Steam hissed from the rooftop vents, curling into the bruised sky above the city. The air was bitter with metal and smoke, but he didn't flinch. Shirtless despite the frost, the man moved through his drills like a machine carved from flesh and steel. Every strike of his fists cracked the air. Every motion was purposeful—stripped of ornament, honed to kill.
Scars laced his torso like lightning—some old and silvery, others fresh and angry. One across his back pulsed faintly, still healing from something that hadn't been kind. Muscles rippled beneath his skin, not just from strength, but discipline—the kind of relentless regimen that came from decades of routine punishment. His breath rose in thick clouds, steady and controlled. Around him, training drones whirred, monitoring his movements, calculating.
The rooftop gym had once been private. Now it was sealed off entirely, an isolated platform atop the Dalmoth Institute. From here, he could see the Pit in the distance, the vast chasm that had devoured a quarter of the continent's southern reach. The edge shimmered even now, refracting light in ways that bent reason. He stared at it in the lulls between drills—not with fear, but with the calm of someone who had accepted a long time ago that it would eventually call for him again.
He dropped into a crouch, sweat beading down his spine, then rose and slammed his fist into the reinforced training wall. The impact sent a dull echo across the rooftop.
"Still too soft," he muttered.
The wind picked up, sharp and cold.
Then, a voice crackled from the comm embedded in the steel railing nearby.
"Captain Roger Arlin," it called.
The man didn't look surprised. He simply rolled his shoulders, let out a breath, and turned toward the voice.
The moment had come.
---
Far below, the city's core simmered with unrelenting life. Neon glowed behind every corner, reflecting on rain-slick streets crowded with the ebb and flow of thousands. Steam vents hissed from underground, painting the air with swirls of vapor. The market buzzed—merchants shouting over digital price tags, traders weaving through alleys like shadows.
She moved through it like a ghost. No footsteps. No eye contact. No hesitation.
Fitted leathers, reinforced at the joints and travel-worn, hugged her form. A dark scarf trailed behind her like smoke, partially obscuring the fine mesh of reactive armor beneath. The blade on her back shifted subtly with every step—quiet as breath. She didn't flaunt it. She didn't need to.
Children paused their games when she passed. Vendors instinctively stepped aside. A man accidentally bumped into her and quickly apologized before she even glanced his way. Something about her presence silenced questions—the way her gray eyes scanned every shadow, already calculating danger or escape. She was beautiful, but not soft. Sculpted, not painted. Carved from necessity.
She paused briefly in front of a shattered display screen. Flickering footage showed rescue teams digging through collapsed ruins. The caption read: Floor 11 breach—still no survivors. Her jaw clenched just slightly. Then she moved on, disappearing into a side alley, steam curling around her shoulders like mist.
A subtle chime vibrated against her collarbone. She tapped the neural patch behind her ear.
A voice whispered: "Clearance granted. Your presence is required."
She didn't respond. Didn't nod. Just turned, and vanished down a maintenance stairwell leading deep below the city.
A name flickered on the terminal as she passed beneath it.
Seln, Aria.
---
In a cramped attic lab perched above the oldest district, the air smelled of solder, dust, and old ink. Spools of wire lay tangled against cracked stone walls, while shattered rune plates littered the floor like molted shells. In the center of it all sat a boy hunched over a diagram projected from a battered datapad. His glasses kept slipping down his nose, one lens already taped. His coat was too large, sleeves rolled thrice to free his hands.
He muttered as he worked, "No, no, no—the third formation shouldn't loop—unless—wait…"
He scratched out a line of runes with a dull stylus, then redrew it, tongue poking out in concentration. Around him were stacks of ancient books, written in long-forgotten scripts. Spiritual Geometry. Core Stabilization in Pre-Diver Artifacts. Theories of Folded Reality. Most were bookmarked. All worn.
Outside the single attic window, the sun dipped behind the smokestacks. The room dimmed. He didn't notice. The glow of his current project—a circular bracer etched with faintly pulsing symbols—held his full attention. Tiny arcs of blue light sparked between the runes, and he winced as one nipped his thumb.
"Okay, that's… promising."
He leaned back, rubbing his eyes. The sound of boots on the stairs below made him freeze.
Then—"Kai! Urgent summons! Top clearance!"
He blinked. "Top clearance? Are you sure it's not a mix-up? I still haven't finished—"
"It's from the Director."
The boy stared at the glowing bracer on his desk, the runes still pulsing softly, then glanced at the pile of books he wouldn't have time to take.
"Right. Of course. That makes sense."
He stuffed his notes into his satchel with frantic, careful movements. Then he grabbed the bracer, hesitated, and slipped it onto his wrist.
Kai didn't know where he was going.
But he knew he'd never be the same after he got there.
---
The Director
A room without entrance or exit.
No lights. No temperature. No sense of space or direction.
And yet it existed—carved into the substructure of the Institute like an infection. Smooth obsidian formed its walls—glossy, seamless, alive with barely restrained energy. Symbols etched themselves into the air and then dissolved, like thoughts appearing and vanishing.
At the center of the void sat a child. Or something shaped like one.
White hair floated above his head as if caught in some gentle updraft. His robes, dark blue and shifting like deep water, bore no emblem or rank—yet the runes that circled him obeyed without question. He breathed slowly, eyes closed, but the space around him pulsed with latent force. It was less like he was meditating and more like the room was breathing him in.
Voices whispered from the dark—not in speech, but in data. A thousand streams of classified research, floor telemetry, neural feedback from Diver teams… all sifting into his mind in perfect clarity. He processed without blinking. Without moving.
Then a pulse.
Unauthorized sequence detected.
"Deny access," a machine voice ordered from above.
The boy's eyes opened—amber, flecked with gold and silver. Not angry. Not surprised.
"Override," he said.
There was a pause. Then: "Confirmed."
The circle of runes around him collapsed into a single glowing sigil.
He stood. The air seemed to sigh with relief. With a single step forward, he vanished—not teleported, but erased, like a page turned to a blank.
No alarms sounded. No one watched.
Except the Pit.
And it was listening.
---
The platform hovered like a relic above the abyss—black alloy etched with silver runes, humming faintly beneath their feet. Cold mist curled around its edges, rising from the darkness below. There were no guards. No fanfare. Only silence, thick and expectant.
Roger stood at the far edge, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the pit's yawning mouth. His breath frosted slightly in the air, despite the heat from the machinery below. He didn't flinch when the next arrival stepped off the transport disc behind him.
"You're early," Aria said, tone neutral but edged with observation.
"So are you," Roger replied without turning. "Guess neither of us likes surprises."
She came to stand beside him, keeping a measured distance. Her hand brushed the hilt of her blade once. Habit or instinct—he couldn't tell.
"I've read your record," she said after a pause. "Floor Fourteen. No casualties."
Roger gave a dry smile. "You read fast."
"I remember what matters."
They fell into silence again, one forged in mutual understanding more than trust.
Then—footsteps. Quick, clumsy.
"Sorry I'm—wait—is this…? Oh wow."
Kai stumbled onto the platform, hugging a satchel filled with rattling metal and humming scrolls. His hair was a mess, one lens of his glasses cracked. He paused when he saw the others.
"You're… You're Aria, right? And Captain Roger Arlin?" he asked, voice pitched with awe and nerves.
Roger extended a hand. "Just Roger today."
Kai took it a bit too enthusiastically, then winced. "Sorry. I've, uh, never been field-cleared before. This is kind of a big deal."
Aria raised an eyebrow. "You're the rune prodigy?"
"Technically," Kai said, tugging at his collar, "I'm still in accelerated placement. But I passed my stabilization certs last week."
The air rippled.
Space folded at the center of the lift, and from the distortion stepped a boy no older than twelve, clothed in midnight silk. His expression was unreadable, eyes gold and distant.
The Director had arrived.
He didn't speak at first, simply looked at each of them—like a mathematician assessing variables. When his gaze landed on Kai, something in the air shifted.
"You brought your bracer," the Director said.
Kai blinked. "Y-Yes. Should I not have?"
"You'll need it."
Aria crossed her arms. "You always make an entrance like that?"
The Director gave the faintest smirk. "Only when it matters."
Roger stepped forward. "We're all here now. What's the mission?"
The Director turned to face the pit.
"Twenty-five floors. Unknown structure. No rescue support. No data past Floor Eight. You are not here to survive." He turned his head slightly. "You're here to understand."
The platform rumbled beneath them. Lights flickered along the rails.
Kai swallowed. Aria's grip tightened on her sword. Roger braced his stance.
The Director raised a hand.
"Let the descent begin."
And the lift began to fall—slow, steady, and silent.