Prologue. The City That Doesn't Sleep
New York was not a city, but a state of matter. Steam from manholes, poisonous exhaust, the vapors from millions of bodies rushing somewhere in their blind oblivion. It absorbed dreams, ground them into dust, and spat them back out, like sunflower seed husks on the sidewalk outside “Bob's Diner”. The night here was never truly black—it was diluted by the neon poison of signs, the bloody glow of advertisement lights, and the dim, sickly radiance of street lamps, around which swarmed midges and the ghosts of unfulfilled hopes.
Part One. Shadows Without a Body
Chapter 1. The Morning Ritual
She shuddered and opened her eyes. Not woke up – specifically shuddered, as if an invisible hand had ripped the blanket of nightmare off her. Her pupils slowly focused on the ceiling, smeared with shadows from the streetlamp outside. The shadows shifted, living their own life, independent of physical laws. One of them, long and thin, stretched from the dresser to the bed, like a finger pointing at her.
Her heart pounded in her chest, echoing in her temples with dull thuds. She sat up, leaning on her elbows. The room was the same as always – tiny, with peeling wallpaper, crammed with cheap particleboard furniture. But today, something alien hung in the air. A sweetish smell of unfamiliar cologne mixed with the familiar scents of mustiness and loneliness.
– Home, sweet home! – she sang under her breath, and it sounded like a spell, an attempt to convince herself of the reality of what was happening. She jumped out of bed sharply, tripping over a velvet dress of a lilac, almost black in this light, color, lying on the floor next to stockings and lace underwear. The clothes lay unnaturally, as if someone's skin had been ripped off. A small spot darkened on the floor by the bed. She bent down, touched it with her fingers. Sticky. Reddish-brown. Paint? Or… She jerked her hand back as if burned.
In the bathroom, looking in the mirror, she recoiled. A stranger was staring back at her from the other side of the glass. Short, white hair, like a clown's wig preparing for its final, most tragic performance. Bright, almost garish makeup – a mask for the nightly ritual. The eyeliner created a cat-eye effect, but those eyes were empty, bottomless. With a snarl more like a moan, she tore off the wig, revealing dark, sweat-damp hair. The hot shower washed away the mascara and eyeshadow, which streamed down her face in black-purple rivulets, mixing with water and tears. She stood under the spray, trying to burn the memory of yesterday from her skin, a day she couldn't remember. The water was almost scalding, but inside her remained a coldness. An icy lump in her chest that even boiling water couldn't melt.
