Between Mars and Earth, in the silent, golden vacuum of space, something stirred.
No sound. No warning. Just a tiny black dot—barely visible, like a trick of the eye.
It pulsed once. Then again.
Slowly, unnaturally, it began to expand—as if space itself were breathing inward. It wasn't just black. It was the absence of light, deeper than the void around it. A flaw in reality, raw and alive.
Every deep-space telescope across the solar system locked onto it.
This wasn't a gravitational storm. Not radiation or debris. It was new. Silent. Impossible.
A wormhole had opened.
No one knew where it led.
Or what might come through.
*-----------------------------*
Astraeus Global Command, or AGC, was the product of two centuries of catastrophe and compromise. It had outlasted presidents, treaties, even war. After the Geneva Rift incident nearly cracked Earth's orbit in 2083, the AGC was given total planetary authority over space anomalies.
Buried beneath Earth's surface, the Mission Operations Center buzzed with quiet, organized chaos.
The room was vast—low-lit and glowing with cold blue monitors. Rows of scientists hunched over consoles, watching streams of gravitational data and simulated projections spiral across their screens. Wall-length displays flickered with orbital camera feeds. The temperature was kept cold. Machines liked it that way. So did anxious minds.
Dr. Rehan stood frozen at his terminal. His eyes were locked on a climbing data curve, one that shouldn't exist. Not after the Luna Echoes disaster. Not after the failed jump drive experiments in low orbit.
> "N-no... not again."
He moved, nearly knocking over his chair as he bolted from his station, tablet clutched in white-knuckled hands.
*--------------------------*
At the far end of the control floor, Chairman Mark Patro stood alone in the central chamber. Tall, sharp, composed in his dark suit. A holographic projection of the solar system hovered in front of him—Mars, Earth, the anomaly slowly spinning into view between them.
He didn't blink. Didn't breathe.
He had seen classified disasters. Felt gravity distort beneath his feet during the Phobos Surge. Led the Earth Evac Simulations when the Europa Base collapsed into itself.
But this?
This was different.
Dr. Rehan burst through the doors.
> "S-sir!" he called, voice cracking. "A wormhole has appeared between Mars and Earth. It's expanding. Fast. Anything near it—debris, satellites, even deep-space signals—are being pulled in. It's like it's... eating space."
Patro turned slowly. His eyes were hard but alive—calculating, cold, tired. But behind them—just for a moment—a flicker of memory: a shuttle tearing apart mid-jump. The screams of a crew that never made it home. The loss never fully left him.
He took the tablet. Watched the black mass on-screen twist, its edges warping reality itself.
> "How long until it reaches us?" he asked.
Rehan hesitated.
> "W-we don't know. It's accelerating. And it's... it's not natural. Sir, this might not even be just a wormhole."
Patro's jaw locked.
> "Red-Level event," he said. "Initiate Protocol Black Horizon. Global broadcast. I want orbital satellites on full sweep. All agencies looped in. I want eyes on that thing from every angle."
He stepped closer to the screen.
> "If this keeps growing... it won't stop at satellites or debris."
The holographic Earth hovered before them, glowing quietly in the dark.
> "It will pull Earth itself."
The room went still. Alarms blinked silently across the mainframe. No one moved. No one spoke.
Patro broke the silence.
> "Alert our global partners. Prepare the orbital strike system. If we can't understand it... we destroy it."
A low murmur of disbelief passed through the command floor.
But Patro didn't flinch.
> "We choose the third option," he said. "Annihilation."
*-----------------------*
Scene: Global Emergency Summit — The White House
The Situation Room was packed like never before.
Presidents, prime ministers, generals, scientists. Over 70 nations gathered—virtually and physically—beneath the same silent threat.
On the wall behind the central speaker, live footage of the anomaly played. The wormhole had doubled in size. Satellites, probes, even entire orbital stations had vanished into its void.
No known force could resist it.
Mark Patro, now in uniform, stood at the front of the room. No flair. No introductions. Just the gravity of extinction tightening in every breath.
> "This is a Red-Level Existential Threat," he said. "We have initiated Protocol Black Horizon. This anomaly is expanding. And unless we act now, it will reach Earth."
He tapped his tablet. A massive number filled the wall screen:
> Required Mission Budget: 97 Billion USD (Minimum)
> "We need unified contribution," he continued. "Financial. Technological. Human. This isn't a regional threat. It's not political. It's survival."
> "We propose a single task force. Joint command. Codename: Project Final Horizon."
The room buzzed. Whispers of doubt. Fear. Logistics.
> "You want us to bet Earth on a teenager with a scar and a prototype?!" someone blurted.
And yet... slowly... hands began to raise. One by one.
Agreements were made—not out of alliance, but necessity.
When silence fell again, Patro nodded.
> "There's one more matter," he said. "We need someone who doesn't follow rules. Someone who rewrites them."
*-------------------------*
The doors opened.
A young man entered.
Barely seventeen.
He had that kind of face—sharp, effortlessly cool, and hard to read. Thick, jet-black hair fell in messy waves over his forehead, one strand always brushing against his lashes no matter how often he pushed it back. His ice-blue eyes held a calm intensity, like he was always watching but rarely impressed. His expression rarely changed, a mix between a bored smirk and quiet irritation, like the world around him just wasn't interesting enough.
Beneath his collarbone, a scar curved sharply along his neck—thin but striking, as if it had once burned with purpose. He never tried to hide it. In fact, the way his shirt hung slightly loose almost made it seem intentional. It wasn't just a scar. It was a warning, a story he didn't need to tell out loud.
He didn't walk like a soldier. Didn't look like a scientist.
But when he stepped into the room, the temperature seemed to shift.
> "Nova," Patro said. "Scientific prodigy. Lead designer of the world's only functioning AI guidance system capable of real-time gravity navigation. Built it at sixteen."
Patro turned toward the world leaders.
> "We were preparing to deploy the system without him—until it failed under live testing. We had no choice."
Nova said nothing. He scanned the room as if he were reading a formula.
A faint smirk tugged at one side of his mouth. Not arrogance—certainty.
He didn't see power. He saw pressure points.
> "He's just a kid," someone whispered.
> "Seventeen?" another delegate said under their breath.
Heads turned. Some with disbelief. Others with fear. The fate of the world—resting on a boy?
Patro raised a hand.
> "If there were anyone else who could replace him," he said, "they'd already be standing here."
No one challenged him.
Because they knew Patro didn't gamble.
Nova remained still. Arms crossed. Calm. But inside, he could feel the old pressure again—like being back in the simulator. Like racing against failure. He wasn't afraid.
But he was aware. Aware that every eye was a countdown clock. And failure wasn't an option.
The leaders nodded.
Project Final Horizon had begun.
And at its center stood a 17-year-old with a scar, a blueprint for a broken machine—
—and a mind calibrated to bend the stars... or break them.
*---------------------*