"If I give it to you," Elias asked, his voice trembling, "does the sun come back?"

"Elias," the figure breathed, and the temperature in the room dropped until the coffee froze in its pot. "You held the line long enough. Give it back."

A figure stepped in, draped in a coat that seemed to be made of woven smoke. Where a face should have been, there was only a shimmering, violet "S" carved into the dark, pulsing like a dying star.

"The shadows are longer tonight," Elias muttered, watching his own reflection in the window. It wasn't mimicking him anymore. His reflection stood perfectly still, staring back with an expression of profound hunger.

Elias didn't turn. The waitress, Martha—or whatever was wearing Martha’s skin tonight—was wiping the same spot on the counter for the third hour. Her eyes were solid matte black, reflecting no light from the buzzing tubes above.

Elias sat at the far end of the counter, his fingers tracing the deep gouges in the Formica. He wasn't waiting for food; he was waiting for the static. It started as a low hum in his teeth, a vibration that signaled the city was about to "slip." "He’s late," a voice rasped.