Ash fell like snow, clinging to hair, skin, even the torn hem of Rafi's hoodie. Each flake burned faintly before dissolving into nothing, as if the Cut itself disliked being touched. He brushed one away with the back of his hand, watching as it vanished against his skin.
The street stretched in two broken directions: one choked with overturned cars and jagged rebar, the other narrowing into an alley where glassy growths pulsed faintly like dying embers. Both smelled of metal, ozone, and something far older.
"Move," the scarred man said. His voice cut through the silence with the weight of command.
The group obeyed. A bleeding man was half-carried by a middle-aged woman who whispered steady reassurances. The girl clutching a stuffed rabbit dragged her feet, eyes too big for her face. Others stumbled along, civilians torn from ordinary lives into this hellscape.
Rafi stayed near the rear, where he could keep an eye on both the survivors and the shifting shadows. His chest still hummed faintly, the echo of the light he'd unleashed earlier. Every beat reminded him that something had been taken. He didn't know what yet—but he'd find out.
The braid-haired woman moved at his side, grip firm on her jagged machete. She hadn't spoken much since they arrived, but now her voice slid low and sharp:
"Don't use that light again. Not unless you're ready to pay."
Rafi frowned. "What do you mean?"
She turned her head just enough for her slate-dark eyes to catch his. "The Cut doesn't hand out gifts. It lends. And it always collects."
Her words lodged in his skull. He touched the pale streak at his temple. The throb beneath his skin answered her warning.
Up ahead, the scarred man raised a fist. Instantly, the group froze.
The ruined buildings leaned together, their shattered windows reflecting violet lightning in the distance. Somewhere beyond, a scream rang out—human, inhuman, impossible to tell. But closer, within the rubble itself, shadows shifted.
Something was hunting.
The survivors tensed. A man muttered a prayer under his breath.
From the rubble emerged a creature half the size of a man but wrong in every angle: too many joints bending the wrong way, a face stretched into a permanent scream, its body armored with shards of glass and bone. It crawled forward on stilt-like arms, dragging a jagged tongue across the ash.
And it wasn't alone.
Two more followed, climbing down the wreckage, their screeching breaths filling the air.
The scarred man lifted a steel pipe wrapped in barbed wire. "Hold formation. Keep quiet. When they lunge, aim for the head."
Easy for him to say, Rafi thought. His own hands itched. The pressure in his chest wanted out. That same light waited, humming beneath his ribs, tempting him.
He clenched his fists. No. Not yet.
The braid-haired woman didn't hesitate. She charged forward, machete flashing. The first creature lunged—she sidestepped, split its throat in a single brutal slice. Black ichor hissed against the ash.
The other two screeched.
The scarred man met the second head-on, pipe swinging in a vicious arc that shattered glass-shards from its body. Sparks and blood scattered.
The third turned toward the rear. Toward the civilians. Toward the little girl with the stuffed rabbit.
Rafi's stomach dropped. She froze, clutching the toy tighter, unable to move.
Before he could think, he moved. His hand shot up, instinct overriding fear.
The light roared out of him, blinding and hot. It struck the creature mid-lunge, slamming it into the wall with bone-crunching force. Ash exploded around it. The beast writhed once before going still.
Silence.
Rafi staggered, clutching his chest. The hum inside him flared, then dimmed. His vision blurred for a second—and then something else slipped.
Memory.
For one horrifying heartbeat, he couldn't remember the sound of his mother's laugh. He reached for it, certain he knew it, but all he found was emptiness. Like the Cut had stolen it the moment he used his power.
He swayed. The braid-haired woman grabbed his arm, steadying him. Her grip was iron. "I told you," she hissed. "Every gift chews on something."
Rafi's throat went dry. He forced himself to nod, though inside he was screaming.
The scarred man smashed the second creature's skull and spat. "Not bad," he said to Rafi. "But control it. Or you'll burn out fast."
The survivors gathered again, shaken but alive. The girl hugged her toy tighter, eyes fixed on Rafi with something between fear and awe.
They moved on, more cautious now. The alley twisted into a plaza choked with collapsed buildings. Strange fungi glowed along the walls, pulsing faintly with sickly green light. Overhead, the sky cracked with violet lightning.
And there, across the plaza, stood something massive.
A Gate.
It wasn't a door, not exactly. More like a wound in reality itself, rimmed with shifting metal and bone, glowing with unbearable white-blue light. It pulsed with a rhythm that didn't belong to this world.
Between them and it, however, waited something worse.
A hulking shape prowled the rubble, its body a patchwork of car parts, flesh, and shadow. Each step made the ground vibrate. Its head was a broken traffic light that glowed red with every inhale, green with every exhale.
The survivors froze in terror.
The scarred man's jaw clenched. "That," he muttered, "is no scavenger. That's a feeder."
Rafi felt the light stir inside him again. Stronger this time. Hungry.
He swallowed hard. The Cut hungered. And if he wasn't careful, it would eat him alive.