Vienna didn't look real.
The sky above the station was too clean—polished, sharpened, almost sterile,like someone wiped away every last imperfection.
Patch poked his head out of the tote bag,nose pointed west,silent but tense.
I stepped onto the transfer zone—
—and the station's sound collapsed.
Not silence.Compression.
The entire sound field flattened at once.
Footsteps thinned into a single line scraping along the ground.Voices lost all high frequencies,reduced to muted murmurs behind thick glass.
I stopped.
Wrong.
People moved.But the air didn't move with them.Like the world forgot to run one of its functions.
Patch's tail exploded into full alert,his body drawn tight like a bowstring.
Then I saw them.
Three men in black stepped out from the edge of the crowdand entered the space directly in front of us.
No badges.No insignia.No communication.
Their eyes didn't meet,but their formation was perfect—as if the spacing, stride,and breathing rhythmwere etched into their bones.
Their gaze locked onto me.
Cold.Precise.Target acquisition.
Pressure pressed inward from every direction,closing around my chest.
Patch growled—not at the men,but at the entire field around us.
I inhaled,took half a step back—
The air rippled.Not the scenery—the lines inside the air twisted for a second,like someone pinched the world from the other side.
All three men froze instantly.
Waiting.Analyzing.As if my single backward step was a data point.
For a moment,I genuinely had no idea what they were trying to read from me.Only that they weren't here to negotiate.
The pressure built until my ribs burned—
A sharp voice cut through the tension.
"Step back!"
Emilia.
She emerged from the crowd like she'd pushed through a fog curtain,crossing into the field with no hesitation.
The moment her eyes swept over the three men,the entire atmosphere brightened—like she switched the environment back on.
Patch's tail relaxed by a fraction.
The three men tilted their heads,recalculating.No emotions.No words.But they registered her existence.
They didn't advance.But they didn't retreat either.
A standoff.Pure, level pressure.
Emilia lifted her chin—sharp, unwavering,stripping away every ounce of restraint.I had never seen her look like that.
Finally—all three men took a synchronized half-step back.Clean.Precise.Algorithmic.
Before leaving,one of them paused for less than a second.
The air dented around him,the faintest pressure spike.
A crushed whisper slipped out:
"Response logged. Next contact will be direct recovery."
They turnedand disappeared into the station crowd.
A beat later—the soundscape snapped back online.Layers of noise returned,filling the world again.
I breathed deep.
Emilia stepped in front of me,her brows tightening—as if she were biting down on an answer she wasn't ready to say aloud.
Her voice dropped.
"They're not ARC main division…They're Recovery."
I looked up.
The sky was still unnaturally clean—but along the edge of the highest cloud,a line.
A cut.
Thin, perfectly straight,sharp as a surgical blade.
No color beyond it—just a darkness deep enough to swallow anything.
Patch twitched in his sleep,tail flicking once.
This was only the beginning.