The year is 2073, twenty-three years after the Great War ended. Some people say it was the worst time in human history, when all the countries in the world started to collapse due to governments dissolving overnight. Riots, wars, food shortages, and natural disasters followed. Cities burned, people starved, and they killed each other to survive. Powerful organizations and countries took over to "save"—more like rule over—what was left in this shithole. Using the abilities gained from the rifts they fought for control and tore the world apart
The population of Earth is now 4.3 billion, a sharp decline from what it was in previous decades. The government of the USA collapsed and became two separate countries: The New Republic of California, which controls the west, and the Cromaria Federation, which controls the east where I live. Africa is now one country. What else, Tom thought to himself? Right, most of Western Europe is a nuclear wasteland, and Asia is pretty much the same as it was for the last few decades. South american dos not exist anymore it was completely destroyed by a rift 4 years before the Great War
"The worst day in human history," Tom chuckled, shaking his head. "And that was the day I was born," Tom thought to himself while walking to work. But little did he—little did the world—know the worst was yet to come for humanity.
Tom was a simple man who didn't do much to catch the attention of passersby as he walked on his way to work. A quiet man, he moved with the practiced ease of someone accustomed to being watched, yet utterly indifferent to it. His clothes—a dark, unbuttoned collared shirt tucked into tailored slacks of a similar charcoal hue—were deceptively simple; the quality of the fabric whispering of expense.
But it was his face that demanded attention—a man who looked like he was in his early twenties. His features were sharply defined, framed by a cascade of dark hair pulled back into a simple, low queue, leaving a few strands to frame his profile. He wore thin, wire-rimmed glasses, and the lenses occasionally caught the light, obscuring eyes that were the color of moss after rain. A long, black leather coat was flung over his shoulders.
Most arresting, however, was the evidence of a past he carried openly: a prominent scar that cut across his left cheekbone and temple, pulling the skin taut. It was a jagged signature, a rough contrast to the smooth, controlled professionalism of his attire. The scar suggested a story of brute force and survival, while the glasses and the meticulous grooming hinted at the measured, intellectual man he had become. He was a perfect contradiction—a scholar who had once stood in the direct path of violence.
Looking down, he checked the heavy silver watch on his wrist, his other hand holding his black briefcase. Just a few feet behind him, a voice rang out: "Yo, Tom, morning! Did you sleep well?" Nick asked, jogging to catch up to Tom.
Nick was a loud, energetic man in his late twenties. He stood with the undeniable confidence of a man who measured his words carefully and his investments even more so. Every element of his appearance was an unspoken contract of his success.
He wore a three-piece suit, a sharp, dark charcoal, tailored so precisely that it looked less like clothing and more like a second, formidable skin. The white shirt beneath the vest provided a stark contrast, perfectly starched. A crisp white pocket square was folded with elegant precision in his breast pocket.
His features were equally sharp: a strong jawline defined by a clean, close shave, and hair swept back with deliberate, effortless style. His silver hair and chrome watch were reflecting the light from the morning sun.
"Huh? Oh, Nick, it's you. Morning." Tom sighed in frustration. "I see you have some energy, unlike me. I had to stay up late finishing the project, again, so I got like two hours of sleep."
"Welp, ain't nothing I can do about that," Nick replied with a grin on his face. "Anyways, you see that we got transferred to Site 4 in the capital?"
"Really? So we don't have to work in that shithole?"
"Of course, Tommy my guy." Wrapping his hand around Tom's shoulder, Nick continued, "I told you that management was going to recognize us and our work, dude, and that time is now. So when we get to the site, just keep doing what you were doing."
"Yeah, yeah, you lazy ass, I will. It's not like you are going to do anything anyways."
"By the way, Nick, did you ask out that girl you were talking to or not?"
Tom and Nick continued with their chat. They continued to walk and talk about random things, as friends do. Cars passed on their morning commute to work, birds flew by, and the chatter of people passing by added to the ambiance of the morning rush in the city.
Before Nick could open his mouth to answer the question Tom asked, a black SUV with tinted windows came down the road, screeching to a halt a few feet in front of them. They both looked at each other, wondering what kind of idiot would speed this early in the morning. Then, the SUV reversed and stopped right in front of them. A beautiful lady with long black flowing hair, wearing a black tailored, long-sleeved suit jacket with a pencil skirt that is knee-length, with sheer stockings and black closed-toe shoes, and green glasses resting on her face, stepped out of the car.
Adjusting her glasses, she spoke in a soft voice: "Good morning, gentlemen. An emergency summons has been called for all members of C.A.R.C. Please come with me; I will brief you on what's going on while we drive to the location."
On their way to C.A.R.C. headquarters, Tom and Nick were handed envelopes with documents bearing the heading (Project Psychic). "As you know," the lady said, "Command has found energy from another world and has been experimenting with it to solve issues that the country has been facing after the war. Fortunately—or unfortunately—an anomalous rift in space has opened up, destroying a research site and killing 45 researchers, as you can see on page 4 of the files."
Turning the page, Tom sees the damage the rift has caused by the rift, thinking to himself: He wonders if more rifts have been opening up and why the colors keep changing on the ones that have been found in the Fourth District.
"So, have the researchers found out why the rifts in District Four keep turning blue?" Nick asked.
"The current theory," said the lady on the other side of the car, facing Tom and Nick, "is that the region on the other side is either an ocean or a tundra high in the mountains. We are still working on ways to explore the other side of the rifts, but our trials have ended in failure so far."
"I see."
On their way to the headquarters, they continued to discuss the information they had.
After a twenty-minute drive, they finally reached the facility. The CARC headquarters was one of the largest research facilities in the country of Cromaria. It deals with the research and understanding of anomalous entities, items, places, and phenomena. Tom and Nick were experienced researchers at C.A.R.C., which stands for Cromaria Anomaly Research Center.
They were then led into a conference room where they were shown to their seats. Standing in front of them stood the head of research, Dr. Brian Hood.
The first thing that was noticeable was his silhouette: a tall man, six-foot-six, with a muscular frame. He looked like he was built to endure, from the broad, solid set of his shoulders to the heavy, dark greatcoat that fell nearly to his polished black shoes. The fabric, a deep charcoal that swallowed the weak light, was buttoned tight, suggesting secrets were best kept close.
His face was a study in controlled tension. A sculpted darkness defined the jawline, framed by short, deliberately messy waves of brown hair. He wore the stubble of a short, thick beard with the natural ease of someone who didn't bother with vanity, but whose appearance was still sharp, almost dangerous.
There was a moment in the low-angle light where you might glimpse the faint scar just above his left brow, a small signature of a life lived outside of warm rooms and easy conversation. His hands remained tucked deep in the coat pockets—a stance suggesting a man who was either waiting patiently or ready to move instantly, making him, undoubtedly, the most important and most dangerous presence in the room.