On the other side of the rift, the grey light of day barely filtered through Amnesia City's fog.
Yan and Luna had made it out. Barely.
Yan limped heavily, his broken arm bound tight against his chest with a strip of torn fabric. His angular face was caked in dust and dried blood. He had Luna by the shoulder — half-carrying her.
She wasn't speaking anymore. Her legs trembled so badly they buckled with every step. Her black hair, matted with sweat, hung over her eyes. Her cracked glasses tilted uselessly to one side. She breathed in short, shallow pulls, shoulders drawn inward, as though she were trying to fold herself out of existence. Her hands gripped Yan's arm so tightly her knuckles had gone white.
She was terrified — hollowed out — as if a part of her had stayed behind, down in the pit, staring into the four black eyes of the Bökyakusha.
"We're going to the Healer," Yan rasped. "Right now. You're not safe like this. She'll take care of you."
Luna didn't answer. She let herself be guided, eyes wide open, fixed on nothing.
In the small shack of the South Belt, Kobi's mother sat at the edge of the mattress. The soup had long gone cold. The window let in the dirty light of a morning that had already become afternoon.
He should be back by now, she thought. He always comes home early. What's happening to him?
She rubbed her worn hands together, restless. Her gaze drifted to the corner where Kobi kept his small bag. She saw Tobi's face — her husband, gone so long ago. The same dark eyes. The same black hair that always fell a little across the forehead. Kobi looked so much like him. Too much. As though the boy had kept alive everything the city had torn away from Tobi.
A sharp knock at the door.
She startled. Two neighbors stood outside, breathless, clothes dirty.
"Come on! Everyone's gathering at the city center. Rich people have arrived.
They say they have a proposal for us."
She hesitated for a moment, cast one last look toward the door — as if Kobi might appear. Then she pulled her old grey shawl around her shoulders and followed.
The center of Amnesia City was swallowed by people.
An enormous crowd pressed across the cracked main square, hemmed in between the shattered pillars of the Colossi. Thousands of bodies crushed together: hunched shoulders, bent backs, hollow-cheeked faces carved by hunger and exhaustion. Gaunt children hoisted onto shoulders, eyes bright with nervous excitement. Elders clinging to walls, hands trembling. Mothers clutching infants against their chests. The air was thick and stifling — sweat, dust, and something fragile that passed for hope.
The crowd surged without stopping, a rising murmur building like a wave.
Bodies stretched onto their toes, necks craned, hands found each other and held tight. You could feel it in the tension of shoulders, in the short-held breaths, in the eyes swinging between fear and a feverish, almost delirious glint. Whispers ran like current: "Money…" "No more ruins…" "We'll finally be able to eat…" Chests rose faster. Some were already smiling — tight, pained smiles worn by people who didn't yet dare to believe.
On the hastily erected stage stood the Elites.
There were four of them. Immaculate. Ebony coats with silver stitching, heavy fabrics that bore no dust, no wear, no trace of the world beneath them. On each chest blazed the same golden symbol: the Adinkrahene — the chief of all symbols. A great perfect circle wreathed in interlocking patterns, curved and geometric lines that seemed almost to shift under the weak light, as though power itself breathed through the unknown metal. It blazed, pulling every last glimmer from the fog.
The man in the center — the tallest — raised one fine leather-gloved hand. His voice was calm, warm. Almost brotherly.
"We know what you endure. The misery. The hunger. The fear of the ruins.
Today, we offer you a way out. Sell your memories. The ones that weigh on you. The ones that hold you back. In return, we give you money. Enough to pay your rent for years. Enough to eat. Enough to live — without ever going down into those pits again."
A murmur moved through the crowd like a wave. Bodies straightened slightly.
Eyes widened. Hands gripped harder.
Kobi's mother stood somewhere in the middle — small and thin in her worn shawl. Her heart was beating fast. She listened, fingers twisted into the fabric.
The money… the medicine… no more watery broth… No more watching her son leave each morning with that ridiculous badge pinned to his chest. A strange warmth rose in her chest, a tangle of hope and guilt she didn't dare name.
She didn't know yet.
On the other side of the walls, deep within the Colossi, her son Kobi was still down there. Clinging to the edge of the void with bleeding fingers. The Bökyakusha tearing at his jacket. Yan fighting to hold him with a single arm. Kobi hated this system. He hated the very idea of selling what made you human. He had read the reports. He had seen what it produced: the Bökyakusha. Monsters without memory.
And yet — at this exact moment — his mother was beginning to believe.
The center of Amnesia City was drowned in a strange, almost sacred silence now.
The vast crowd had formed a great coiled circle around the stage — a serpent biting its own tail. Those in the front rows stood upright, eyes burning with feverish hope. Behind them, a second wave of the curious and the wary hung back, forming a looser line split down the middle by a narrow aisle. At the very back, hundreds more — still hesitating — watched from a distance, necks craned, bodies leaning forward.
Alma stood somewhere in the body of the serpent, small and frail in her worn grey shawl. Her grey hair was pulled into a tight bun. Her face — etched with deep lines that had no business being there at forty-five — looked even more exhausted under the dirty light of the fog. She pressed her worn hands together, feeling her heart knock against her ribs.
The Elite on stage spoke again. His words slid over the crowd like a poisoned caress.
"The memories that weigh on you. The ones that keep you from moving forward. Let us carry the weight of the past. In return — enough to feed the present. Enough to live without ever being afraid again."
Murmurs rose. Bodies straightened.
Shoulders loosened, just slightly.
Around her, voices surfaced.
"Are they actually telling the truth?"
"Look — the first three already have their money…"
From the back, shouts broke out.
"It's real! They're giving out cash!"
Three people — dressed like everyone else, worn clothes, hollow-cheeked faces — stepped out of the line holding up wads of cash. Their eyes burned with a brightness that was almost too sharp.
The crowd at the back began to move, drawn forward like iron to a magnet. The movement became unstoppable.
Alma watched men and women around her suddenly lunge forward, almost running, as though they'd witnessed a miracle. Their faces had transformed: wild hope, desperate relief. She felt her own heart accelerate. She wanted that miracle too. For Kobi. So she'd never have to watch him leave each morning with that badge on his chest. So he'd stop risking his life in those ruins.
It was as though the Elites had planned for all of it. Every word. Every gesture. Every smile — calculated from the start.
The script was running perfectly.
Soon, it was almost her turn.
The woman ahead of her — maybe forty years old — stepped up onto the stage.
She placed her hand on the cold machine. The man in the ebony coat
activated the process. A low hum rose.
The woman closed her eyes.
Then everything changed.
When she opened them again, her gaze was blank.
Completely blank.
She looked around — lost, like a child newly born into a world she didn't recognize.
"Where… where am I? Who am I?"
The Elite smiled politely.
"Would you like some money?"
The woman shook her head, confused.
"No… I… I don't know…"
The Elite signaled with one hand.
Two men seized her roughly and shoved her off the stage. She stumbled, fell to her knees in the dust. No one helped her.
She stayed there on the ground, eyes vacant, unable to comprehend anything. She had lost everything: her memories, her identity, every reason to keep living.
She had only wanted to eat — to survive — and now she was more vulnerable than a newborn. Less than nothing.
The realization struck Alma all at once.
These people who had posed as saviors — who had spoken with such apparent understanding of their suffering — they were not the solution. They were the source. They were mocking them. Feeding on their despair.
Around her, others began to understand at the same moment. Bodies tried to pull back. Panicked murmurs broke the air.
But the Elites had anticipated this too.
The people planted along the sides of the line closed in sharply, forming a human wall. They sealed off every exit. Only those already on the outer edges could escape.
Alma was in the middle.
Her body locked. Her eyes went wide — blazing with terror. Her face drained of color, mouth falling slightly open. A trembling took hold of her — wild, uncontrollable — starting in her shoulders and running all the way down to her legs. And yet she kept moving forward, pushed by the crowd, step by step, without understanding how.
Kobi… my little Kobi…
His thin face. Those dark eyes, too serious for a ten-year-old. His hands, already calloused. What would become of him if she lost her memory. If he came home tonight and she didn't recognize him. If she became like that woman — hollowed out, incapable of protecting him.
She wanted to pull back.
Her body wouldn't listen.
It was her turn.
The man before her wore a black hood and a smooth mask that left only cold eyes visible. He looked at her for a long moment. Alma dropped her gaze immediately, fixing her eyes on the cracked ground. Her hands were shaking so badly she pressed them flat against her stomach.
The man reached out. His gloved fingers touched her chin and lifted her face — gently, but without any possibility of refusal.
"Raise your face."
His voice was low. Deceptively gentle.
Alma obeyed. Tears she could no longer hold back filled her eyes. Her whole body shivered. Her breath came in short pulls. Her throat was a closed fist.
And then — at that exact moment — something happened inside her mind.
A dull sound. Like a page being violently torn.
Then everything went dark.
As though an inner light had been extinguished.
Forever.
The Elite smiled behind his mask.
"The first memory is always the most painful."
Alma felt a cold needle press against her temple.
And the world, for her, began to dissolve.
She was about to do the one thing her son hated most in the world.
And she would do it for him.