Aldrich stumbled through the rusted gate of his apartment block, lungs burning, heart hammering like it wanted out of his chest. The building loomed over him like a concrete graveyard, an ugly stack of one hundred unit-boxes piled on top of each other, half-dead in their frames. Paint peeled in vertical scars. Windows gaped open like tired mouths. Nothing about it said "home," but it was the only one he had.
He doubled over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. The sprint from Coco's still lingered in his legs, each step up the stairwell now feeling like it dragged him deeper underwater. He'd broken off from Herman and Bernard at the junction. They'd split without words, just looks and instinct. The kind of unspoken understanding only brothers shared.
Behind him, the street had gone still. A single flickering lamplight buzzed in the dark like an insect on its last legs. No sign of Alvin and his Snakepit thugs. Either they'd given up, or they were licking their bruised pride somewhere. Far off, the sound of red-core patrols echoed through the narrow alleys, mechanized boots pounding asphalt in perfect sync, rifles humming low and angry. But no one came. Just a drunk teenager out after curfew. Not enough for a laser. Not tonight.
In the Lowlands, law was a ghost. Faint and formless. Don't kill. Don't steal. And if you were old enough, hit your mining quota. That was it. For Aldrich, sixteen and still classed as a minor, it was just the first two. The Highlanders liked the chaos. Let the rats scurry around in filth and fear. Keep them too broken to rise up.
The gate groaned behind him, a screech loud enough to wake half the floor. Aldrich didn't care. He dragged himself up the cracked concrete stairs to the second floor. The lights above were dead, wires exposed like veins along the ceiling. Paint curled from the walls in sheets. Water stains crept like rot in every corner.
His hands shook as he fumbled for his keys. Once. Twice. Five times before he finally jammed the right one into the rusted lock. The door creaked open, sticking on the frame before giving way with a grunt.
Inside, the air was stale, filled with dust and the faint ghost of something sweeter, cooked rice, his mother's perfume. Faint traces that hadn't yet faded completely.
He stepped inside and let the door click shut behind him. No light, just shapes and shadows. He didn't bother to turn on the bulb. His legs gave out, and he fell face-first onto the mattress. No sheets. Just the raw, cold fabric scratching against his skin.
The buzz from Coco's was fading. The drunken warmth melting into a sour throb behind his eyes. His mouth was dry, and his body felt like stone. But worse than the hangover was the silence. It crawled up the walls. Wrapped around his ribs.
This place had once been a home, small, broken, but filled with laughter and warmth. Now it was a tomb with wallpaper. Just him and four concrete walls, chipped tiles, and silence. The Lowlands council paid the rent; it was the least they did for underage orphans. The Highlanders wouldn't lift a finger unless it meant credits in return. If the council didn't exist, this whole block would've burned years ago.
His eyes landed on the corner of the room.
Her chair sat there.
It hadn't moved in two years.
The shelf beside it still held the picture frame. He pushed himself upright, muscles aching, and crossed the room. The photo was dusty, but familiar. Him, his mother, and his father. Their only family portrait. A snapshot frozen in time.
He picked it up with both hands, cradling it like it might shatter. His thumb traced the faces. His mother's smile was gentle, but tired. The gray patches had already started spreading on her neck. The disease had stolen her slowly.
And beside her, his father. Back straight. Tall. A ghost of a grin playing on his lips. Navy blue shirt, and that vivid orange armor peeking through, mid-summon. It had shimmered, shifted like liquid flame, rising out of his pores like it had a will of its own.
He'd come home that day, just once in two years, talking about his promotion to Lieutenant. That armor had meant he was orange-core class. Strong. Respected. A weapon of the Highlands. He'd even shown Aldrich a trick, his new ability, but the memory of what it was had blurred over the years.
What he did remember was his mother's face. That scowl. That rage, barely hidden behind her clenched jaw. She hadn't said anything. Just turned her back and walked away.
That had been their last day as a family. His dad left and never returned.
Aldrich put the frame back, slower than before. He sank onto the nearby chair and stared at the shelf again. Inside a glass cube was the old wristwatch. One of the few things his father had left behind, delivered by Highland officers like some cheap consolation.
He grabbed it. Opened the cube. The leather strap was worn and cracked. The screen was scratched and faded. It wasn't even ticking anymore.
He'd never worn it. Never wanted to. It wasn't his. It belonged to the man who abandoned them. A stranger in a uniform. A man who had power and chose silence.
So why? Why leave them to rot in the dust while he stood in glowing armor?
Anger flared.
His hand slipped. The watch tumbled. Glass shattered.
Aldrich froze.
The cube had cracked across the floor, shards sparkling like ice. His breath caught in his throat. His heart slammed against his ribs.
He dropped to his knees, fumbling with bleeding fingers to collect the pieces. Most were too small to matter, but one thing stood out. A small black orb. Perfectly round. Smooth. It pulsed faintly, no bigger than a fingernail.
He reached for it.
The moment his skin touched it, the orb melted. Liquid-fast, it darted under his palm like a serpent. It sliced through skin like paper, then dug deep.
Pain ripped through him.
He screamed, collapsing backward. His body convulsed. Veins lit up red under his skin. His eyes burned like fire. Sweat drenched him in seconds.
He couldn't breathe.
The floor tilted.
Everything went black.
The last thing he felt was cold concrete.
*************************************
The darkness wasn't empty.
It pulsed, slow and steady, like a second heartbeat. Cold, dense, suffocating, but not silent.
Then came the sound. Dripping water. The faint rumble of stone grinding on stone. Wind? No, too slow, too deliberate. It felt alive. Watching.
Aldrich opened his eyes.
He was a child again. Seven, maybe eight. His arms were thin, feet bare, the calluses of the present-day missing. The floor was slick, damp stone. The air smelled of wet dust and moss, like something ancient had been trapped too long and forgotten how to breathe.
He stood in a cave, deep and wide, the ceiling high above him like the inside of a giant beast's ribs. Faint orb-lights floated in the air, dull and flickering. Their glow barely touched the walls, but they lit just enough for him to see what was ahead.
He clutched a rundolph ball in his hands. Scuffed, stitched leather worn to the seams. He didn't know how he'd gotten here, didn't remember coming. He just knew, somehow, he was supposed to be here.
And he wasn't alone.
Voices echoed from deeper within. One of them he knew.
His father.
Aldrich crept forward, the ball hugged tight to his chest. His breath came out ragged. The walls seemed to narrow as he moved, closing in around him, crowding his senses. But still he pressed on. His father's voice pulled him like a hook through the dark.
He reached a bend in the rock and peeked around it.
There he was, his father, standing tall, orange armor gleaming dully in the dim light. It didn't look like the smooth liquid shell he'd seen in the photo. This version looked heavier, older, like it had been worn too long.
And across from him stood a second figure, even taller.
Cloaked. Hooded. No face. Just a deep shadow beneath a thick cowl. Power dripped from him like oil, slow and thick and suffocating. They weren't arguing. They were making a deal. Trading words like weapons.
The sounds were muffled, warped like underwater shouts. But one name sliced through the haze like a knife.
"Kill Albernan."
The cave seemed to freeze. Aldrich's eyes went wide. His small hands tightened around the ball.
His father turned instantly. His head snapped toward the sound.
He saw him.
Eyes widened with panic, then something else.. anger. Or fear.
"Aldrich—" he said, and suddenly he was storming forward.
"You shouldn't be here, Baby Al," he whispered as he scooped him up in both arms. His voice trembled. Aldrich didn't resist. The ball fell from his fingers and bounced once, echoing through the cavern.
The darkness swallowed everything.
Aldrich gasped awake, lungs dragging in air like drowning. Morning sunlight pierced the room in long, angled shafts, illuminating the dust in thick golden streaks. It turned the gray walls of his apartment almost white, but not with warmth, with exposure. It made everything look more broken.
He lay sprawled on the cold floor, limbs tangled, shirt soaked in sweat.
His eyes darted to the shattered glass on the ground. The broken cube. The spilled watch. All real.
His heart hammered. It hadn't been a dream. The orb, the pain, he had not imagined it.
He sat up, palm trembling, and looked at his hand.
Smooth.
No wound. No scar. Nothing.
As if the orb had never been there.
His breath came in short bursts, brain still clawing through fog. He closed his eyes. One word rose from the depths of his mind, unshakable, heavy as stone.
"Albernan."
He stood slowly, legs weak, vision spinning. The moment he took a step, nausea punched him in the gut.
He staggered to the bathroom, slammed the door open, and collapsed over the sink. Black sludge poured from his mouth. Viscous. Oily. Shimmering. It clung to the porcelain like tar.
"What the hell," he rasped.
It didn't smell like bile. It didn't smell like anything. Just… wrong. He twisted the tap with shaking fingers, watched it swirl down the drain.
And then it was gone.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, breathing heavy.
Then, suddenly, he realized.
He felt better.
Lighter.
Like he could jump higher, think faster, breathe deeper. Every edge of the room looked sharper. Every sound louder. Even the stink of rust in the pipes seemed to hit his nose like a full sentence.
Adrenaline? No. Something else. Something deeper. The orb had done something to him.
He didn't have time to figure out what.
The trial.
His eyes widened. "Shit."
He threw off his clothes, jumped into the shower, ice-cold water jolting him into full alertness. He scrubbed fast, dirt and sweat flying off him in frantic waves.
He stepped out, towel flying behind him as he rushed into his bedroom. Tight black shirt, fitted pants, worn boots. Done. He grabbed his belt and bolted out the door.