The stars didn't blink that night. They stared.
In the heart of the Mojave Desert, buried beneath layers of military-grade secrecy and reinforced concrete, NASA's Deep Space Response Array thrummed with tension.
The kind that wrapped around your spine and whispered, You weren't meant to hear this.
"We've got something," came the breathless voice of Ravi Chaudhary, lead systems analyst. The young Indian-American hadn't slept in two days, eyes bloodshot and hands jittering from a cocktail of caffeine, dread, and electric hope.
"Another dead comet? A magnetic burp from Neptune?" yawned Dr. Olivia Ma, her voice dry and disbelieving.
Ravi didn't answer. His screen blazed with something he couldn't explain.
"Olivia… it's repeating. Every forty-one seconds. Same burst. Same frequency. Same mathematical pattern. Look at the waveforms. It's... it's not natural."
She leaned over, eyes narrowing. The signal wasn't random. It wasn't noise. It wasn't human.
"...It's a countdown," she whispered.
London, Present Day
Thursdays reeked of antiseptic and judgment.
Layla tugged her hood down as she pushed through the doors of the New Vienna Clinic. Once a thriving art haven on the fringes of London, New Vienna now smothered under a haze of neon scaffolding and concrete decay. Tower blocks jutted like jagged teeth. Drones buzzed overhead like gnats with surveillance eyes.
The receptionist didn't even glance at her.
Inside, the lights hummed soft and clinical. Dr. Hanna Wexler adjusted her glasses and offered a smile that tried too hard.
"You've missed two sessions, Layla. Everything alright?"
"Define alright."
She folded herself onto the couch like a cornered cat. The office smelled like lavender and old books—too soft to be trusted.
"Nightmares still happening?"
A shrug. Last night, she'd woken up gasping, sheets soaked, the mirror cracked.
She hadn't told Hanna. Saying it out loud would give it shape.
"It's not just dreams," Layla muttered. "It's like… something's trying to wake up inside me. Like I'm not alone in here."
Hanna stilled, pen hovering.
"You've been through a lot. Your parents—"
"Are gone. You've said that."
The silence felt heavy. A drone zipped past the window, blinking blue. Somewhere, a siren screamed.
"I feel like I'm going to explode, Hanna."
"You're safe here."
But Layla wasn't afraid of danger.
She was afraid of what might happen if she stopped pretending to be normal.
Outside, the sky had turned a bruised gold as smog backlit the skyline.
Across the street, Deke leaned against his electric bike, arms folded. Denim jacket. Half-grin. Trouble.
"Did you tell Freud you're actually an alien queen trapped in a hot girl's body?"
"Shut up."
But she smiled, unable to help it. He tossed her a greasy paper bag.
"Fries. And it's the three-year anniversary of the cult, by the way."
"That wasn't a cult. That was your uncle's off-brand Burning Man."
"Same thing."
They walked in sync, the kind of rhythm born from years of surviving the same storms.
His shoulder brushed hers. Warm. Familiar.
But his neck itched again.
He scratched absently—where the ink coiled just beneath the skin. A symbol that had not existed last week. A mark that glowed faintly whenever she got too close.
He didn't say anything. Just watched her out of the corner of his eye, wondering.
Why does it always react around her?
She doesn't even have a tattoo…
Does she?
Worldwide Awakening
The chaos wasn't waiting. It had already begun.
Tokyo: A violinist collapsed mid-performance. She awoke screaming, ink scrawling across her skin in musical notation. Windows shattered in a thirty-meter radius.
Istanbul: A cabbie drove straight into a wall at full speed. Walked out untouched. Eyes crimson. Speaking Latin.
New Delhi: A child vanished in front of her mother. Returned levitating, speaking a language lost for millennia.
Nairobi: A schoolteacher floated mid-air before thirty-two children.
Toronto: A man at a crosswalk erupted into lightning. The CCTV caught everything. Except... he cast no shadow.
Rio: A woman screamed. The entire building behind her went up in flames. She walked away barefoot. Unharmed.
London: A figure emerged from the Thames. Female. Eyes black. Body inked in stars. She said only one thing:
"It's coming back."
Online, the storm breaks.
Reddit – r/conspiracy
u/SpaceCrab88: "My cousin's RAF. Three bases locked down. He texted me: 'It's the tattoos. Stay inside.'"
u/Inkb4rn: "My bro's arm lit up like Tron. Glows under UV. Says he hears machines in his head. Machines whispering."
u/NASAInternReal: "We're so f**ked."
Twitter/X
#Inkborn #TattooAwakening #SignalConfirmed #TheyreHere
Newsfeeds
"UN calls emergency session."
"WHO declares psychosomatic global crisis."
"CNN anchor breaks down live: 'They're not coming… They're already here.'"
Later that night…
Back in her cramped flat, Layla sat curled on her bed, eyes fixed on the static-flickering TV.
The signal sputtered.
Then, for one heartbeat:
▓▓▓ SIGNAL CONFIRMED ▓▓▓
Gone.
She froze.
"Deke?" she whispered into her comm. "You seeing weird static tonight?"
No answer.
She turned to the mirror—drawn to it without reason.
And for the briefest moment… her reflection smiled first.
She recoiled. Heart racing.
Above Earth
In orbit, cloaked from human eyes, a black vessel pulsed in rhythm with the signal. Along its hull, glowing runes flickered—identical to the tattoos now burning into human flesh.
The countdown ticked lower.
The stars did not blink.
They watched.
And the war we forgot we started…had just remembered us.
END OF CHAPTER 1