Ragna's eyelids cracked open to a world awash in muted crimson hues, the light filtering through a grimy window like blood seeping through a bandage. The ceiling above him was unfamiliar—a patchwork of cracked plaster and exposed beams, shadowed by the perpetual red glow of the sky outside. Dust motes danced lazily in the air, caught in the eerie illumination that had become the new normal since The Fall. His body felt heavy, anchored to a thin mattress that creaked under even the slightest shift.
Where was he? The dojo courtyard? The church nave? No—these walls were too mundane, too lived-in, with faded posters peeling from the corners and a faint scent of herbal ointments mingling with the ever-present metallic tang of the outside world.
*Where am I? Am I dreaming? Or am I dead?* The thoughts tumbled through his mind like debris in a storm, fragmented and sharp. The last thing he remembered was the cold permacrete biting into his back, blood pooling around him, Mimi's screams fading into the crimson haze as those bastards dragged her away. Pain had been his world then—stomach torn open, arm shattered, mouth a mangled ruin. If this was death, it was a cruel joke: no peace, just more questions. He tried to sit up, his forehead throbbing with a dull ache that spread like roots through his skull. Dizziness washed over him, the room tilting as if the earth itself were still groaning from the burrows below.
He reached up instinctively, fingers brushing the side of his face. Bandages—rough, improvised wraps that pulled tight against his skin. His mouth... it was swathed in cloth, the taste of dried blood and herbs lingering on his tongue. He probed gently, wincing as fresh pain flared. Not just his mouth—his entire body was a map of white gauze and makeshift splints. His left arm was immobilized in a sling fashioned from torn sheets, the bone-deep throb a reminder of the rebar's merciless kiss. His torso was wrapped tightly, each breath sending spikes through his abdomen where the boss's blade had carved its path.
What's this?,He thought, panic rising like bile. *Where am I? Who did this?*
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, ignoring the protest of his wounds. The floor was cold tile, cracked and uneven, grounding him in the reality that this wasn't some fever dream. He had to move—had to find Mimi. The thought of her, small and terrified in the clutches of those scavengers, ignited a fire in his chest that burned hotter than any injury. He pushed himself upright, but his stomach rebelled—a sharp, ripping agony that doubled him over. "Aah!" The sound escaped as a muffled grunt through the bandages, raw and involuntary.
The door creaked open at that moment, admitting a shaft of crimson light that silhouetted a figure in the threshold. A man stepped in—mid-forties, perhaps, with a weathered face framed by a scruffy beard streaked in gray. His clothes were practical: patched overalls stained with grease and ash, a utility belt slung low on his hips holding tools that looked scavenged from pre-Fall workshops. He carried a tray with a steaming bowl, but his eyes widened at the sight of Ragna half-standing.
"Oi, you shouldn't be moving!" the man barked, setting the tray down on a rickety side table with a clatter. He crossed the room in two strides, his hands hovering as if unsure whether to push Ragna back or steady him. "Your stomach hasn't healed yet. Lie down before you tear everything open again."
Ragna's eyes narrowed, questions burning in his gaze. *Are you a doctor? Were you the one that treated me? Where am I?* He couldn't speak—the bandages muffled his words to incoherent rasps—but his expression must have conveyed the urgency, for the man sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.
"No, it's not me who patched you up—it was my wife. We found you half-dead on the streets, sprawled in a pool of your own blood like you'd gone ten rounds with a burrow beast. Brink of death, you were. If she didn't have her emergency kit on her—old med supplies from before The Fall—you'd have bled out right there. As it is, you're lucky to be breathing."
Ragna's mind reeled. Strangers? Saving him? In Grimveil's lawless ruins, where trust was a currency rarer than clean water? He glanced around the room more closely now: a modest space, perhaps once a bedroom in a mid-level hab-block. Shelves lined one wall, cluttered with salvaged tech—analog radios, hand-crank flashlights, jars of preserved herbs. A single window, barred with rebar, let in the crimson light, casting long shadows across faded rugs and a small altar in the corner bearing candles and a weathered icon of some forgotten saint. Not a church, but a home—someone's defiant sanctuary amid the apocalypse.
But Mimi... the thought clawed at him like the pain in his gut. He tried to stand again, ignoring the man's protests, his good hand gripping the bedframe for support. His vision swam, black spots dancing like embers from a dying fire, but he forced one foot forward. The man reached out to stop him, but Ragna shrugged him off with a glare that promised violence if pushed.
"Oi, oi, you shouldn't be moving or your wounds won't heal!" the man exclaimed, his voice rising in frustration. "What the hell's got you so fired up? You just woke up from the edge of the grave!"
Ragna didn't care. Mimi was out there—dragged away by those animals, her screams echoing in his ears like a curse. He had to find her, had to move, had to—
The door swung open wider, and a woman strode in, her presence filling the room like a sudden gust of wind. She was in her mid-thirties, with sharp features softened only by the lines of exhaustion around her eyes—eyes that were a striking hazel, piercing through the dim light. Her dark hair was pulled back in a practical braid, streaked with premature gray that spoke of years under the crimson sky. She wore a worn leather apron over practical clothes, stained with what looked like old blood and herbal poultices, and her hands bore the calluses of someone who fixed more than machines. In one hand, she held a fresh roll of bandages; in the other, a steaming mug that smelled of bitter roots and healing teas.
"Oi, sit back down," she commanded, her voice firm but not unkind, carrying the authority of someone used to being obeyed in crises. She set her items on the table and moved toward Ragna with purposeful steps. He tried to sidestep her, but she was faster than she looked—her hand shot out, gripping his uninjured shoulder with surprising strength, guiding him back to the bed's edge. "You're not going anywhere like this. You'll reopen every stitch I put in you, and I don't have the supplies to waste on stubborn fools twice."
Ragna resisted for a moment, his muscles tensing under her touch, but the pain in his stomach flared like a fresh wound, forcing him to yield. He sank back onto the mattress, breath coming in ragged gasps through the bandages. Up close, he could see the faint scars on her forearms—old burns, perhaps from pre-Fall work or the chaos since. She wasn't just a scavenger; there was a precision to her movements, a healer's poise.
The man—her husband, Ragna assumed—hovered nearby, looking relieved. "See? Listen to her. She's the one who dragged your sorry ass back here."
The woman shot her husband a quick glance. "Go check the perimeter, Karl. Make sure no one's sniffing around after that mess we found him in." Karl nodded and slipped out, leaving them alone.
Ragna met her eyes, frustration boiling over. He forced words through his mangled mouth, the bandages muffling them to a painful slur, each syllable a grind of will against agony. "M... Mi... mi..." It came out as a wet rasp, blood flecking the cloth anew, but she seemed to understand.
"Your sister?" she asked, her tone softening just a fraction as she knelt to check his abdominal wraps. "We didn't see anyone else when we found you—just bodies and blood. Looked like a slaughter. But if she's out there, we'll find her."
Ragna's eyes widened, a spark of hope cutting through the haze. He tried again, forcing more words: "Th... they... took... her..."
She nodded, her hands gentle but efficient as she adjusted the bandages, applying a fresh poultice that stung but numbed the edges of the pain. "I figured as much from the scene. Gangs are getting bolder since The Fall—preying on the weak, trading kids for favors or worse. But you're in my home now, and I don't let patients die on my watch. Rest. Heal. And when you're strong enough, I'll help you get her back."
He stared at her, suspicion warring with desperation. *Why?* His expression asked.
She straightened, wiping her hands on her apron. "Name's Elara. Used to be a field medic in the old enforcer corps—before the government crumbled and the sky turned to blood. I've got connections still: scouts in the underdistricts, contacts with the refugee convoys heading to the Crimson Coastline, even whispers from those Sentinel folks on the radio. People owe me favors. And Karl—he's handy with traps and scouting. We don't have much, but we have eyes and ears in Grimveil. Your sister's small—easy to hide, but also easy to track if you know where to look."
Ragna leaned back against the headboard, the fight draining from him as exhaustion crept in. The room felt less alien now—Elara's home, a fortified apartment in what must have been a mid-tier block before The Fall. The walls were reinforced with scrap metal, the door barred with heavy locks, and through the window, he could glimpse the ruined skyline of Grimveil: twisted spires silhouetted against the eternal red, distant plumes of smoke rising from burrow sites that still exhaled their mysterious vapors. It was a bastion, much like the church had been, but warmer, lived-in with the faint aroma of stew simmering from an adjacent room.
"Why... help?" he rasped, the words tearing at his throat.
Elara's eyes darkened, a shadow crossing her face. "Because I lost someone too. A daughter, during the burrows. Watched her get pulled under by... whatever's down there. Couldn't save her. But you—you fought like hell for that girl. I saw the bodies. Reminds me of what we all should be doing in this mess: protecting our own. Besides," she added with a wry smile, "you're no use to her dead. Rest now. We'll talk plans when you can speak without bleeding."
She handed him the mug— a herbal brew that tasted like earth and fire, soothing the raw edges of his mouth. As he sipped, the dizziness receded, replaced by a weary calm. Mimi's face haunted him—her wide eyes, her screams—but for the first time since The Fall, he wasn't alone in the fight. Elara's promise lingered like a fragile light in the crimson gloom: connections, people, a chance.
Karl returned shortly, reporting the streets clear for now. The couple shared a quiet meal with Ragna—simple rations of preserved grains and dried meats, eaten in the flickering light of a hand-crank lantern. As the "day" faded to a deeper burgundy outside, Elara checked his wounds again, her touch professional yet kind. "Sleep," she urged. "Tomorrow, we start scouting. I know a few haunts where gangs like that hole up."
Ragna nodded, his body finally surrendering to rest. But in his dreams, the crimson pulses returned—deeper, stronger, stirring in his veins like a promise of power yet to come. The burrows called, and something within him answered.