Year 434 of the T Calendar
Civil Sphere — Shelter City 6
Moonlight drifted down from above, its silver glow gliding over stone, roots, and rust alike. The air carried the scent of rain and old metal — a perfume of decay and memory.
It was a haunting contrast: nature's quiet beauty entwined with the tragic remains of a fallen civilization. The only sound was the low grumble of distant thunder, echoing through the bones of the ruined city.
Sprinting through the remains, Ren felt the same as he always did here.
The ruins made him feel.
There was something about green shoots forcing their way through rusted iron — life clawing itself back from extinction — that spoke to him. Those stubborn weeds didn't ask permission. They didn't negotiate with the metal choking them. They just grew.
It was one of the few things that still motivated him.
Tonight was perfect.
The perfect time to blow off some steam.
As on every first weekend of the month, The Hush awaited — a ritual, a race, a silent meeting between two friends.
Ren's light-purple attire remained somehow spotless, a miracle for someone sprinting through rain-soaked ruins. Moonlight shimmered on the silver undertones of his black hair. His mirrored gray eyes stayed fixed ahead, unwavering, reflecting another silhouette darting through the mist — someone just as fast, maybe faster, clocking in at twenty-four meters per second.
Unlike Patrick — and unlike most surviving humans who had gained double stars or DNA evolutions after the Impact — Ren was different.
His lungs burned three blocks in.
The familiar ache settled behind his ribs, like breathing through wet cloth. His pulse hammered in his ears — too fast, too hard, the way it always did when he pushed. But he knew how to ration air, how to time each inhale with his footfall, how to turn weakness into rhythm.
Patrick could sprint forever. Ren had maybe ten minutes before his body started bargaining.
A blood disease. Since birth. The doctors had given him probabilities instead of promises, percentages instead of hope. His only advantages were heightened awareness and near-perfect control — gifts born from necessity, from years of learning to read his body's warnings before they became crises.
That was how he kept up with Patrick — the brute of a friend who should've left him far behind.
Ren's steps softened. Barely rippling the puddles beneath his feet, he slipped into a narrow alley. Their target loomed in the distance: a tower still standing amid the ruins — one of the few structures untouched by time. Seventy stories tall, sturdy enough to climb, and always their finish line.
Getting there was tradition.
Getting there first was war.
The shortcut Ren took was dangerous and cramped, but that was the point. It was where he shined. He glided through the shadows like they belonged to him, weaving through broken skeletons of buildings with quiet precision. He knew every turn, every step, every drop. He'd mapped this route in daylight, then practiced it blindfolded until his body remembered what his eyes didn't need to see.
Patrick was good. Better than most teens of this era.
But control mattered more than raw power — and Ren's control was absolute.
He reached the tower first, landing lightly on the last ledge. His hands were shaking. He pressed them flat against the concrete, willing the tremor to stop.
Control. Always control.
Before he could claim victory, a familiar voice cracked through the rain.
"Demon! You're getting faster every time we race!"
Patrick's laugh came first, then his blur of a silhouette as he overtook Ren with a cocky grin.
Of course.
Ren didn't even bother cursing. This was tradition too.
Seconds later, he climbed up. Patrick — bronze-skinned, broad-shouldered, grin wide and wild — reached out a hand.
One strong pull, and Ren was on top.
The rooftop was washed in soft silver light. Unlike the ruins below, the seventy-story platform — seventeen meters across — was surprisingly neat. Someone cared for it.
A small white tent stood in the center. Its metal frame firm, its canvas shifting with the wind. Simple. Sturdy. A quiet shelter above a silent city.
Tonight, as always, the smell of grilled meat drifted through the air.
Patrick crouched beside their tiny grill, turning skewers with practiced ease. Ren collapsed onto the cool concrete, letting moonlight settle over him. Here, his thoughts finally loosened. No agitation. No noise.
Even the pressure of upcoming exams felt far away.
But peace never lasted long.
A shadow twice his size loomed over him.
"You done staring at the moon," Patrick asked, "or still catching your breath from that pathetic sprint?"
He shoved two skewers into Ren's hands. The meat was charred just right — crispy edges, still juicy inside. Patrick always remembered how he liked it.
Ren took one. "I'm thinking."
"Dangerous hobby." Patrick dropped beside him with a grunt. "What's the damage this time?"
"Archivists or Dawn's Pact."
Patrick clicked his tongue. "You make everything harder than it is."
He pointed his skewer at Ren.
"You want to be a researcher and a doctor, right? Then choose the Archivists. They're the best in tech and research. End of story."
He paused, taking a bite.
"And if you make it into Nova Academy, you'll see your mom and sister more often. Don't you miss them?"
Ren stared at the skewer.
Of course he missed them. Every day. That was the problem.
The Amrits, his adoptive family, were the only home he knew — especially little Neoma, with her bright eyes and brighter laugh, who used to follow him everywhere before the Archivists took her away.
For her safety, they'd said. For her development.
She had talent. Potential. The kind that demanded the best teachers, the best facilities, the best everything.
Ren had followed her to Nova Academy. Tried to stay close.
The bullying started within a week.
Sick blood. Tainted lineage. Dead weight.
The whispers followed him through pristine halls. The stares lingered when he coughed into his sleeve. And worst of all — the way they looked at Neoma when he was nearby. Like his weakness was contagious. Like his shadow dimmed her shine.
They'd sent him back to Shelter City 6 within months.
He told himself it was for the best.
"It's not that simple," Ren said quietly.
"It is, though." Patrick's voice was firm but gentle. "You're just scared."
"I'm being practical."
"You're running."
The words hit harder than they should have. Ren looked up — ready to argue, deflect, anything — but Patrick's expression was open. Honest. Not mocking.
Just… knowing.