The Glass Horizon

By Ethan Ross

THE GLASS HORIZON

Silence isn't peace. It's a prison.

In a near-future New York, the city hums with a perfect, clinical calm. The "Standard A"—a ubiquitous frequency broadcast by the powerful Municipal Arts Society—has erased the jagged edges of human anxiety, along with the soul of the city itself. Dissonance is a crime. Individuality is a noise to be filtered out.

Elias, a disgraced forensic linguist with a gift for hearing the secrets hidden in the air, refuses to be tuned. Tucked away in a cavernous Brooklyn warehouse known as the Prism, he and his partner Julian have built a sanctuary for the "unauthorized." Together with a chosen family of outcasts, they cultivate the "Great Dissonance"—a symphony of queer defiance designed to shatter the Committee's psychological grip.

But when the Society kidnaps their youngest protégé to weaponize his perfect pitch, the "quiet war" turns lethal. From the lightless veins of the subway tunnels to the literal spire of the Empire State Building, Elias and Julian must navigate a landscape of weaponized sound and corporate betrayal.

To save their family and reclaim the city's heartbeat, they must play a note so powerful it will either liberate the masses or bring the very architecture of New York crashing down around them.

In the war for the soul of the city, the ultimate rebellion is making yourself heard.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Firebird Publishers
• Release date: Jan 9, 2026
• ISBN: 9798233704772

Ethan Ross

Ethan Ross is a versatile and prolific author who refuses to be confined to a single genre. While he is acclaimed for his bone-chilling holiday horror, such as the terrifying Santa's Slay List and the short story collections like The December Dark, he demonstrates mastery across the literary spectrum. In addition to crafting relentless tales of winter dread and forgotten folklore, Ross also writes romance that explores the complexities of human connection, high-stakes thrillers that keep readers on the edge of their seats, and many other genres, proving his capacity to engage audiences with a wide array of narrative styles and emotional depths. His diverse body of work showcases a broad storytelling range that promises something for every type of reader.

Book preview

Prologue

The humid air of the small, second-story studio was thick with the scent of linseed oil and the sharp, metallic tang of aerosol. Julian didn’t mind the smell; to them, it was the scent of survival. Outside the single, cracked window, the streetlights of Brooklyn hummed with a low-voltage buzz, casting long, jaundiced shadows across a floor littered with sketchbook scraps and empty coffee cups. It was 2:00 AM on a Tuesday, and Julian was currently engaged in a staring contest with a canvas that refused to cooperate.

Julian’s fingers were stained a deep, bruised indigo—the result of a late-night experimentation with a new pigment. They reached for a rag, wiping a smudge of blue onto their already ruined denim overalls. The piece was supposed to be a centerpiece for the Prism Coop’s upcoming fundraiser, a multi-media installation intended to prove to the city that this crumbling warehouse was more than just a squat for starving artists. It was a sanctuary. But looking at the jagged, incoherent lines of the painting, Julian felt less like a savior and more like a fraud.

They stepped back, the floorboards groaning under their boots. The warehouse was old, built in an era when things were meant to last, yet now it felt as though the very bricks were tired of holding up the weight of so many dreams. Julian had lived here for three years, ever since they’d been kicked out of their family’s house in Queens for refusing to be sensible. In those three years, the Coop had become their entire world—their family, their church, and their fortress.

A sudden, sharp sound—the screech of a siren fading in the distance—snapped Julian out of their daze. They turned toward the window, looking down at the street. A lone figure was walking past the bodega on the corner, head down, shoulders hunched against the biting January wind. For a moment, Julian felt a strange flash of recognition, a phantom tug at their chest, but the figure vanished into the darkness of an alleyway.

Get it together, Julian muttered to the empty room. They picked up a palette knife, scraping a thick layer of paint off the canvas. The sound was like a physical ache.

Every artist in the building was feeling the pressure. The Notice of Intention from the development firm had been pinned to the front door two weeks ago. They had six months to prove the building met safety codes and was a designated cultural asset, or they’d all be on the street. The fundraiser was their only hope to raise the capital for the necessary repairs.

Julian walked over to their makeshift desk—a door balanced on two sawn-off sawhorses—and picked up a polaroid camera. They snapped a photo of the unfinished painting. As the image developed in the dim light, the colors looked different—harsher, more honest. The indigo looked less like a bruise and more like a deep, unending ocean.

They thought about the music that usually filled the halls of the Coop. Usually, by this time of night, the industrial-techno beat from the basement would be vibrating through the pipes, but tonight, it was silent. The silence was worse. It allowed the doubts to creep in, whispering that they were all just playing house in a building that didn't want them.

Julian moved to the corner of the room where a small, battered record player sat. They didn’t put on techno. Instead, they reached for an old, scratched recording of a cello concerto. They didn't know much about classical music—their world was one of street art and underground raves—but there was something about the low, mournful resonance of the strings that always managed to settle their racing heart.

As the first notes filled the room, Julian closed their eyes. They imagined the music as a physical force, a series of golden threads weaving through the cracks in the walls, binding the building together. They could almost see the sound—deep ambers and rich violets dancing behind their eyelids. This was how they saw the world: not in shapes, but in a chaotic, beautiful symphony of color and vibration.

They returned to the canvas, the palette knife now moving with a newfound urgency. They weren't painting a landscape or a portrait; they were painting the sound of the cello. They were painting the feeling of being caught between two worlds—the one they were fighting to keep and the one that was trying to tear them down.

The hours bled into one another. The indigo was joined by streaks of copper and splashes of pale, ghostly white. Julian worked until their back ached and their eyes burned. By the time the first grey light of dawn began to filter through the grime on the window, the canvas was transformed. It wasn't perfect—it was never perfect—but it was alive.

Julian sat on the floor, their back against the radiator, watching the light change the colors of the room. The ambers grew brighter, the violets deepened. They felt a strange sense of peace, a temporary truce with the universe.

But as they looked at the Notice of Intention still sitting on their desk, the peace vanished. They knew that a single painting, no matter how vibrant, wouldn't be enough to save the Coop. They needed more. They needed a miracle, or at the very least, someone who knew how to turn chaos into order.

In the hallway outside, the sound of a heavy door opening echoed through the building. It was the front entrance—the one that required a specific, finicky turn of the key. Julian frowned. No one usually came in at this hour unless they were coming back from a night shift or a very long party.

They stood up, stretching their cramped limbs, and walked to the door of their studio. They opened it just a crack, peering out into the dimly lit corridor. At the far end of the hall, near the stairs, stood a man. He was dressed in a dark, expensive-looking overcoat that seemed entirely out of place in the derelict warehouse. In his hand, he gripped the handle of a large, hard-shell case—the kind used for a cello.

The man looked exhausted, his face pale and drawn in the flickering light of the overhead fluorescent bulb. He looked like someone who had just lost everything and didn't know where else to go.

Julian watched him for a long moment, frozen by a sudden, inexplicable sense of destiny. This was the man from the street—the one they’d seen through the window. He was younger than he’d appeared from a distance, perhaps only twenty-one or twenty-two. His eyes were wide and frantic, darting around the graffiti-covered walls as if he were looking for an exit or a sign.

Can I help you? Julian asked, their voice raspy from hours of silence.

The man jumped, nearly dropping the cello case. He turned toward Julian, his expression a mix of defensiveness and desperation. I... I'm looking for the Prism Coop. I was told there was a room available.

Julian leaned against the doorframe, crossing their arms over their paint-stained chest. They took in the man’s neat haircut, his polished shoes, and the way he held his instrument like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. He was a creature from a different world—a world of concert halls and ivory towers, not of warehouses and work-exchanges.

You're in the right place, Julian said, a slow, mischievous smile spreading across their face. But I hope you like ghosts and loud music, Cello Boy. Because this building is full of both.

The man didn't smile back. He just nodded, a grim, determined look settling over his features. I don't care about the ghosts. I just need a place to play.

Julian stepped out into the hallway, the indigo paint on their hands catching the light. They felt a sudden, sharp spark of electricity in the air—the kind that preceded a thunderstorm. They didn't know this man’s name yet, and they certainly didn't know that his arrival would be the catalyst for everything they were about to face.

Well, Julian said, gesturing toward the stairs. Welcome to the end of the world. Or the beginning of it. I guess we'll find out.

As they walked together toward the small, drafty room at the back of the building, the sun finally broke over the horizon, casting a brilliant, golden light through the hallway. For a moment, the grime on the windows seemed to sparkle like diamonds, and the old warehouse didn't feel like a ruin at all. It felt like a stage.

Julian looked at the man walking beside them, noting the way he flinched at the sound of a distant subway train. He was fragile, like a piece of glass that had already been cracked. Julian, who had spent their whole life learning how to be unbreakable, felt a sudden, unexpected urge to protect him—or perhaps, to be the one who finally broke him.

They reached the door to the closet and Julian pushed it open. The room was tiny, filled with the smell of dust and old wood. A single, bare mattress sat on the floor, and the radiator hissed with a rhythmic, mechanical sigh.

It's not much, Julian said, watching the man’s reaction.

The man walked into the center of the room and set his cello case down with exaggerated care. He looked around the small space, then back at Julian. It's perfect, he whispered, and for the first time, Julian saw a flicker of something other than fear in his eyes. They saw hope.

Julian closed the door, leaving the man alone with his instrument and his silence. They walked back to their studio, their mind already racing with new ideas for the fundraiser. The indigo on their hands had started to dry, cracking like old parchment.

They sat back down at their desk and picked up the polaroid they’d taken earlier. The image was fully developed now. The dark, swirling lines of the painting seemed to pulse with a life of their own. Julian realized then that the painting wasn't finished after all. It was just the background.

They picked up a brush, dipping it into a jar of bright, neon gold. With a steady hand, they began to paint a single, elegant line across the center of the canvas—a line that looked remarkably like a cello string.

The story was beginning. And as the city woke up around them, Julian knew that nothing would ever be the same again. The weight of the world felt a little lighter, not because the problems were gone, but because they were no longer facing them alone.

Outside, the first birds of the morning began to sing, their voices rising above the rumble of the traffic. It was a new day in New York, a city that never slept and never stopped changing. And in a crumbling warehouse in Brooklyn, two strangers were about to discover that sometimes, the most beautiful music is made in the middle of the noise.

Chapter 1: The Echo of a Hollow Instrument

The January wind in New York didn’t just blow; it searched. It hunted for every unzipped seam in a coat and every hairline fracture in a person’s resolve. Elias stood on the corner of 14th Street, his breath hitching in a series of ragged, white plumes. In his right hand, he gripped the handle of a carbon-fiber cello case that felt heavier than it had an hour ago. In his left, he held a phone with a shattered screen displaying an email he had already memorized until it burned behind his eyes.

We regret to inform you that the Excellence in Artistry Grant has been rescinded.

The words were a death sentence for a life he had spent twenty-two years building. There was no backup plan. There was no safety net of family wealth to catch a boy whose father had sold a vintage truck just to pay for his first full-sized bow. There was only the cold, the vibrating hum of the L train beneath his feet, and the terrifying realization that he was officially a ghost in his own city.

He began to walk, his polished leather shoes—the ones he’d bought for a Carnegie Hall debut that would now never happen—clicking rhythmically against the salt-crusted pavement. He wasn't heading toward the dorms; his keycard had been deactivated at noon. He was heading toward an address scrawled on a napkin, a place he’d heard about in the whispered, desperate circles of students who didn't fit the conservatory mold.

The Prism Coop was located in a part of Bushwick that the recent wave of gentrification had somehow forgotten to polish. As Elias crossed the threshold of the industrial district, the skyscrapers of Manhattan became distant, glittering needles in the rearview mirror. Here, the buildings were squat and defiant, draped in layers of street art that looked like the skin of some neon leviathan.

He found the warehouse at the end of a dead-end street. It was a massive, five-story relic of the early twentieth century, its brickwork stained by a century of soot. A faded sign above the door read Prism, but the 'P' had been painted over with a stylized eye that seemed to watch him as he approached.

Elias hesitated. The sound of a heavy, industrial bassline leaked through the walls, vibrating the very air in his lungs. This wasn't a rehearsal hall. This was a war zone of sound. He reached for the heavy steel door handle, his fingers trembling. If he turned back, he was homeless. If he went inside, he was someone else entirely.

The door groaned as he pushed it open.

The interior of the Coop was a sensory assault. The lobby—if it could be called that—was a cavernous space filled with the skeletal remains of art projects. A half-finished sculpture made of recycled glass bottles caught the flickering light of a dying fluorescent bulb. The air was thick with the scent of ozone and expensive espresso.

You're late, a voice called out from above.

Elias looked up. A person was perched on the railing of a mezzanine three stories up, their legs dangling over the edge with a terrifying lack of concern for gravity. They wore a pair of oversized, paint-splattered overalls and a sheer black mesh shirt. Their hair was a chaotic crown of bleached spikes, tipped with a blue that matched the bruised winter sky outside.

The figure on the railing stood up, balancing with the grace of a tightrope walker before disappearing from view. A moment later, they emerged from a darkened hallway on the ground floor, moving with a restless, kinetic energy.

I'm Julian, they said, stopping inches from Elias. Up close, they were a map of rebellion. A silver chain connected their earlobe to a nostril piercing, and their eyes were a sharp, observant amber. And you look like you’ve been kicked out of a very expensive garden.

Julian circled him, their eyes lingering on the cello case. Is that a Stradivarius, or are you just happy to see me?

It’s a custom-built, Elias said, his defensiveness rising like a wall. And I'm not here for jokes. I was told there was a room in exchange for administrative help and... maintenance.

Julian laughed, a sound that was less of a giggle and more of a rhythmic bark. Administrative help? Honey, that’s just code for 'keeping the city inspectors from noticing we’re living in a fire hazard.' And maintenance means scrubbing the glitter out of the floorboards after a rave.

They leaned in, the smell of turpentine and sandalwood surrounding Elias. You don't look like a scrubber, Cello Boy. You look like the kind of person who has a panic attack if their sheet music isn't in alphabetical order.

I'm desperate, Elias said, the honesty cutting through his pride. I have nowhere else to go, and I have exactly forty-two dollars in my bank account. I can clean. I can organize. I can do whatever you need.

Julian’s expression softened, just for a fraction of a second. They looked at the cello case again, then back at Elias’s pale, determined face. The Prism isn't a hotel. It’s a collective. We’re facing an eviction notice from a developer who wants to turn this place into 'luxury micro-lofts' by June. If you stay here, you’re in the trenches with us.

I've spent my whole life in trenches, Elias countered. They just happened to be made of velvet and mahogany.

Julian grinned, revealing a small gap between their front teeth. Fair enough. Follow me, Mozart. Let’s see if you can handle the basement.

They led Elias through a maze of hallways where the walls seemed to breathe. In one room, a girl with emerald-green braids was welding a metal frame that sparked like a miniature star. In another, a group of people sat in a circle, their laptops glowing as they manipulated digital soundscapes that Elias couldn't even begin to categorize as music.

As they descended a flight of stairs, the temperature dropped and the bass grew louder.

This is the heart of the operation, Julian said, gesturing to a massive, soundproofed room filled with subwoofers and mixing consoles. We run an underground streaming hub from here. Labels are dying, and the algorithms are the new gods. We help independent artists bypass the gatekeepers.

Julian stopped in front of a heavy wooden door tucked behind a stack of empty crates. This is it. The 'Suite of Silence.' Or, as the rest of us call it, the closet.

They pushed the door open. The room was barely eight feet wide. A single, high window looked out onto an alleyway, and a narrow cot was pushed against a wall covered in peeling floral wallpaper. There was a small desk, a lamp with a frayed cord, and a radiator that clanked as if someone were trapped inside it.

It's small, Elias whispered.

It's free, Julian retorted. If you can manage the books for the fundraiser and keep the common areas from looking like a crime scene. We have a gala in three months. If we don't raise half a million for the structural repairs, we're all out on the street. You think your 'administrative skills' can handle that?

Elias set his cello case down on the cot. The room felt like a coffin, but for the first time in twenty-four hours, he didn't feel like he was drowning. He felt like he had finally hit the bottom, and the floor was solid.

I can handle it, Elias said, turning to face Julian.

Julian leaned against the doorframe, crossing their arms. Their indigo-stained fingers drummed against their elbows. We’ll see. There’s a dinner at eight in the communal kitchen. Don't be late, and don't wear that tie. You’re making the painters nervous.

As Julian turned to leave, they paused. By the way, what’s your name?

Elias, he said. Just Elias.

Well, Just Elias, Julian said, their amber eyes flashing with a spark of something that might have been interest. Welcome to the Prism. Try not to break anything. Especially not yourself.

When the door clicked shut, Elias sat on the edge of the cot. The silence of the room was relative; he could still hear the distant thrum of the music from the floor above, a rhythmic heartbeat that seemed to pulse in time with his own.

He reached out and unlatched the cello case. The instrument within was a beautiful, honey-colored wood, its curves familiar and comforting. He pulled it out, resting the endpin on the concrete floor. He didn't need a chair; he sat on the edge of the bed and drew the bow across the strings.

The sound that emerged was a low, mournful G-string note that seemed to soak into the very walls. It was a note of grief, of loss, and of a strange, terrifying freedom. For years, he had played what was expected of him. He had played for grades, for grants, and for the approval of people who saw him as a tool rather than a person.

Now, in the basement of a crumbling warehouse, there was no one to listen. There was no one to judge the vibrato or the intonation.

He began to play a Bach suite, the notes flowing out of him with a fluidity he hadn't felt in months. But as he reached the second movement, he found himself stumbling. The structure felt too rigid for the room. The basement demanded something more—something visceral.

Elias closed his eyes and let his fingers wander. He began to mimic the low-frequency hum of the subwoofers he’d heard earlier, sliding his hand up the fingerboard in a way that would have made his professors recoil in horror. He was experimenting with the texture of the sound, finding the places where the cello could growl and hiss.

Above him, the floorboards creaked. He wondered if Julian was listening. He wondered if they could hear the difference between the boy who had walked in the door and the person who was currently trying to find a new way to breathe through a wooden box.

The radiator gave a particularly loud hiss, and a cloud of steam puffed out from a valve. Elias didn't stop. He played through the steam, through the cold, and through the exhaustion that was finally beginning to settle into his bones.

He was no longer a student of the conservatory. He was a resident of the Prism. And as the sun set over Brooklyn, casting a long, orange glow through his tiny window, Elias realized that the life he had lost was only a prelude. The real music—the loud, messy, complicated music of survival—was only just beginning.

The physical space of the room felt smaller as the darkness encroached, yet his mind felt wider than it ever had in a practice room uptown. He thought about Julian’s hands—stained with blue, quick-moving, and certain. He thought about the way the warehouse seemed to hold its breath when he played that final note.

He stayed there for hours, alternating between the comfort of classical structures and the frightening lure of pure, unadulterated noise. Every time he strayed from the sheet music in his mind, he felt a jolt of adrenaline. It was the sound of a person finally speaking in their own voice, even if that voice was currently just a rasp against a wire string.

He realized then that he didn't just need a room. He needed to be remade. He needed to be stripped of the technician title the Dean had branded him with and forged into something that could survive the humidity, the grime, and the looming threat of the developers' bulldozers.

He carefully packed the cello away, laid down on the narrow cot, and listened to the city. For the first time in his life, the noise of New York didn't sound like chaos. It sounded like a symphony that was waiting for him to join in.

He closed his eyes, the image of Julian's amber eyes burned into his mind. This was the first movement of a new life. And he was going to make sure every single note counted, no matter how many rules he had to break to play them.

Chapter 2: The Communal Altar of Burnt Toast

The transition from the pristine, soundproofed isolation of the conservatory to the sensory riot of the Prism Coop was like being shoved out of a quiet library and into a jet engine. Elias spent the first hour after his practice session staring at the peeling wallpaper of his new room, trying to reconcile the fact that he was currently living in a space that would have been rejected by most New York City rats as being too industrial.

He checked his reflection in the small, cracked mirror above the sink. His face was pale, his eyes underlined by dark circles that spoke of a week spent in a state of high-alert panic. He looked exactly like what