Chapter One
The Whisper Beneath the Bone

21:12 BST · The Golden Condor · Bethnal Green · East London

The pub smells of burnt oil, urinal pucks, and undercooked chicken. A dozen voices layer over each other, interrupted only by the dull thud of boots on old floorboards. Televisions hang from two corners. One's on football. The other is muted — tuned to Sky News, captions flickering like something gasping for signal.

Naila watches the foam in her pint collapse like lungs under pressure. She doesn’t blink for a while.

“You alright?” Dean asks, leaning in, chin still greasy from his double cheeseburger.

“Yeah.”

She’s not. Not since the dreams started. Not since she began hearing the hum just before waking — low, persistent, like someone whispering into her spine.

“It’s just— I dunno. Everything’s too loud lately.”

Jay shrugs. “It’s the algorithm. Probably scraping our brainwaves now. What’s one more leak?”

“No, it’s that Estonia thing.” Aadam, who no one remembers inviting, leans forward. “That’s real. My cousin’s in Narva. She says they’re closing clinics. Government’s pretending it’s tuberculosis but... people’ve got light coming out their mouths.”

Dean laughs, but Naila doesn’t. Not this time. She swears she saw something in her X-ray last week. Something geometric. Her GP called it "artefact contamination." Recommended switching clinics.

* * *

21:59 BST

The pub crowd turns toward the Sky TV. Remote's missing, so it stays muted. The caption scroll reads:

BREAKING — UNVERIFIED FOOTAGE LEAKED FROM TALLINN HOSPITAL — UK GOVT REFUSES COMMENT

A figure shuffles under harsh fluorescents. The camera is handheld, shaky. Their bones cast shadows inside their body — angular, branching. The image judders. Pixelation surges. Text at the bottom is blurred, but a phrase slips through:

“TRIGRAM. BONE. MIRROR. INITIATE.”

Jay snorts. “It’s deepfake theatre.” But no one responds. Because something in that moment... hums. The air vibrates. Or maybe it’s their own bones. Just for a second.

Naila touches her wrist. Her pulse is... syncopated. Like a language she forgot she spoke.

* * *

Later, she'll try to recall the exact moment it started. The shift. The scent. The thing in her marrow that was suddenly… awake.