The first thing Jace noticed was the dirt.
It wasn't clean soil. It was dry, packed tight, and clung to the inside of his nails like it had something to prove. There was blood in his mouth. Not fresh. Metallic. Old.
He blinked.
The ceiling above him was cracked, wooden, rotting at the edges. Light leaked through the boards like it was too lazy to shine properly.
He didn't move.
Not yet.
His back ached. His chest burned. But there was no blood—at least not the kind still leaving him. He touched the spot where the bullets hit.
No holes.
Just bruises.
He sat up slowly.
He was on the floor of a shack. Dust floated through the air like it had nowhere better to be. A dead rat lay in the corner. Its stomach torn open like it had tried to escape something inside itself.
He was shirtless. Thin linen pants. No shoes. His pistol—gone. Knife—gone. Phone—gone.
Rook was gone.
That was the part that actually made him pause.
He stood, wobbled once, caught himself on the wall. His vision pulsed. His heart was steady, but the rhythm was off—like it was syncing to someone else's beat.
Then the door creaked open.
It wasn't kicked. It wasn't slammed.
It just… opened. Like the house had decided it was time.
Outside was a dirt path. Fog. The trees looked wrong—too tall, too narrow, branches that didn't fork. The wind made no sound, but something moved with it.
He stepped out.
The sky was bruised purple. No sun. Just a sickly, hanging light that seemed to give up halfway to the ground. Buildings in the distance—metal and stone—stood crooked, like they'd been pushed halfway down by a giant hand and then left to rot.
A bell rang somewhere far off.
Not a pleasant bell. A warning.
He walked.
The fog got thicker.
The path turned. Then again. Then again.
He took a step left—landed in a puddle.
Next step, the stone cracked beneath his foot and he nearly fell into a trench that hadn't been there before.
The world hated symmetry. The path hated being followed.
A voice spoke from nowhere:
"Subject: Jace MarrowCurse Status: ACTIVEModifier: Misfortune x2Observation: High Risk"
He froze.
Then blinked. The voice was gone. No one around.
Just the trees.
He kept moving.
Two kids passed by him on the trail—thin, pale, carrying crates. They didn't speak. One of them looked up briefly, then tripped on a root that wasn't there the moment before.
She hit the ground. The crate split open.
The other one shouted. They scrambled. The spilled contents were gone before they could grab them—swallowed by the fog like it was hungry.
Jace kept walking.
He didn't help.
Outer Quarantine District — Entry Gate 9
Metal fences. Electric buzz. Signs in a language that was mostly English. A guard sat behind glass, half-asleep, a cigarette burning down to the filter.
Jace walked up. Didn't say anything.
The guard looked up, confused. "Where's your tag?"
Jace didn't answer.
The man tapped a screen.
It sparked.
Static.
The system rebooted.
The lights flickered. Then died.
The guard sighed.
"…Of course."
He waved Jace through.
No ID. No questions. Just a sigh of someone who'd given up too many times before.
Jace stepped through.
The gates slammed shut behind him without warning. Caught the edge of his pants—ripped the hem clean.
He didn't flinch.
He walked into a world that felt modern, but broken.
Buildings wired with too many antennas
Markets with glowing meat, flickering signs, and vendors with no eyes
Kids in uniforms running past, clutching books with symbols that burned if you stared too long
In the distance: a massive building. Clean. Black stone. Towers like knives.
A sign out front:
[ASTRA ACADEMY — CONSCRIPTION YEAR: IN PROGRESS]All qualified subjects will report within 48 hours of Manifestation.
Jace stopped.
Something in his head whispered that the "Academy" wasn't about learning.
It was about survival.