Chicago, Illinois – 08:30 a.m.
The alarm clock's beeping was a steady metronome to Aftan's groggy irritation. He slapped the top, rolling over with the inertia of someone much older than fourteen. Sunlight slid through half-closed blinds, striking dust motes that drifted like slow snow. The apartment smelled faintly of lake air, carried in from a cracked-open window.
He rubbed his eyes, emerald-green irises catching the light, and reached for his phone. The screen lit up, blinding in the morning gloom. One unread message. Sender: recruitmentandpromotions@internationaldefenseforce.int.gov.
For a long moment, he just stared. IDF didn't send personal messages to grunts unless something was wrong—or something was about to change everything.
He tapped the notification. The words swam for a heartbeat before settling into clarity:
Dear Aftan [REDACTED], The staff here at the International Defense Force HQ would like to formally report your relocation to Seattle, as well as your admittance into the Elite Squadron division under Unit Three, Captain Ahmar Alexander. Your flight will depart at 10:00 a.m. sharp. You are expected to report to headquarters no later than 13:00 local time. Signed, Walter Skaggs – Head of Talent Evaluation.
Aftan sat up so fast his sheets tangled around his legs. "It… finally happened." His voice was low, almost reverent, before breaking into a grin he couldn't hold back. "It finally happened!"
Two years in the IDF, and he'd clawed his way to the edge of HQ assignment despite the whispers, the side-eyes, the reminders that he was only half human. His mother's side had been human enough for citizenship; his father's Genshi blood had been enough to earn suspicion. The academy instructors had treated him like a curiosity at best, a liability at worst—except for Ahmar Alexander and Albert Winsfield, who saw his ability before his heritage.
He moved quickly, tossing yesterday's clothes into a laundry bin and dressing in a crisp white shirt traced with narrow African patterns, black jeans, and Air Jordan 11s. Into his duffel went spare uniforms, a photo of his mother, a combat knife with a worn leather grip, and a weatherproof journal he'd kept since the academy.
Outside, a black suburban idled at the curb. The driver, an older man with weathered hands and eyes that had seen enough of the world, leaned out. "Uber for Aftan? Airport, right?"
"Yeah. Thanks."
They rode in silence, Aftan's earbuds feeding him a playlist that had carried him through grueling obstacle courses, night watches, and the cold dread before exams. The city streets blurred past in a gray-and-gold wash. His thoughts spiraled: the friends he'd see again, the mentors he'd finally work under, the city that had been the center of IDF power for a century.
And somewhere under all that, a splinter of unease. The so-called terrorist attack in Seattle had been on every news channel for days—a landmark nearly destroyed, an agent killed in the line of duty. Official statements were clean, controlled. Too controlled. Even Albert had said over a secure call, Doesn't smell right, Aftan. Too much security for a bomb scare.
At O'Hare, he moved through check-in on autopilot, his mind replaying conversations with Ahmar. Once, during a midnight drill, Ahmar had told him, You'll see things you won't get to talk about. You'll do things no one will thank you for. And if you're lucky, you'll go to bed with clean hands half the time. At the time, Aftan had thought it was just the fatalistic humor of a career soldier. Now, he wasn't so sure.
On the plane, he claimed a window seat, set his bag under the seat in front of him, and let the engine hum wash over him. Sleep refused to come. His gaze locked on the horizon where white cloud met blue sky. Somewhere out there, above the public story, truths were moving. And he was about to step into their current.
Two and a half hours later, the descent punched his stomach with that familiar drop. Through the window, the city appeared—skyscrapers glittering in the sun, the bay stretching out like a sheet of hammered metal, and beyond it, the mountains crouched like watchmen.
Seattle. Home to the Council, the Grandmaster, the central command. And now, him.
As the wheels hit tarmac, the pilot's voice crackled over the intercom: "Welcome to Seattle, local time 12:32 p.m., weather clear."
Aftan's pulse quickened. Whatever waited on the other side of baggage claim wasn't just a new assignment. It was the first step into a world that had been moving under his feet all along—and was finally ready to pull him in.