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📖 Chapter 5 — Under the Bridge

The wind howled through the steel cables of the old suspension bridge, making them groan like the ribs of some ancient beast. Rain fell in heavy, golden ropes that turned to coins under the flickering neon sign overhead: “DON’T RUN.”

Milo, Kaya, and Oz climbed the slippery metal steps, soaked to the bone. Their pockets were stuffed with scraps of paper, each scribbled with words they didn’t want to forget — names, half-finished jokes, a doodle of a sun. Oz had even taped one to his arm beneath his torn raincoat. On it, in shaky letters: “My name is Oz. Don’t run alone.”

They had left the laundromat at dawn, weaving through empty streets lined with the living shadows of the city — people drifting under identical red umbrellas that turned them into walking ghosts. These were the willing prisoners: plugged into their holographic feeds, dripping the same dull mantra through cracked earpieces. Above them, golden rain slid off the red domes, never touching skin.

At the top of the bridge, the poet waited. He held his pristine white umbrella like a relic, as if it were the last holy thing left in this drowned city. Up close, Milo saw how young he really was — younger than he sounded. But his eyes looked older than the rust on the bridge’s iron beams.

Milo stopped a few paces away, heart hammering in his chest. He didn’t know if it was fear or relief — maybe both.

“You came,” the poet said softly, as if greeting old friends. “We want answers,” Kaya snapped back, her voice sharp above the rain. “Who are you? Who is Podonok? Why does this rain eat our memories?”

The poet lifted his umbrella higher so that it covered all four of them. A drop of gold hit the white fabric — but instead of rolling off, it bled into a flickering symbol that pulsed like static. Another drop, another mark. Soon, the whole canopy was alive with shifting codes: IP addresses, cryptic QR patterns, broken lines of poetry.

“You see this?” the poet murmured. “This is what they want us to forget. The SECRET isn’t a coin. It’s a door locked from the inside. You three… you’re the glitch in the code.”

Oz stepped forward, his face hardened. “Podonok. The messages. ‘Don’t Run.’ Why?”

The poet let the rain drum on his shoulder. “Podonok built the door — the first line of code. But he trapped himself inside. The Clown is his reflection, or maybe the ghost in the machine. One guards the door shut, the other sells fake keys. Buy the SECRET, chain yourself. Try to sell it — ‘Don’t Run.’ There’s nowhere to go.”

Milo shivered. He glanced down through the steel grates. Below, a river of red umbrellas snaked through the street like a blood vessel. Faces under them were blank screens — each mind fed the same loop of an influencer painted as a zombie, whispering: “War is not a movie.”

Kaya pressed her lips together, disgust rising in her throat. “They’re puppets…”

The poet nodded once. “As long as they stand under that dome, they forget. As long as they forget, they consume. As long as they consume, the SECRET grows — and Podonok laughs in his bunker.”

Oz turned to him, anger burning under his soaked hair. “So what? We join them? We wait for the end?”

The poet barked a sharp, humorless laugh. “No. You’re the flaw in the plan. The line that won’t compile. You ran without shelter — you’re already outside the loop. You can break the lock… or free everyone else.”

He turned the umbrella over to Milo. The white canopy flickered with symbols that danced like static fireflies.

“Take it. As long as you hold this, the rain can’t erase you. But remember — one mistake, one drop on your neck, and you’ll fade with the rest.”

Milo grabbed the handle. The umbrella was heavier than he’d imagined. He looked into the poet’s eyes, searching for something — an escape hatch, maybe.

“You’re coming with us,” Milo said.

The poet gave him a gentle, almost sad smile. “My part ends here. I was the echo in the wires. The last whisper in the static. Now, it’s your story to finish. I’ve held on too long.”

Before they could react, he stepped back, boots clanging on wet steel. He climbed the rusted rail in one motion — balanced on the edge like a ghost. For an instant, the flickering neon framed him in gold. Then his silhouette fell away, swallowed by the black river below.

Milo froze, the white umbrella trembling in his hand. Kaya pressed her forehead to his shoulder, grounding him in the present. Oz looked out over the city, jaw set tight.

“What now?” Kaya breathed.

Milo opened the umbrella wider, its light cutting through the neon rain. He drew a shaky breath, forcing down the panic clawing at his mind.

“Now we find Podonok,” he said. “We drag him out. We force the door open. Even if it breaks us.”

Oz’s eyes narrowed. A bitter grin curled his lips. “So we run. Again.”

Milo cracked a grin of his own. “Yeah. But this time — we run toward him.”

Beneath the bridge, the city continued to pour secrets into the river. Three figures, tiny under a single white dome, stepped forward — upstream, into the storm.

The SECRET had no idea that its worst nightmare was coming: the ones who refuse to forget.

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https://nft.bastion.city/invest.html