All at once, I surfaced into consciousness.
A sharp, clean scent filled my lungs—like metal and antiseptic—while something soft yet cold cradled my back, molding to the curve of my spine. I lay still, listening. A low hum vibrated beneath me, constant and patient.
Quiet. Too quiet.
Something was wrong, but it took a few slow breaths before I realized what it was:
My mind was empty. No name, no faces, no yesterday—just the steady thump of a heart I barely recognized as mine.
Oddly, I wasn't afraid.
My eyelids felt heavy, but I forced them open. Bright white light greeted me, forcing a squint. I lay inside a smooth, coffin-like capsule, its walls curving just beyond the reach of my elbows. The material looked like glass or polished metal, faintly reflecting the glow from above.
I lifted my head with effort and glanced down at myself. A dark-skinned hand—mine—rested on a plain gray shirt, paired with black pants and boots. I flexed my fingers, noticing the fine scars on my knuckles. They felt familiar in a way nothing else did.
"Who...?" I started, but my voice was a dry rasp.
A symbol, a blue triangle inside a circle, was etched onto the inside of the capsule lid above me. It pulsed faintly, in rhythm with the hum below. My chest tightened, as if I should know what it meant.
I pressed my palms against the transparent lid and pushed. Nothing. I shoved harder. Still nothing.
A cold realization:
I was trapped.
But fear didn't come, only an impatient restlessness. An urge. Like I was meant to be somewhere, doing something—finding someone. A color flickered in my mind's eye: red. And a name, like an echo in a long tunnel:
"Kael."
Was that me?
"Kael," I whispered. It felt right.
"Hey!" I shouted, louder now, the capsule amplifying my voice in a metallic echo. "Let me out!"
Silence.
I tried again, fists pounding against the lid. "Does anybody hear me?"
Nothing, except the steady hum beneath me and the faint hiss of air circulating somewhere in the capsule.
I shifted, propping myself up on my elbows to peer past the edge of the lid. The capsule's curvature allowed me a narrow glimpse of my surroundings.
A large, square room. White walls, seamless and sterile, but faintly glowing lines traced across them like veins of light. The air shimmered with a cold, artificial clarity.
There were other capsules. Three of them, standing upright in the corners of the room, each about the size of a person. Their surfaces were matte black, hiding whatever was inside.
I wasn't alone here.
I pressed my ear against the lid. A faint knocking echoed from one of the other capsules—three slow taps, then silence.
A shiver raced across my skin.
I looked up again. Above me, a thin line of red light blinked around the lid, slow and patient, then paused, then blinked again.
Something in the walls clicked.
A hiss of air escaped near my feet, and the lid above me trembled. Slowly, almost reluctantly, it began to lift with a whisper, the pulsing blue triangle turning white.
Cool air washed over me, carrying a scent like ozone and ice. I pushed myself up, muscles stiff but ready, eyes fixed on the other capsules.
The red light blinked once more, then turned solid.
From across the room, another hiss answered.
The black surface of one of the other capsules shivered, then split with a thin line of light down its center.
Someone—or something—was waking up too.
I took a breath, heart pounding as I swung my legs over the edge, boots meeting the cold, glowing floor.
I didn't know who I was. I didn't know where I was. But I knew one thing:
I was not alone.