I woke to a dim, fragile light slipping through the narrow slits of the ventilation shaft above me, like the faint memory of a dawn that had long since forgotten how to rise.
But this wasn't morning. There was no warmth, no gentle welcome in that light. It was pale, almost ghostly—like the echo of a sky buried under centuries of concrete and cold. A light that didn't care who saw it.
I didn't know how long I'd been asleep. There was nothing in that room to measure time—no windows, no ticking clock, not even a leak in the wall to trace with my eyes. No sound except the silence, pressing in like a second skin. I could've been asleep for hours… or days. And yet, everything was the same.
The floor beneath me remained mercilessly hard. The mat I lay on had worn so thin that it offered no comfort, only the illusion of softness. The walls were crumbling, lined with cracks that looked like veins in old skin, and the ceiling sagged as though burdened by decades of secrets. Nothing had changed.
I sat up slowly, not because I was in pain, but because my body felt as if it had been dipped in lead. Each movement was heavy, like I was dragging a version of myself I hadn't met before—older, slower, made of stone. Even the air felt thicker. It clung to my skin, soaked into my lungs, resisted my breath.
Then I heard it.
A sound.
Distant, almost tentative. The soft echo of footsteps—maybe on stairs, or just down the hall. I froze. I didn't rise. I didn't even blink. I just listened, letting the silence sharpen around the sound like a blade.
Then, it came.
A single knock. Hollow. Flat. Measured.
I stared at the door. My fingers curled slightly on the mat. I didn't answer.
I stood, finally, with a hesitance I didn't fully understand. My hand hovered near the handle. But before I could touch it, the knob turned, and the door creaked open, slowly, softly—as though whoever stood beyond didn't want to disturb what little life remained inside me.
Beyond the door, the hallway waited—exactly as I remembered it.
Dim blue lights flickered overhead like tired stars. The floor tiles were chipped, faded, and stained in shades that memory refused to name. The walls were pale, but they'd seen too much to still be blank. They'd memorized my face, my footsteps, my every passing glance.
And at the far end of the hallway… she stood.
A woman. Tall. Composed.
Her hair was tied back into a severe knot that didn't dare move. She wore a fitted gray coat that made her look more like a scalpel than a person—precise, cold, unyielding. In her hand, a small rectangular device pulsed with green light, like a heartbeat trapped in plastic.
She didn't smile. Her face was made for decisions, not kindness.
"You woke earlier than expected," she said, voice low and clinical. "Good."
I stood there, unsure if I was supposed to respond. I didn't know how to ask the questions twisting inside my head. Or if asking would make any difference.
She continued, already anticipating the silence. "Your data was submitted and verified. You've been assigned a place in the new trainee cohort. Two months. If you survive it—mentally and physically—you'll be evaluated for eligibility as a Scavenger."
I stared at her. My voice came slower than I expected. "I didn't ask for this."
Her expression didn't shift. One brow rose slightly, just enough to suggest she'd heard those words countless times before and never once cared.
"You haven't asked for anything since the orphanage," she replied. "And yet… you're here."
"Who are you?" I asked.
She didn't hesitate. "Who we are doesn't matter. The place does. What we offer… is a single chance."
She turned.
"Follow me."
And I did. Wordless. Barefoot. Willingly.
We descended a narrow flight of metal stairs, each step groaning beneath our weight like it wanted to collapse and take us with it. The sound echoed in the shaft like the voice of something deep and buried.
We passed through an empty lobby—wide, gray, stripped of anything human—then down a corridor lined with rusted pipes. Thin vapor hissed from unseen cracks, curling in the air like tired ghosts.
And then, we stepped outside.
The city waited, just as I'd last seen it.
Dead, but not decaying. Alive, but not breathing.
Gray buildings with blank faces. Cars moved through intersections, but no one inside looked out. People walked past each other like shadows—feet moving, eyes hollow, hearts absent. It was a city of movement without meaning.
I followed her down a path I hadn't chosen. She never looked back to check if I was still there. She didn't need to. I didn't need to know where we were going. I wasn't leading, and I wasn't running.
We passed a concrete wall covered in faded symbols—some ancient, others dangerous. Some were etched in mana-infused ink that shimmered faintly, resisting time. She turned into a side gate that had blended so perfectly with the wall, I hadn't even seen it.
A guard stood beside it. He didn't speak. Didn't blink. He just pressed a panel with the side of his hand, and the door opened inward like a mouth waiting to swallow us.
Inside… the air changed.
Sterile. Filtered. Empty of scent, save for chemicals and precision.
The walls were concrete, but polished smooth. Lights above us buzzed in a steady rhythm, like a countdown.
She said, still walking: "Your sleeping quarters are not the same as what you're used to. And this place… is not here to comfort you."
We entered a corridor that sloped upward.
Metal doors lined either side, each marked with a small glowing number. At one, she stopped.
She pressed a button, and the door slid open with a hiss.
"Your room. Your uniform and your schedule are inside. Adjust yourself. Don't speak unless needed. Don't ask unless it changes something. Here… silence is a weapon."
The room was no warmer than the one I'd left.
But it had things. A narrow steel-framed bed. A locker. A wall-mounted screen. And a paper file waiting on the desk like a sealed verdict.
I opened it.
On the front was a black circle, crossed by a single silver line—a symbol I didn't recognize.
Below it, my name—half-erased, half-given:
Reis — Experimental Program (Batch G)
I turned the pages.
Training Schedule:
06:00 — Lower tunnel run
07:00 — Physical drills (Advanced)
08:00 — Environment Analysis (Second World)
09:00 — Survival Simulation
10:30 — Break
11:00 — Medical Assessment
13:00 — Mana Adaptation (Low-Level)
At the bottom, a warning in red ink:
Late arrivals will have their eligibility for continuation re-evaluated.
I sat on the bed and read it again. And again. Trying to absorb something solid from the paper.
I didn't understand all of it.
But I understood what mattered.
I had been placed here. Not requested. Not asked. Just… moved.
Thrown, like I'd been thrown into the orphanage.
But somewhere inside me—some part not yet crushed—whispered:
"If you weren't good enough for them… then prove they were never good enough for you."
I awoke before the alarm.
Not because of noise. But because something inside me refused to sleep any longer.
I dressed in the uniform: rough gray cloth, tight around the shoulders, like her coat… but stripped of warmth, stripped of memory.
A badge sat over my heart. A flame enclosed in a black ring.
I opened the door.
The corridors were wider now. But still hollow. Still cold. No faces. No voices. Just me. My shadow. And the pale lights guiding me downward like a thread through a labyrinth.
I reached the courtyard.
A group of children stood there—ten to thirteen years old, maybe. All wore the same uniform. But none wore the same eyes.
Some were trembling. Some stared calmly. Others looked around like they'd entered a museum they couldn't understand.
I was the last to arrive.
No one turned. Not even the man waiting on the platform.
Tall. Bald. A scar carved from his left ear down his neck like a wound that never fully healed.
When he spoke, his mouth didn't move. His voice came from the speakers in the walls:
"Welcome to the first preparatory station."
He paused.
"You are not Awakened. Some of you carry dormant cores. Some carry nothing. But your bodies may adapt. Or fail. Time will tell."
Silence spread like frost.
"You have two months. That's how long we give you. To prove your worth. Or show us you're a waste of time and resources."
A girl raised her hand, timid. "Does that mean… we're Scavengers?"
A dry, joyless laugh slipped through the speakers.
"Scavenger? A scavenger returns alive from the Second World. You? You're far less than that. You're just… possibilities."
He turned, gesturing toward a small gate now opening behind him, revealing a tunnel laced with fog.
"Your first test. Physical. Simple. Make it to the other side in ten minutes… or don't return."
I didn't wait.
I stepped in.
The air inside was damp, soaked in the scent of rust and steam. The walls sweated. The ground pulsed faintly beneath my feet, like it remembered footsteps too well.
I ran.
Behind me, breathless sounds. Stumbles. Cries. But I didn't look back.
I hadn't been chosen. I hadn't been asked. I was thrown, as always.
But this time… I would not remain unseen.
My lungs burned. My legs screamed. But up ahead, I saw it—a faint shimmer of light.
The tunnel's end.
I pushed harder. Broke through.
Gasping. Knees shaking.
And behind me, that voice again, detached, recording rather than speaking:
"Reis. First to arrive."
I didn't answer. Didn't smile. I looked up at the gray, uncaring sky…
And for the first time—I felt like I was etching a place into the world with my own hands.
A place that was mine.
A place that would remember me… even if no one else ever did.
I sat on the ground, just beyond the tunnel's edge, my back against the cold wall. My breath came slower now, settling into a rhythm that matched the silence around me. The ache in my chest began to dull, but I didn't rise. I didn't speak. I simply watched.
One by one, they arrived—boys and girls, faces red with effort, knees buckling, lungs dragging air like it was lead. Some stumbled. Some collapsed the moment they crossed. A few cried. A few vomited.
But I didn't look at them for long. I didn't want to see their fear. Didn't want to see myself reflected in their exhaustion. I turned my face toward the far corner, where the fog still lingered near the tunnel's mouth, and let the rest of the world fall away.
None of them noticed me. Or if they did, they didn't approach.
And I preferred it that way.
I wasn't here to be part of a group, to find companionship or shared pain. I had no interest in their stories, their pasts, or what ghosts followed them here.
I didn't come to belong.
I came for something else.
I came… to become something they couldn't overlook.
Not a number. Not a case file. Not another discarded orphan waiting to fade.
I would make them see me.
Whether they wanted to or not.