The streets of Sector 4 were always restless, buzzing with the voices of people who carried just enough hope to survive another day and just enough bitterness to curse the walls that separated them from the richer sectors. Ashfall had grown used to this rhythm, the endless shuffle of boots on cracked pavement, the smell of cheap food frying in stalls, and the way people's eyes always darted toward the tall steel watchtowers of the Internal Security Department. It was his gray, cramped, and suffocating world. But it was the only world he had. At seventeen, he didn't bother pretending that life would ever get better. He had learned early that in Aethra Prime, the sector you were born in chained you tighter than any prison.
He was carrying a plastic bag with a loaf of bread and a thin package of dried meat, walking home from the corner store, when the air shifted. It was not a sound at first but a pressure, as if the entire city was holding its breath. Conversations stopped mid-sentence. Even the neon signs seemed to dim for an instant. Then came the low, heavy, and resonant sound, like the toll of a bell so massive it shook the bones in his chest.
The Clock of Apocalypse.
The first chime rolled through every Sector like a wave. People staggered, clutching their heads. A mother grabbed her child, whispering frantic prayers. Somewhere nearby a man collapsed to his knees and screamed. The chime didn't just echo in the ears; it sank into the mind, vibrating inside every thought, dragging with it a terror that no one could name.
Ashfall stumbled backward, his bag slipping from his hand and spilling its contents onto the ground. He caught the looks on the faces around him. Their eyes widening, and lips trembling. Everyone stared at him.
"What are you staring at?" he barked, his voice sharper than he intended.
Then he heard it: a whisper, not one voice but dozens, overlapping in a hiss of fear.
"He's marked."
"Look at his eye... look at it—"
"Chosen…"
"Let's check our body as well"
Ashfall's heart punched against his ribs. He spun around, saw no one but strangers backing away. A boy pointed a shaking finger at his face.
Ashfall's pulse hammered. He pushed through the crowd, not caring where he went, until he found the cracked door of a public restroom. He shoved it open, the stench of mildew hitting his nose, and stumbled to the mirror above a rust-stained sink.
There it was.
On the black of his left pupil, like it had been carved into his very soul, was the faint image of a clock. Its hands both pointed straight to twelve, thin and sharp like blades. It wasn't glowing, but it didn't need to. The mark pulsed in time with his heartbeat.
"No. No, no, no…" He gripped the sink, his knuckles white. "Not me. Not this."
He had seen this before. Once, years ago, when Erat—his only friend—had been chosen. They had both dreamed about the day, pretending they would fight side by side, laughing in the face of the impossible. But Erat never came back. The Clock had taken him, and Ashfall had been left with silence and grief.
He splashed water on his face, trying to steady his breathing, but it was pointless. The mark was real. He was a Timer Agent now or he rather would be, if he lived long enough to make it through.
Ashfall pushed out of the restroom, ignoring the stares and whispers. He knew what he had to do; everyone knew. The ISD drilled it into them: if you were chosen, you reported immediately to the Death Squad. They would register you, equip you, and prepare you for whatever hell waited beyond the second chime.
He ran as fast as he could. Sector 4 stretched in endless concrete blocks, alleys spilling into wider streets where soldiers patrolled in black armor. Ashfall sprinted past vendors who recoiled at his passing, past families dragging their children away, until he saw the familiar glint of an ISD patrol's visors.
One soldier noticed him first. The man's gaze snapped to his eye, and before Ashfall could even speak, the soldier barked into his comm. "Marked! We have a new one!"
Two more soldiers grabbed Ashfall by the arms, not gently, and dragged him toward a waiting vehicle.
"Hey, easy—" Ashfall started, but the soldier cut him off.
"Save it. You'll get your answers at the HQ."
The ride was a blur of flashing lights and the growl of engines. Ashfall kept his mouth shut, his mind running circles around the same thought: This is how Erat left. This is how I disappear.
The Death Squad headquarters loomed in the northern quarter of Sector 4, a fortress of steel and glass rising above the low housing blocks. The gates clanged shut behind the vehicle, and Ashfall was shoved out into a courtyard already crowded with others like him.
Dozens of people stood there, eyes wide, pupils marked with the same cursed clock. A child no older than ten clutched her mother's hand, both of them shaking. An old man leaned heavily on a cane, his marked eye staring blankly ahead. A wealthy-looking girl with jeweled earrings stood apart, her expression one of outrage rather than fear, as if she believed the universe had made some kind of mistake. And in the corner, a boy about Ashfall's age was laughing—actually laughing—as if this was the greatest joke the world had ever told.
Ashfall muttered under his breath. "Everyone reacts differently."
A voice beside him, cold and detached, answered. "Better get used to it. You'll see worse."
He turned. A girl stood there, her hair tied back, her eyes sharp but utterly devoid of emotion. She looked at him like he was a broken machine part.
"Thanks for the pep talk," Ashfall said dryly.
The frenzied noise of the courtyard was cut off as the heavy doors opened. Death Squad officers stepped out, their armor matte black, their presence suffocating. Without ceremony, they began handing out gear. A pistol, sleek and unnervingly light, its magazine loaded with strange shimmering rounds. A combat knife with a special blade and a combat suit, segmented and fitted with small blinking nodes. Pouches filled with ration packs that rattled like they weighed nothing.
Ashfall accepted the weapon, his fingers brushing the grip, and something twisted in his chest. A memory: Erat's hands guiding his, a wooden replica gun between them, the two of them laughing as they pretended to be heroes.
The laugh soured in his mind.
Erat had gone through this exact process. And he had never come back.
Ashfall's jaw tightened. He strapped on the gear, checked the magazine, and ran his thumb along the slide like Erat had taught him. At least he wasn't completely helpless.
Around him, chaos reigned. Some recruits prayed aloud, clutching their pistols like talismans. Others cried, calling for family members who weren't allowed inside. The rich girl screamed at an officer about her father's influence, earning only silence in return. The laughing boy twirled his pistol like a toy, whistling.
The cold-eyed girl beside Ashfall simply adjusted her suit, as calm as if she were trying on a new jacket.
Ashfall muttered, mostly to himself, "Whole world's falling apart and you don't even blink."
She shrugged. "Crying won't change anything."
He almost respected that. But before he could think further, the second chime came.
The sound was even heavier than before, a monstrous toll that rattled the air and seemed to drag the light out of the sky. The courtyard trembled. Ashfall felt it in his bones, in his blood, in the cursed mark in his eye.
And then a darkness swallowed him.
When he opened his eyes, the world had changed; everywhere nothing except snow.
Ashfall lay face down in a drift of it, his lungs burning as he pushed himself up. The cold bit through his gloves immediately. His stomach lurched, nausea from the transition making him gag. He staggered upright, clutching his pistol, and looked around.
White... endless white.
The horizon was jagged with mountains, their peaks swallowed by a gray sky so heavy it felt like it might crush him. And high above, faint through the clouds, hung the Clock of Apocalypse, its hands unmoving. Around it, like distant pinpricks of madness, the Stars glimmered faintly, their twisted light veiled by mist.
Ashfall exhaled, his breath a thin cloud in the freezing air.
"World Nine," he whispered. "The ice planet..."
There was nothing around him but snow, wind, and silence. No other recruits in sight. Just him.
In the far distance, half-buried in frost, rose the shadow of a city. A tangle of skyscrapers and towers, ancient and ruined, a frozen grave.
Ashfall squared his shoulders, tightened his grip on the pistol, and muttered to himself, "Guess that's where I'm headed. No point dying out here like a fool."
The wind howled, carrying with it the faint echo of the Clock's toll, as Ashfall took his first step into the frozen wasteland.