Black Gates.
The words rattled around in my skull like a pinball bouncing off every worst-case scenario I'd ever imagined. I'd read the Academy briefings. Watched the documentaries. Heard the horror stories from retired Hunters who drank too much and talked too little about the things they'd seen.
Black Gates were the cosmic joke nobody laughed at.
Regular Gates followed rules. You went in, killed the boss, walked out a hero. Maybe grabbed some loot on the way. Simple. Clean. The kind of straightforward violence I could appreciate.
Black Gates? They made their own rules. And the first rule was always the same.
You don't leave until the Gate says you can leave.
