Spencer Raymund savored the air with professional disgust. Two years ago working as a crime scene expert for the city guard, and she had not yet become the smell of death in mangroves - a mixture of Salitre, decomposing meat and that unused sweet deed of her whores when they entered alert. - Raymund! Stop smelling the corpse and come see this. Detective Kallus, a bellied man whose mustache seemed more alive than he, waved from the entry of the alley. Spencer kept his leather notebook and stood up, his dark hair dripping through the back of his neck. The night in thed was hot and wet, and the orange glow of the oil poles reflected in the water puddles as hungry eyes. The alley was in the district of Pitch Bank, such a poor area that even the rats seemed malnourished. The victim: A middle-aged man, gray skin like all the descendants of the ancient colonizers of CES, his eyes wide in the expression of those who saw something unimaginable before dying. - Cause of death? Spencer knelt beside the body, without touching anything. "Apparently none," replied Kallus, spitting on the floor. - No injury, there is no poison, it has no suffocation. Only ... died. So stopped, standing two hours ago until someone had the courage to call the guard. Spencer frowned. His dark brown eyes ran through the scene: the man wore simple clothes, but his hands had calluses of those who handled fine tools - or perhaps or watchmaker. On the ground, a few inches from the hard fingers, a small bronze wrench gleamed. "That's not from here," Spencer pointed to the key. - Pitch Bank has no bronze. The people here do not have what to steal, who will say to lose a face key. Kallus shrugged. "It can be the killer." Or the victim. It takes pro laboratory, forehead, give me a report. Meanwhile, I will seek witnesses. Not that someone in this den of bastards will speak something useful. He walked away, the boots dragging in the mud. Spencer was alone with the dead. II She should have picked up the key and gone. But something bothered her. It was not the smell, nor the frozen expression of the corpse. It was the fact that two other bodies had appeared in TonteLay in the same conditions - no apparent cause, open eyes panicked, and always a small, valuable object next to. The official reports said "premature natural death." Spencer knew it was not true. She had written those reports, under orders from the guard captain. Do not investigate that, he had said. Or you end up like them. Spencer ignored his voice on his head. He picked up the bronze key. The metal was cold - colder he should, as if he had just left a glacial chamber. In the palm of his hand, she felt an almost imperceptible vibration, a buzzing that did not come from the air, but from inside the object. "What are you?" He murmured. The key did not respond. But the crime scene suddenly seemed quieter than normal. CES crickets stopped singing. The wind ceased. Even the dripping of the water on the roofs he silent. And then Spencer heard something that should not be possible. "Hide the key, girl. They are coming. The voice was rough, masculine, and vine ... from the corpse. Spencer took a step back, the heart shot. The man was still dead. "The chest was not moved, fixed eyes. But his mouth ... His lips moved. Just a millimeter, almost invisible, but enough to form the words in a whisper that only she could hear. "You're dead," Spencer said, his voice coming out more calm than he felt. "Dead do not speak. "And alive should not hear deceased," the voice replied, and now Spencer was sure: the corpse smiled. "But you're not normal, Spencer Raymund." You've never been. Remember the orphanage? Remember the basement? Remember what they did to you to try to awaken your gift? Spencer felt the blood freeze. Its obscure past. The reason she had run away from her hometown, changed her name, cut with everyone. The orphanage house of the broken needle, where children without family were used as guinea pigs for mystical experiments. Attempts to force the awakening of latent powers. She had escaped, but many had not had the same luck. "How do you know that?" Spencer pressed the key so hard that the metal bit her skin. "Because I was there." The corpse replied. "I was the guardian of the basement. And this key ... This key opens the only door you could not overcome the night of your escape. Spencer looked at the object in his hand. Which looked like a simple bronze key now shone with an inner, weak but undeniable light. Symbols she did not recognize began to emerge on the surface of the metal, engraved to fire without burning her skin. - What's the fuck? She whispered. The corpse did not respond anymore. His eyes, first frozen in terror, now looked ... peaceful. As if he had fulfilled his mission. Spencer stuck the key in his pocket and left the alley walking fast, ignoring Kallus that screamed something about interrogations. She needed a safe place. I needed answers. And he needed to understand why he suddenly could hear the thoughts of all people on the street. III The Mental Game started three blocks later. Spencer realized that he was not followed by guards. It was followed by something worse: hunters of relics, specialized mercenaries in recovering legendary artifacts to the black market. They did not wear uniforms, but she recognized the floor - that measured step, his hands always close to his pockets, his eyes that never blinked. "Three back, two in front - the voice in your head now did not come from corpses, but from your own sharp senses. Overudience had awakened, and with it, the ability to hear steps to distance blocks, accelerated heartbeat, the ranger of fingers on triggers. She did not know how not why. But he knew one thing: if he did not escape now, he would not be able to find out. Spencer turned into a alley that she knew well - a shortcut that led to the district of Lerase's Head, where the old buildings had secret passages from the time of civil wars. The steps ago accelerated. She heard one of them whispering, "She has the key. The boss wants to live, but if it matters ... - if it matters, we deliver dead. It just needs the object. Spencer ran. His lungs burned. She had no combat powers, had no mystical training, had nothing but intelligence and a photographic memory of the city maps. But sometimes, it was enough. She entered an abandoned building - an old goldgirl, judging by empty benches and cold furnaces. He climbed the stairs running, opened a door on the third floor, crossed a porch and jumped to the neighboring roof. The hunters followed. But Spencer knew something they did not know: that roof was rotten. The first man he stepped on the wooden structure fell with a muffled cry, sinking to the waist on spoiled boards. The second hesitated. Spencer took advantage of the doubt to go down for a runoff and disappear on the streets of Harbor Barr, where the smell of rotten fish and the constant fog of the swamp swallowed it as a protective mother. IV Hours later, in the rented basement of a pension in Star Manor, Spencer put the key on the table. The object was no longer a key. The inscriptions had spread, covering all the metal with a writing that seemed alive, pulsating to every beat of his heart. And in the back, where before there was only one smooth surface, now a name was recorded: "Key of the first whisper - Legendary artifact Grade 3" Spencer read aloud, and the name echoed in the small room. Immediately, she heard something new: no steps, no thoughts, but voices from the past. Fragments of conversations that had happened at that place decades ago. Whispers of lovers, revolutionary plans, the crying of a lost child. She covered her ears, but the sound came from inside. "That's too much," she gasped. - I did not ask for it. I do not want this. The key shone stronger. And then, as if he answered a command that she had not given, superudence expanded. Spencer heard everything in the radius of a kilometer: every heart, every secret, every lie. Words overlap into an unbearable cacophony. And at the center of this chaos, a voice stood out. Clear. Cold. Family. "You've awakened, Spencer. The key has chosen you. Now discover the truth: the orphanage was never closed. The broken needle still operates. And they know you're alive. It was the voice of the guardian of the basement. The man she turns dead before. Spencer ripped off the table and threw it against the wall. The object ricocheted, fell to the floor ... and continued shining. "Why me?" She shouted at the ceiling. No one answered. But superudence, little by little, was calming down. The noises organized in layers that she could focus or ignore at will. His first power was under control. For now. Spencer took the key, kept her in the bottom pocket of his coat, and sat on the bed creaking. She had false clues to disassemble, a past to face, and now a legendary artifact that seemed to have her own will. She also had a new understanding of the world: users of power could accumulate up to five skills. More than that, and the body aged fast - days became decades, and death came overnight. Raricious were able to reach ten powers. No one had ever been from it. Spencer looked at his own hands. "A power," he murmured. - I have a power. And a key I did not ask for. And an army of hunters behind me. She laughed, no humor. "Welcome back to the nightmare, Raymund. Out out, in TonteLay, Detective Kallus found the empty alley. The body had disappeared. The only evidence was a ticket nailed to the wall with a dagger, written in dry blood: "She has the key. We have the rest. Do not interfere." Kallus Leu, crumpled the paper and swallowed it. "Damn Raymund," he whispered, his eyes shining with a glow that was not human. "You do not know what you've awakened. In his pocket of his coat, a pocket watch marked midnight. The second pointer turned to the contrary. --- đŽ End hook An common item reveals to be a legendary artifact. Spencer now hears what he should not. Kallus is not the one. And somewhere under tonteLay, the broken needle still spits new victims. The hunt became chess game. And Spencer Raymund has just moved the first piece.