The road to Sector Thirteen was a scar across Greyveil.
Factories gutted, train lines twisted like broken ribs, neighborhoods hollowed out and left to rot. Fog clung to every street, thick with the scent of rust and ash. People didn't come here unless they had no choice—and those who did never lingered.
Aric led the Circle down the cracked pavement. Mira walked close behind, her voice hushed but sharp.
"You know the Eyes sweep this zone nightly."
Aric didn't turn. "Then we move faster."
The thief let out a dry chuckle, twirling his coin between his fingers. "Faster? Through the bones of a dead city? Might as well paint targets on our backs."
The veteran finally spoke, low and steady. "Keep your eyes up. Dead zones aren't empty. They just… hide things."
As if on cue, a shadow darted across a ruined alley. Everyone froze. Rats—or something else.
They pressed on.
The deeper they went, the quieter Greyveil became, until the city's hum gave way to the stillness of a grave. Burned-out cars lined the street, their skeletons half-swallowed by weeds. A rusted sign swayed overhead, its letters scorched beyond recognition.
Then Mira spotted it—a checkpoint gate, still standing, its metal frame twisted but intact. The ticket in Aric's pocket suddenly felt like a key.
He pulled it out, holding it to the dim light. The faded stamp bore the same crest as the gate.
"Looks like we're in the right place," he muttered.
The thief arched a brow. "Or the wrongest."
They slipped past the gate, boots crunching on shattered glass. And that's when Aric noticed it: fresh footprints in the ash.
Not old. Not from the war.
"Someone's been here," he whispered.
The veteran knelt, tracing the prints with a gloved hand. "Military boots. Recent."
Mira's eyes widened. "Then the Eyes—"
Before she could finish, the sharp crack of static hissed through the air. From the corner of a ruined watchtower, a red lens blinked to life, sweeping across the street like a hungry eye.
Aric's heart kicked. The Eyes weren't coming. They were already here.
He clenched his sister's matchbox in his palm, feeling the weight of her ghost.
"Stay low," he whispered, as the red lens locked onto their shadows.
The hunt had begun.