice of petty hunger and cowardly violence.
Three figures. Young, drunk, already broken inside.
— Not cold, babe? We can warm you up. Promise you'll like it.
She looked at them. No fear. No anger. Just emptiness.
— No.
A short, dry laugh. Nervous.
The closest one stepped forward, hands in his pockets. Jaw clenched.
— Seriously? You'd rather die here?
She shrugged.
— Maybe. So what?
Silence fell. Heavy, suffocating. Something faltered in their eyes.
— What the hell's your problem?
She replied, voice calm, almost gentle.
— My problem… is that I'm still here.
A suspended beat. Their bodies hesitated. Instinct—that forgotten beast—whispered something. They backed off.
One spat on the ground, for show.
Then they vanished.
Jinra remained, arms hanging at her sides.
— Same ghosts, every night.
And she moved on, swallowed by the shadows.
---
The night market beneath the East overpass pulsed like an illegal organ. Red lanterns, crooked stalls, steam thick with spices and sweat. Scents too alive for civilized salons.
Jinra passed through, a fluid shadow, hands in her pockets. Her stomach growled, but she ignored it like an old wound. She walked, guided by nothing.
She bumped into a man. He cursed, stumbled, fell.
— Fucking bitch!
She offered her hand, politely.
— Sorry.
He grunted, took it, got up, walked off.
She smiled.
In her palm: a wallet.
Just enough to buy an hour of warmth.
---
The diner on 8th Avenue. Yellow walls, grimy light, grease lingering in the air. She entered like one steps into a pagan temple. The waitress didn't even look at her.
— One shawarma with fries. And a Coke.
— To go?
— Yeah.
She sat. Looked at her reflection in the dirty glass. A blurred, distant version of herself.
— Miss? Your order.
She paid. Stepped back out. Found a nook beneath a concrete staircase—her shelter.
She wrapped herself in her blanket. Ate slowly.
Each bite scraped the walls of her stomach, pieced her back together. It was lukewarm, bland, real.
— Not warm. But alive.
A crackle. Then a voice over the city's loudspeakers—deep, synthetic, implacable.
EMERGENCY ALERT — ACTIVE BREACH.
EVACUATE PUBLIC AREAS.
PRIORITIZE SAFETY.
The market froze.
Phones lit up. Faces went rigid. A dull tension gripped the street like an invisible hand.
Jinra didn't move.
She picked one last fry. Chewed it slowly.
Then looked up at the black sky. A faint smile touched her lips.
— Finally.
Her fingers closed around the key in her pocket. Invisible, but there.
— I've been waiting long enough.