Midtown, New York – Daytime
The city had gone soft.
Not silent—but dulled, like a radio turned down just low enough that the melody faded into wallpaper. Horns still blared on occasion, but without urgency. Conversations drifted past like idle breezes, shallow and aimless. Even the traffic, once chaotic and alive, moved in strange, synchronized streams.
Across the skyline, a digital billboard shimmered with artificial warmth:
"NeuroPeace – Find Your Calm Today."
Beneath the glowing slogan, Morgana Devereux's porcelain smile radiated peace—serene, composed, almost angelic. Her eyes didn't look into the camera. They looked through it. Through you.
HeartEater stood on the far side of the street, utterly still.
No shadows to hide in. No reason to hide. His tattered cloak moved only when the breeze willed it. Light slid off the dull gray plates of his scarred armor. The featureless mask he wore caught the billboard's glow, reflecting Morgana's face in warped distortion.
Around him, New Yorkers drifted like sedated ghosts—expressionless, slow, and compliant. The source of their numbness coiled over their ears: sleek headsets dressed as accessories, gently glowing where flesh met metal.
No one looked at him.
Or if they did, they simply… didn't care.
A man bumped into his shoulder—murmured, "Sorry," in a tranquil murmur—and walked on, eyes glassy, mind far.
HeartEater didn't move. Didn't flinch.
He just watched.
---
[Scene: Café Parking Lot – Across the Street]
"Okay," Marcus said, adjusting the headset over his ears. "Not gonna lie. It's like... someone massaging your brain with warm clouds. Kills the stress. Even slows your heartbeat."
"Take it off."
Evelyn didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to. Her tone cut like glass—calm, focused, unblinking.
Marcus chuckled, slipping the device down around his neck. "Relax. I'm not defecting to the cult just yet. We have to understand it from the inside, right?"
"I don't need to sedate my cortex to know this thing's dangerous." Evelyn leaned back against the car, arms crossed beneath her bomber jacket, eyes shaded by mirrored sunglasses. "Morgana's headsets didn't just hit shelves—they blanketed the damn market. Overnight. That doesn't happen without serious black-budget backing."
"You think it's the Syndicate?"
"No."
She turned her eyes to the billboard across the street.
"I think it's something worse."
They both stared.
Not at the product, but at what it did. The crowd below them moved in eerie unison. Too calm. Too obedient.
Evelyn exhaled. "Let's get back to the stream analysis. If there's a signature pattern in how this tech affects the brain, I want to find it before they drop version two."
Marcus nodded, his expression sobering as he tucked the device away.
The calm around them was no longer comforting. It was a warning.
Rooftops – Nightfall
New York had never truly slept.
But tonight, it dreamed.
Soft lights shimmered across the skyline like bioluminescence. Windows glowed. Music trickled from open terraces. Couples walked hand in hand, laughter drifting like perfume. But beneath it all, something felt… synthetic.
HeartEater moved across the rooftops like a whispered curse. Silent. Focused. Purposeful.
Each leap was calculated. Each landing, a whisper. His cloak flared and folded behind him like the wings of some decaying angel. Below, the city exhaled peace—a chemical calm layered over its decaying soul.
He crouched on a ledge, statuesque, his mask turned downward toward the alley below. His faded orange eyes narrowed behind the mask's slits.
A man shuffled into view.
Pale. Blank. His headset nodes pulsed gently with a soft cerulean hue. He moved not like someone walking with purpose—but like someone being pulled.
HeartEater tracked him from above. A shadow on the wind.
The man approached a loading dock behind a shuttered shopping plaza. Another figure waited—tall, dressed in a black suit, collar high, face obscured beneath a wide-brimmed hat. They looked like a silhouette cut from darker paper.
No words were spoken.
The figure in the hat reached into their coat and withdrew a small crate. They extended it forward. The man took it with trembling hands—almost reverently.
No payment. No exchange. Just obedience.
HeartEater shifted slightly, eyes fixed.
The crate was opened.
A faint violet glow bathed the man's face from within. On the inside lid, clean and stamped in corporate bold:
"NeuroPeace"
Smaller. Sleeker.
More invasive.
He memorized the details, then vanished from the ledge.
Evelyn's Apartment – Minutes Later
The monitor screamed with an alert.
Evelyn sprinted from the kitchen, nearly slipping on her notepad. "Talk to me," she barked, snatching her headset.
Marcus's voice cut in, ragged with urgency. "Eve, we've got a report from uptown. NYPD's calling it a suicide, but... it doesn't make sense. Thirty-story drop. Eyewitness says the guy didn't jump."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean he walked out the window," Marcus said, voice tight. "Like he didn't even know what was happening."
Evelyn's screen flickered, loading the first image.
A man's body, broken and twisted on the sidewalk. Blood spread out beneath him in a blooming spatter that looked almost... floral. His limbs bent wrong. Bones ruptured through skin.
His eyes were open. Still glowing.
Pale blue. Peaceful.
A piece of the headset clung to his head—embedded. Fused to flesh.
Like a parasite that fed too deep, and died with the host.
Evelyn's breath caught. "They're not calming people down."
"No," Marcus whispered. "They're rewriting them."