It was not light that woke him.
There was no sun, no sting of brightness, no warm crawl of morning across the eyelids. What pulled him upward from unconsciousness was something stranger—an absence of sensation so complete it felt like being pressed between pages of a forgotten book. Not pain, not noise, not even fear. Just dust.
His throat was dry. Not parched like thirst, but as if it had never once been used. When he moved his tongue across the roof of his mouth, it was coated in something gritty. He coughed, or tried to, but the sound died before it could leave him, swallowed by the vast, soundless air.
He opened his eyes.
Above him: black.
Below him: black.
To either side: an endless, undisturbed canvas that might have been land or floor or void—it made no distinction. It didn't shift beneath his weight. It didn't echo his breath. It was simply there.
He sat up, slowly. His body was alien. Not in appearance—though he couldn't yet bring himself to look—but in response. His limbs moved like a memory of movement, like he'd once known how to do this but had since forgotten the details.
He touched his chest. Felt the steady thump of something trying to assure him he was alive.
But what did that even mean here?
He stood. The sound of his feet brushing the not-floor was like silk drawn across metal. He turned in place. There was no wind. No stars. No landmarks. Just a hollow vastness that gave no context, no hint of beginning or end.
Then he heard it.
A sound that had texture.
Clink. Swirl. Tap.
He turned toward it and found a bar.
It hadn't been there a moment ago. He was certain of that. And yet there it stood now—long and sleek and unnatural in its perfection. Black as the rest of the world, but edged in faint, shimmering blue. Liquids in tall bottles lined the mirrored back wall, though there was no wall to support it.
Behind the bar was a man—or something like one.
He stood with effortless composure, cleaning a spotless glass with a too-white rag. His skin was flawless but had the faintest mechanical sheen. His eyes were too symmetrical, their movements too precise. The lines of his face were soft, inviting, but not true. He wore a collared shirt with sleeves rolled up, brown suspenders over a silver vest, and a golden pin in the shape of a smiley face on his breast pocket.
His head was the shape of a human head, yes—but only in the way that a statue might be. A guess, smoothed by time. If you stared too long, you could see the small seams along the jawline, the subtle shifting of synthetic musculature as he smiled.
And he was smiling now.
"Oh, there you are," the barkeep said, his voice cutting clean through the silence like a practiced blade. "Took you long enough to wake up. Thought I'd have to start charging rent."
The man tilted his head with smooth mechanical grace.
"You don't look well," he added, setting the glass down with care. "But then again, first-timers rarely do."
The man—who did not yet know his own name—stared at him.
The barkeep leaned forward on his elbows. "Would you like to sit? Or should we just stand here in awkward tension a little longer? I'm not picky, but I do have drinks to make."
"Where…" he rasped. "Where am I?"
A delighted clap. "Ah, the classic opener! Wonderful. Simply timeless. You wouldn't believe how many people skip straight to 'Am I dead?' or 'What the hell is this?' You, my friend, are a traditionalist."
"I'm serious."
"Oh, I know. Everyone is. But what if I told you you're not supposed to be serious yet? What if this is the part where you ease in, ask questions with wide eyes, get cryptic answers and mysterious drinks, and slowly realize—oh no—I might be part of something far bigger than myself?"
The man swallowed, wincing at the dryness in his throat.
"Who are you?"
"I'm the Barkeep." The figure gave a slight bow, his movements fluid and theatrical. "And you… well, you're new. And we like new."
The silence between them pulsed like breath. The bar seemed to hum faintly now, as if responding to their presence. Or perhaps just to his.
"I don't remember anything," the man said.
The Barkeep nodded, unsurprised. "That's the point. Blank slates are much easier to work with. I've never had luck with the ones who cling to old lives. Clutters the stage."
"Stage?"
"Metaphor," the Barkeep said with a grin. "You'll get used to those. I use a lot of them. Poetic license and all that."
"I don't understand."
"You're not meant to. Yet." The Barkeep pulled a dark bottle from beneath the bar. "But don't worry. Every great song starts with a little dissonance."
The man stared at the bottle. "I'm not drinking anything you give me."
The Barkeep raised a brow—impressively human, considering the synthetic structure beneath. "Fair. Suspicion is a mark of intelligence. But then again…" He popped the cork, and a faint mist drifted from the top. "This isn't poison. It's an opener. A bridge. A taste of context."
He poured a single shot into a glass that didn't reflect light, then slid it forward.
The man hesitated.
"Suit yourself," said the Barkeep. "But it's not like you're going anywhere else."
The silence stretched again.
Then, slowly, the man reached out.
He took the glass.
He drank.
It was neither cold nor warm. The flavor was indescribable—not because it was complex, but because it seemed to change as it hit his tongue. First it tasted like rain on pavement. Then like firewood. Then like something older—something he couldn't name.
He blinked.
And suddenly he remembered sound.
He blinked.
The taste still lingered on his tongue—dry and metallic now, like the memory of something ancient. Not blood, but close. Something ceremonial. The sensation trailed down his throat, lighting up nerves that hadn't been used in a long time, like dormant streetlamps suddenly flaring to life.
He exhaled.
The air smelled different now.
Like something behind the bar had peeled open a layer of the world, and the scent of what lay beneath was finally leaking through.
"Good," said the Barkeep, his mechanical hands resting gently on the lacquered surface of the counter. "It's working."
"What is?" the man asked, wiping his mouth. His hand was shaking, but not from fear. From return. Like his blood had been static, and now it moved again.
"The drink," the Barkeep replied, as if it should've been obvious. "It realigns your senses. Resets your anchors. You'd be surprised how many people fall apart if they try to process this place without a sip of something first."
"This place… what is this place?" the man asked again, but softer now. Not desperate—curious. His voice sounded a little more natural, as if the drink had lubricated something in his throat that hadn't been working right.
The Barkeep leaned forward on his elbows. His eyes glowed slightly—barely visible, but the faint circuitry beneath the iris hummed with life now.
"This is nowhere," he said. "And everywhere. A border. A threshold. You could call it a foyer, if you wanted to get architectural. Personally, I think of it as a waiting room for gods."
The man frowned. "I'm not a god."
The Barkeep grinned. "That's because you haven't spun the Wheel yet."
The words hung there.
The Wheel.
The man didn't know what that meant, not precisely. But the way the barkeep said it, with a capital-W pause and a reverent undercurrent, he knew it meant more than chance. More than just fate. It meant something mechanical and sacred.
He looked down at the counter. His fingers were tapping of their own accord, drumming out a rhythm he didn't recognize. His body wanted to move, to do something. To begin.
"You've got that look," the Barkeep said. "The fidgety one. It's normal. Most folks get a bit itchy once the drink hits. Nothing to worry about. Your soul's just realizing it can stand again."
"I feel… strange," the man admitted.
"Oh, you're not strange yet," said the Barkeep. "That part comes later."
He poured another drink—unasked for—but didn't slide it over this time. Instead, he lifted it himself and sipped, his metal throat humming with the liquid's passage. The action was so human it felt like watching a ghost do something familiar from life.
The man looked around again. The space behind him was still dark. Still empty. The bar seemed the only thing real here, and even that reality was tenuous. Every time he looked away and back again, some bottle had changed its label. Some stool was missing a leg that hadn't been broken a second ago.
"You never told me your name," the man said suddenly.
The Barkeep smiled again—but there was something different in it now. Something a little tighter.
"I didn't," he agreed.
A silence passed.
"And you're not going to?"
"Oh, I might. Eventually. Depends on how your song sounds, when the time comes."
"My song?"
"You'll see." The Barkeep turned to the shelf behind him and began rummaging. Bottles clinked. A drawer slid open. Tools were shifted. Somewhere in the distance, a bell chimed—but there was no door, no customer.
The man leaned forward. "You're stalling."
The Barkeep laughed. A warm, metallic chortle. "You're impatient. That's different."
More rummaging. A box was lifted—black iron with twisting gears along the sides. The Barkeep set it down with a thunk and gave it a loving pat.
"Right," he said, cracking his neck like a wind-up doll. "Let's get to the meat of it."
He tapped the box once. It unfolded.
With no visible seams, the box collapsed outward—unfolding like paper, except each piece was weighted and heavy and impossibly crafted. Tiny cogs spun into place. A small tower of steel spires clicked up from the center, and hovering above it was a disk.
The disk was huge. Divided into countless pieces all have strange and unseen symbols on them.
The bar was quiet again, save for the fizz of machinery and the occasional clink of glass as the barkeep tended to invisible tasks. The man had finished his drink, some peculiar blend of warmth and static, and now sat with the glass still in hand—gripping it like an anchor to reality.
"So," the barkeep said as he polished a glass that shimmered like it was made from captured fog, "what do you think of the décor? I change it every few centuries. Keeps me humble."
The man didn't respond. He was looking past the counter, toward the massive wheel.
He stepped back.
"What is that?"
"That," said the barkeep, with the same tone one might use to introduce a miracle or a trap, "is the Choir's favorite game: the Wheel."
The Wheel loomed before him now, fully risen and humming with a low, reverent tone. The symbols weren't still; some shifted subtly, rotating like coins on a tabletop, while others pulsed with faint inner light. It gave the impression that the Wheel was breathing.
He eyed it. "And what, I'm supposed to…?"
"Spin it." The barkeep was already behind the Wheel, gesturing to a long, brass lever fused to its rim. "It's how you earn your song."
"I didn't ask for a song."
The barkeep chuckled. "Nobody asks for a song. But if you're here, you've already been written into the score. I just press play."
The man took a step closer, eyeing the symbols. "What happens when I spin it?"
"You receive a gift," the barkeep said. "And a curse. And a name. And an ending."
"That last one sounds a little final."
"Everything ends. But this? This is the part where you get to be interesting."
The man hesitated. "What if I don't want to spin?"
The barkeep shrugged. "Then you stay here. In the bar. Drinking ghost-liquor and listening to me make increasingly inappropriate puns for eternity."
"Sounds like hell."
"You'd be surprised. I have quite the repertoire."
He stared at the Wheel. The humming grew louder, like it knew it was being watched. He felt it calling—not like a voice, not even a feeling, just directionless pull. It wasn't demand, but it was definite.
"I still don't understand," he muttered. "What am I supposed to do with whatever it gives me?"
"Fight," the barkeep said, matter-of-factly. "Win. Lose. Bleed. Break. Learn. Maybe die. Depends on how charming you are."
"You're not exactly selling it."
"Oh I'm not a salesman," he grinned. "I'm a bartender."
The man walked up to the Wheel. The lever was larger than it looked from a distance. Rough metal and warm to the touch. It thrummed faintly beneath his fingers.
He closed his eyes.
And pulled.
WHRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR—
The Wheel screamed into motion, faster than physics should allow, spinning so quickly that the symbols became streaks of light, then rings of fire, then something unseeable. The bar dimmed, or maybe the Wheel glowed brighter—either way, everything else began to fade.
And then—
Click.
The Wheel stopped. Not gradually. Not with friction. It just—halted.
One symbol sat at the top, illuminated in pale, otherworldly blue.
A twisted hourglass, melting inward. Sharp at one end, soft at the other. Impossible geometry—like a loop within a spiral within a fold. Stray stared at it. It didn't make sense to his eyes, but something in him recognized it.
"That's…" he began.
The barkeep was already leaning in.
"Oho. That one." He grinned wide, his lenses flickering brighter. "Haven't seen it in ages. Curious little gift, that."
The man didn't say anything.
"You," said the barkeep, "wander through time like a stray cat through an alleyway. Curious. Uncertain. Dangerous, if cornered."
He tapped his chin thoughtfully, looking over him like an artist admiring the first brush stroke.
"Speaking of that," the barkeep said, "I'll name you Stray. For now."
The name settled on him like a coat he hadn't realized he was wearing. Heavy, but not uncomfortable.
"Stray," he repeated, quietly.
"Fitting, no?" the barkeep said. "You'll come to like it. Or hate it. Either way, it's yours now."
Stray looked back at the Wheel. The symbol still glowed, humming faintly.
"And what does it do?"
The barkeep didn't answer immediately. He walked to the Wheel, touched the symbol lightly, and nodded as if listening to a tune only he could hear.
"It unbuttons the seams," he said finally. "Of time, of space, of certainty. You'll learn. Usually in the middle of a punch."
Stray turned to him. "You said gift and curse."
The barkeep nodded solemnly. "That symbol will keep you alive in all the worst ways. It will break you in ways you won't see coming. But it will also make you... special. Not unique. We've had others. But none quite like you."
Stray said nothing.
"Not feeling grateful?" the barkeep teased.
"I'm trying to feel anything at all."
"Well," the barkeep said with a clap, "you've got a name, a power, and a pretty little mystery. That's three more things than most people get in a lifetime. Cheer up."
Stray exhaled. The glow from the Wheel began to fade, its job apparently done. The bar seemed to brighten again. The glass in his hand had refilled itself.
He looked down at it. "Now what?"
The barkeep smiled.
"Now?" he said, gesturing toward the far end of the bar, "Now you see what you're up against."
Stray turned to look as a soft mechanical hum filled the space. From behind him, the floor began to split open in a clean, silent line. A slender panel rose upward—thin as a sheet, but tall enough to rival a cathedral door. It rotated as it ascended, smooth and seamless, until it faced the bar. Then, with a flicker, it lit up—a curved, translucent screen snapping to life with a swirl of amber light.
A battle was already in progress.
The barkeep poured himself a measure of something pale and crackling, the liquid fizzing as it hit the glass. He swirled it once, then raised his brows toward the screen.
"You never know," he said, voice casual but not careless, "one of them might be your opponent soon."
Stray stepped closer. The display expanded, curving wider as if responding to his movement. The camera drifted over an arena that looked like a vast obsidian basin, its walls soaring into a dusky sky. At its center, two figures danced across the cracked surface—one luminous, one grounded.
The first was wreathed in light, his body tracing golden arcs through the air with every movement. Blinding beams flared from his fingertips, bending and lashing out like sentient whips. The other held his ground, crouched behind shimmering geometric barriers that pulsed with every impact.
Stray squinted. "Light versus… walls?"
The barkeep took a sip. "More or less. Flares and force fields. The fancy one is Halo. The other goes by Rampart."
"And you named them?"
"Yeah." The barkeep chuckled. "I told you. Names get handed out here. Some stick better than others."
The screen panned closer, tightening on the fighters. Halo burst forward in a streak of blinding motion, light coalescing around his arms like spears. Rampart braced, slamming both palms into the ground. A dome snapped into place—clear but rippling with hexagonal seams. The spears shattered against it, light flaring across the dome's surface like a sun igniting.
"That guy's tough," Stray muttered.
"Mm. But light's faster," the barkeep said, pointing with his glass just as Halo vanished mid-lunge and reappeared behind the dome in a burst of illumination. He thrust both hands forward and sent a lance of pure radiance through a blind spot. The barrier snapped like glass, and Rampart stumbled.
The lights in the bar dimmed with the sheer brilliance pouring from the screen.
"Here comes the ending," said the barkeep, almost fondly.
Halo leapt, a twisting cyclone of gold and white. The camera followed the arc of his descent—then impact.
The screen flashed.
When the image stabilized, Rampart was unconscious, sprawled in a crater of his own broken walls. Halo stood over him, one hand raised in victory. The crowd—visible now as a blur of shapes in the stands above—roared, their silhouettes pulsing like a single creature.
Then the camera cut to a different view: two figures seated in a floating, rusted booth, suspended high above the arena. Both wore cracked visors and masks fashioned from mismatched metal. One had a microphone strapped into the side of his head with fraying wires, the other had a speaker embedded directly into his chest. Their clothes were more scrap heap than uniform—painted leather, dangling cords, a riot of color and clatter.
"YEEAAAH BABY! That's what I call LIGHT LUNCH!" screamed the one with the speaker-chest. His voice blew out the audio for a moment. "Halo serves another round of photons and pain, while Rampart's goin' home with a fresh pack of broken teeth!"
The second one leaned forward, goggles flickering. "That's right, Jank! That dome might've held up his dignity, but it couldn't hold back that final kiss of sunshine! Rampart's song is added to the Choir!"
Stray blinked. "Who the hell are they?"
The barkeep smiled wider. "Our charming announcers. That's Jank—" he nodded to the chest-speaker lunatic—"and the other's Spools. Bit much, but they keep the blood warm."
"Warm?" Stray asked.
The barkeep gestured to the screen. "This place doesn't just feed on the fights—it needs spectacle. And they deliver."
Stray watched as the camera zoomed out again. Halo knelt and pressed a hand to his chest. Light flared from within him, then dimmed as he turned toward a distant gate in the arena wall. It hissed open, bathing him in white. The last image before the feed cut was Halo walking into the light—his outline dissolving into particles.
Stray's stomach flipped.
"...I'm fighting that guy?" he asked.
"Eventually," the barkeep said, polishing a new glass. "But not today."
The bar's lights shifted again. A deep bass rumble vibrated through the floor.
"Today," the barkeep continued, voice lower now, "you're on deck."
Stray turned, already feeling it—a strange pull behind his navel. Gravity sideways. The air buzzed.
The floor beneath him peeled open like a blossoming flower. Wind roared upward. Stray barely had time to widen his stance before a magnetic pulse locked onto his back and yanked him downward.
The bar vanished above him.
Darkness for a moment. Then light.
He fell into a new arena—this one a ring of cracked ivory bones and blackened soil. The ground steamed. Massive ribs curved up like ancient pillars. Chains swung from some of them. At the far end, a door opened.
From it came a figure—slow at first, then faster.
Bones rattled, hovered, then whirled in spirals. Stray could see the organic matter latching on, climbing the man's body as he stepped into view. Vertebrae wrapped around his shoulders. A sternum clamped over his chest. His mask was a skull, polished to a mirror sheen. As he neared the center of the ring, the bones clicked into place.
The announcers screamed overhead.
"HELLOOOO NEWBLOOD! MEET THE BONE THRONE HIMSELF—"
"THE MARROWMAKER!"