Chris hailed a cab from the cracked sidewalk outside his apartment building. The city no longer had names the way it once did. After the System Change and the expansion of gates, urban planning had collapsed under the pressure of constant emergencies. Streets that once had familiar names and neighborhoods were now reduced to numbers and coordinates. To maintain order and ensure rapid response to emergencies, governments divided every major city into numbered districts. Each district functioned like a self-contained zone, with its own command centers, evacuation routes, and gate response teams. It was easier to quarantine danger that way. Easier to sacrifice one district if it came to that.
District Five sat closer to the outer perimeter of the city, an area once bustling with commerce but now half abandoned. The sidewalks were cracked and littered with debris, a mix of broken glass, discarded belongings, and occasional fragments of monsters that had been left behind. Gates appeared there more frequently than anywhere else, as if the land itself had grown thin and fragile. The buildings that survived were battered, their walls scarred with soot, pockmarked with holes, or reinforced with makeshift metal plates to resist monster attacks.
The cab ride was silent. Chris leaned his head against the window, staring at the blurred shapes of broken streetlights and reinforced checkpoints as they passed. Armed patrols stood at intersections, their rifles slung casually across their bodies. They did not run or fight unless necessary; their presence was a constant reminder that the world had changed. But their presence no longer comforted him. It simply reminded him of the distance between the life he had wanted and the life he was forced to lead.
Twenty minutes later, the cab slowed near a narrow street lined with old, dilapidated buildings. These structures survived more through neglect than design, leaning slightly to one side or supported by rusted beams. A flickering neon sign hung above a small bar, casting a weak yellow glow onto the street. Chris paid the driver and stepped out, the sound of coins clinking into the driver's palm echoing faintly. The cab pulled away, leaving him in the quiet that had settled over this district, a quiet punctuated only by the occasional groan of the old buildings shifting in the wind.
The address led him inside the bar. Its interior was dimly lit, the smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke thick in the air. Despite the early hour, a few patrons occupied the worn stools and cracked tables, each lost in their own thoughts, their faces lined with exhaustion, fear, and resignation. It was a place for people who had nowhere else to go, a sanctuary for those who survived the chaos outside.
At the counter sat Uncle Tom. He was a broad-shouldered man in his fifties, his posture relaxed but heavy, as if years of burden weighed down every movement. His graying hair was unkempt, his beard thick and rough, and his eyes carried the dullness of someone who had witnessed more death than life. A half-empty bottle of beer sat in front of him, condensation running slowly down its side. When his gaze met Chris's, he lifted the bottle slightly in acknowledgment.
"Chris," he said. "Sit."
Chris slid onto the stool beside him. The wood creaked under his weight. "You want a drink?" Tom asked, the words casual but carrying a weight Chris understood.
"No," Chris replied. "I'm good."
Tom shrugged and took another swallow, his movements almost automatic, a ritual repeated countless times over the years. Chris knew why Tom drank. Everyone in their line of work did, though some hid it better than others. The alcohol did more than dull pain; it was a way to survive the memories, the nights haunted by screams and destruction.
During the first wave of monster outbreaks, Tom had been away on an emergency deployment. His wife and children had been at home. When the gate opened near their district, monsters poured out faster than evacuation orders could spread. Tom had called his wife frantically. She had answered, her voice shaking, panicked. The sound of breaking glass, screams, and crashing furniture erupted in the background. His children had cried, their tiny voices rising above the chaos.
He had begged her over the phone, pleaded for them to hide, to run, to survive until he got home. The last thing he heard was her scream. When he returned, it was too late. The house was destroyed, and his family was gone, killed gruesomely. Since that day, Tom stopped living for the future. He survived for vengeance. He lived only to hunt monsters, to enter every gate with a single purpose: to ensure no one else felt the helplessness he had endured. Every gate he entered, every blade swing, every explosion was an attempt to drown out that memory. The alcohol helped him sleep. Sometimes.
Chris felt a familiar ache in his chest. If he were in Tom's place, he knew he would have broken the same way.
"What's up, Uncle?" Chris asked softly.
Tom finished his beer and set the glass down, his eyes locking onto Chris's. "There's a way we can make it big this time," he said, his voice low, deliberate, heavy with unspoken meaning.
Chris straightened instinctively.
"A yellow gate opened in District Five," Tom continued. "It's already been cleared by a higher-tier team. What's left is cleanup. Core fragments. Residual materials. The kind of loot they don't bother collecting."
Chris blinked, trying to process the information. "Yellow gate?"
"This would be your first time stepping into one," Tom said. "That's why I'm telling you now. I won't force you. I'm C-rank. I'll be there. I won't let anything happen to you."
Chris thought carefully. Yellow gates paid far more than blue or purple ones. Even post-clearance work carried serious risk, but the payout could cover months of expenses in a single night. Tuition. Rent. Supplies. The chance to ease his sister's burdens weighed heavily in his mind.
"I'm in," Chris said finally.
Tom nodded, a faint trace of a smile appearing for the first time in years. "Good. Be here by seven tonight. We clean fast and get out before the gate collapses."
Time passed slowly after that. The hours dragged, each second filled with anticipation. Chris watched the sky darken, clouds crawling across the city like living shadows pressing down. Streetlights flickered, illuminating patches of cracked asphalt and piles of rubble. The city hummed with the low, distant sound of generators, patrol vehicles, and occasional sirens, a constant reminder that even tonight, the world remained precarious.
By the time seven arrived, Chris reached the gate site to find military vehicles forming a wide perimeter. Heavy floodlights cast long shadows across the cracked ground, highlighting the massive, pulsating yellow gate suspended above the earth. The air carried a faint hum, almost imperceptible, resonating from the gate itself, as though it were alive.
Five figures approached together. Uncle Tom led the group, his calm, deliberate movements commanding a quiet authority. Beside him was Rafe, a D-rank shield class, massive and imposing, his reinforced skin glinting faintly in the floodlights. Lina followed, a E-rank support type whose eyes scanned the surroundings constantly, capturing details no one else noticed. Juno, a D-rank speed fighter, bounced lightly on her feet, her energy barely contained, excitement and nerves intermingling. Malik, a D-rank ranged specialist, kept his weapons ready, kinetic energy dancing along his fingertips. Chris brought up the rear, his heartbeat steadying despite the weight of anticipation pressing on him.
Everyone's faces reflected the stakes. The payout for this mission was nearly four times what they normally earned, enough to change the course of their current month, maybe more.
"Shouldn't we be worried?" Malik asked quietly, glancing around nervously. "This is a yellow gate."
Juno scoffed, rolling her shoulders. "Relax. It's already cleared. What could still be inside? Leftovers, maybe."
Rafe grunted, nodding. "If anything survived, it won't be strong enough to matter."
Chris absorbed their reasoning. Too much sense, perhaps, but it reassured him slightly.
They approached the military personnel stationed at the perimeter, presenting their awakened identification. The soldiers exchanged glances, whispers passing between them. One finally waved them through.
"Proceed," the soldier said, voice low but firm.
As the group moved forward, a soldier muttered to another, "Why would command allow hunters like this inside?"
The other shrugged. "Higher ranks are busy. They've got a C-ranker. They'll be fine."
The gate pulsed softly as they stepped through. Chris felt the familiar chill crawl up his spine. The air was different here thick, heavy, almost viscous. It smelled faintly of iron and ozone. Every instinct screamed that something was amiss. And somewhere deep within the gate, something stirred, waiting, unnoticed.