Chapter 1

In the pitch-black darkness of his prison cell, thick with the stink of old blood and rusted metal a man hung from chains that bit his wrists and shoulders. Every movement carved fresh pain into his skin. Darkness pressed in from all sides, broken only by the constant rattle of his shackles and the low, steady hum of distant machinery. Time had abandoned this place, and with it, the prisoner’s sense of self.

A decade?

Two?

The thought surfaced, distant and small. It hardly mattered.

He had seen enough to know that capture was always a risk, but this method—these chains, this gravity—was a particular indignity. The universe had no shortage of ways to make a prisoner, but he'd never imagined this one. Without warning, the massive doors at the front of the room, sealed since his incarceration, creaked open with a deafening groan. Blinding light flooded the space, forcing him to shut his eyes and turn away.
As the doors opened wider, two men dressed in luxurious purple robes adorned with a golden falcon pin entered, flanked by forty heavily armored guards. The guards shifted on their feet, gloved hands flexing on their weapons. Sweat beaded on the captain's upper lip. They all knew the stories—knew what the man in the box was capable of if he got free.

The robed men descended without hurry, their purple hems dragging dust from steps untouched for years. They stopped at a platform overlooking the chamber. Below them, at the far end of the room, the prisoner hung suspended inside a large, translucent box, his body pierced by thorny chains. The men ignored him, their attention fixed on the holographic panels and terminals glowing around two ornate chairs at the platform's edge. As they approached the controls, the prisoner lifted his head and offered a macabre grin.

"If I knew I was receiving guests," he said, "I would have cleaned myself up a bit."

But the robed men were unamused, their focus unwavering.

"Ensure the gravity field is stable, and all weapons are active!" the first robed man said, prompting a group of guards to attend the terminals.

Laser turrets emerged from the ceiling, training on the prisoner. The remaining guards positioned themselves around the cell, aiming their guns squarely at him. Silence reigned, and only the footsteps of the approaching robed men disrupted it. Finally, the first-robed man broke the silence.

"His Majesty has decreed that your sentence is hereby terminated and remanded to execution, in accordance with the judgment rendered for your crimes against our universe," the man said, his voice echoing.

The weak and battered prisoner raised his head, cracked lips forming a wry smile.

"About time," he muttered.

“This decor was getting tiresome.”

The two robed men, who had appeared composed moments ago, grew agitated.

“The newly crowned king would like your presence here to remain short.”

“You will be executed in front of the court two days from now,” the second robed man said, his jaw tight.

The prisoner tilted his head, trying to recall the current monarch.

"Newly crowned, you say?". He shrugged, his indifference clear.

"Well, it's a shame I wasn't invited to the ceremony. The boy could have at least come here himself."

He smirked. The last time he'd seen the prince, the 'boy' had been weeping over a skinned knee.

Time, it seemed, had been kind to one of them.

The first robed man's eye twitched in annoyance.

"Increase the gravity field to maximum!" he said to the guards operating the terminals.

With a moment of hesitation, one of them complied, causing the prisoner's bones to snap as he collapsed to his knees, coughing up blood. His chains dug deeper into his tortured body, and he winced in agony.

"Do you feel that?" the first robed man asked.

"That is the gravitational force of a collapsing stellar core—not even someone like you can withstand this much pressure."

The second-robed man moved closer to the cell.

"If it were up to me, I'd end you now and let your insides be slowly crushed.”

“But his Majesty wishes for a public spectacle. He wants them all to see that even you can be broken.”

The prisoner remained silent. The two robed men exchanged satisfied glances before turning and ascending the staircase with the guards following behind them. The pressure lifted, and the prisoner gasped for breath, his body battered and broken.

"Great chat," he called out into the void, his voice cracking on the last word.

"I don't suppose next time you could have the courtesy of bringing me some food?"

There was no response as the final guard left the room. The doors closed with a resounding thud, and as the lights dimmed, the room descended once again into oppressive darkness. The prisoner closed his eyes and let out a sigh.

The chains were real. The thorns had already broken skin.

"Private!"

The shout snapped his head up. The voice was wrong. The room was wrong. No metal, no rot, just the flat, sterile light of a briefing room. He was surrounded by soldiers in fatigues, all of them staring. A lieutenant stood at the front, a vein throbbing at his temple.

He had no idea how long he'd been gone. A memory, or a dream? It felt too real. He could almost feel the phantom weight of the chains, the ghost of blood on his skin.

"S-sorry, Lieutenant." His voice cracked. He straightened his posture, but his shoulders still burned where the metal had-

Had what?

He'd fallen asleep. That was all. He'd arrived at the camp just last night, hadn't managed to sleep during the flight or the subsequent drive, and now he was embarrassing himself in front of men he'd be deploying with in-

"In four hours," the lieutenant finished, as if he'd heard the thought. "Which means you might want to stay awake long enough to learn who you're shooting at."

"You and I are going to have a discussion afterward." His voice was cold. "Now, sit down."

He hastily returned to his seat as the lieutenant resumed his briefing.

After the briefing, he approached the lieutenant as the others began to leave. The officer sat at his desk, his hands resting on top of some folders. With stern eyes, he scrutinized the young man from head to toe. The lieutenant didn't look up.

"Your marksmanship scores are in the ninety-eighth percentile." He turned a page. "Your psych eval says you work well with others."

A pause. "It also says you freeze under fire.”

"Yes, sir," he mumbled, his gaze dropping to the floor.

"I'll be frank," the lieutenant continued, his irritation becoming more apparent.

"I don't care about your scores or references because your training doesn't mean a damn thing here.”

"I understand, sir," the young man said, though his expression was uncertain.

The lieutenant’s gaze held no curiosity, only a weary appraisal that took him apart piece by piece. It was as if he could see the truth right on him: three days out of basic training. His inexperience wasn’t just a detail in a file; it was a visible liability, and the officer looked like he was measuring a tool that was already broken.The lieutenant was about to speak when a knock sounded on the door.

"Come in," he called out.

A woman and four men in military fatigues entered the room. As they approached the lieutenant's desk, the squad of soldiers fixated their gazes on the young man.

"Good, now that you're all here, I'll brief you on your mission," the lieutenant announced, repositioning himself in his chair.

"I'm sorry, mission?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

He glanced at the hardened soldiers beside him, then back at the lieutenant.

"I just got here."

Your orders are to extract and secure a VIP," the lieutenant continued, ignoring the question.

He reached for a folder on his desk and handed it to one of the men.

"Five years back, a biochemical attack cleared this town out. It’s been a ghost town ever since.”

"Details are in the folder," he added, prompting the man to quickly read its contents before passing it along.

As everyone absorbed the information, the lieutenant continued speaking, occasionally glancing at the young man.

"HQ has reported no hostilities in the area currently, so the engagement risk is minimal."

One of the squad members raised an eyebrow.

"Is that why we're bringing this kid along?" he asked.

"Didn't he like, just arrive?" another soldier added.

All eyes turned to the young man, expecting an explanation.

The lieutenant sighed.

"Look, the assignment came from command. My hands are tied. Your squad is down one, and this is your replacement," he said, rising from his chair. "Gear up. You leave at 0900. Dismissed."

***

The Humvee rumbled down the dirt road, its engine a deafening roar. Inside the dim cabin, he sat shoulder to shoulder with the squad, the unfamiliar weight of his rifle heavy in his hands. The other soldiers were still, their postures relaxed, but his own gaze was fixed on the bleached horizon visible through the narrow rear window, watching for something he couldn't name.
The Humvee bucked. He slammed against the soldier beside him, grabbed his rifle, lost it, grabbed again. The stock was slick. His breath came in counts-one, two, one, two-did nothing for the hammering in his chest.
The desolation stretched for miles, a barren expanse of sand and rock under a white-hot sun. The stark beauty of it barely registered; the heat and the fear in his gut eclipsed it. He gripped his rifle until his knuckles ached, the plastic stock slick with sweat.
The squad mate beside him nudged him hard in the ribs, his eyes narrowed.

"Hey, rookie, quit daydreaming and focus," he said.

"I can't believe we have a kid watching our backs," he added, as he glanced away from the young man.

"That's enough, Brooks," the woman seated nearby said.

"I’m just saying this mission is too important to be babysitting some kid," Brooks continued.

He bit back a retort, the words dying unspoken. Brooks was right. His stomach clenched.

Noticing the young man's expression, Brooks shot him a piercing glare. "What was that?"

Sarah, the woman who had defended the young man earlier, scowled at both of them, attempting to defuse the rising tension within the vehicle.

In the front seat, the captain, riding shotgun, intervened.

"Stow it. ETA ten minutes.”

"Understood," Sarah replied tersely while the young man looked away from Brooks.

The Humvee finally rumbled to a halt.

The captain's voice cut through the cabin, "We'll proceed on foot from here. Let's move out!"

Eager to step out of the cramped vehicle, the young man quickly exited, his boots crunching on the desert sand. As he surveyed his surroundings, he realized they had arrived at the outskirts of a relatively small, abandoned town. The atmosphere was eerie, the once-thriving settlement now devoid of any signs of life. His thumb found the rifle's safety switch, flicked it off, flicked it on again. The street was too quiet.

"Where exactly are we going?" he asked, his words coming out flat.

"Extraction is at the town center, close by," the captain replied.

They moved down the main street, boots crunching on sun-baked asphalt. Every window was a dark, vacant eye. A child's bicycle lay on its side at the edge of a withered lawn, one pedal still angled as though a foot had just left it. The silence was absolute, heavier than any sound.

"The whole town is dead silent." The squad member's voice came out low, almost swallowed by the empty street.

His gaze swept the rooftops again, lingering on the empty market stalls below. The silence felt wrong.

“I don’t like this,” he said.

He was reluctant to voice his concerns, but the silence was too heavy to ignore. Brooks shot him a look of contempt. The captain didn't even turn around. No one answered. He could feel their resentment. They moved around him with a careful distance, their glances quick and dismissive.

He wasn't just a replacement; he was a reminder of who they'd lost, and a kid with no combat experience at that. The group continued down the street, the young man cautiously following behind. His grip on his rifle tightened, and his eyes scanned the rooftops for potential threats.
Brooks had noticed his vigilance and turned around, irritation etched on his face.

"Look, HQ said there was no enemy activity on our way here," he said.

The captain, overhearing the exchange, sighed and chimed in:

"We're here to pick up and extract the VIP. Don't make this mission harder than it is, kid."

He lowered his weapon, the barrel suddenly heavy. His jaw tightened. They thought he was a paranoid kid. A coldness spread through his chest, subtle at first, then settling deep behind his ribs. He scanned the empty corridor again. HQ's briefing had been clear—routine sweep, minimal resistance—but the silence here had weight, the kind that pressed against his eardrums and made him want to check his comms twice. As they continued their advance, the road ahead split into two sections, leading to a large, deteriorating building with peeling white paint. The once beautiful gardens surrounding it had withered away, and dead bushes and cracked earth replaced them.

"That's the center up ahead," the captain informed them, and the young man breathed a small sigh of relief.

A small sigh of relief escaped him. Maybe it was just first-mission nerves, his mind playing tricks. He told himself to stop overthinking it. However, just as they reached an intersection, something caught the young man's peripheral vision. A shadowy figure moved stealthily on one of the rooftops they had just passed. The figure positioned itself at the rooftop's edge, aiming a rifle downward.

"Get down!" the young man yelled, adrenaline surging through him.

He lifted his rifle, pointing more than aiming, and squeezed the trigger. The shot was a panicked reflex, a desperate bark of noise aimed at the rooftop figure. The first shot cracked past his ear like a dry branch. He didn't register the second or third—only the shriek of a soldier to his right and the wet stain spreading across the asphalt. He scrambled for cover, heart hammering against his ribs, and slammed his back against a crumbling brick wall as dust and debris rained down around him.
His body trembled, and the knot in his stomach finally gave way, forcing him to vomit on the dry, cracked ground. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the acrid taste of bile mixing with dust as he fought to regain his composure.

"Focus."

Standing up slowly, he peered around the corner, gun in hand. Gunfire echoed in his ears. His eyes fell on Miller's body amidst a pool of blood where his squad had been positioned just moments ago.
Bullets continued whipping past him, and he kept firing rounds from behind his precarious cover.
Another figure aimed their weapon at him. The young man reacted instinctively, firing a controlled burst. The figure collapsed. In the exchange of gunfire, bullets flew in all directions, some striking the wall behind him and sending fragments flying. His stomach churned again, but he couldn't afford to lose his focus. He fought to control his breathing, sweat dripping from his forehead. Stay here? Find the others? The questions gnawed at him, each option as deadly as the last. He fired another burst from behind cover as more figures appeared on the rooftops, their dark silhouettes multiplying against the sky.

Suddenly, the roaring engines of two heavily armored trucks pierced the battlefield's cacophony. They barreled down the road, their wheels kicking up dust clouds in their wake. The trucks screeched to a halt near the fallen squad member's lifeless body, and the gunners manning the mounted machine guns on each vehicle opened fire on the street below.
The young man took cover as the deafening sound of machine gun fire filled the air. Frantically, he scanned the street, the world narrowing to a series of threats and potential cover. All thought vanished, replaced by a cold, sharp need to find his squad and stay alive.
He spotted them huddled behind a wrecked car. Brooks was there, pressing a field dressing to a wounded squad mate's leg, while Sarah laid down cover fire, blood trickling from a gash on her forehead.
Seeing the young man, Sarah waved for him to join them.

"Hey!" she called out above the cacophony of gunfire.

"The captain called for backup. We need to fall back and regroup. Can you provide cover fire?"

The young man hesitated for a moment, his mind racing as he took in their perilous situation.

Then he yelled back, "Okay!"

As he and Sarah began to lay down suppressing fire, Brooks and the injured squad member scrambled back to their battered Humvee, making a desperate retreat under the relentless onslaught of bullets. The dust-choked air hung heavy with tension as they fought to survive.
Soon enough, the young man and Sarah followed suit, his heart pounding as bullets whizzed dangerously close around him. They ran down the road, taking sporadic shots at the figures on the rooftops, their every step a desperate bid for survival. A bullet slammed into the stock of his rifle, the impact jarring his shoulder and tearing the weapon from his grasp. His arm went numb, but he didn’t stop running.

"Damn it!" He shook his numb arm and kept running.

His breath came in short, sharp bursts, the superheated air searing his lungs. His hands were slick on the weapon's frame, the metal hot to the touch. He struggled to keep up with Sarah, his jaw set tight, his breath ragged.
He slammed against the Humvee's warm metal, gasping for breath. He did a frantic headcount. Five. Only five. The image of the body in the street wouldn't leave him. He stared at his shattered rifle, then wiggled the fingers on his good arm, a flicker of relief that a fresh wave of fear quickly extinguished.
Brooks carefully lowered the wounded squad mate, who clutched his blood-soaked leg, while Sarah knelt beside them, tending to the injury. Blood, likely from carrying his injured comrade, smeared Brooks.
The captain stood by the driver's seat, his face pale under a layer of grime. He held his bleeding left arm tight against his body, his expression a mask of grim determination. The young man, restless and anxious, approached the captain, his voice quivering as he spoke.

"Engine's out?" he asked, his voice tight. "Captain, why aren't we setting a perimeter?"

The captain's face was hard. "We can't move. The Humvee's engine block is shot. I radioed HQ—air support is inbound, ETA 15 minutes. We hold here."

Baffled and frustrated, the young man opened his mouth to argue, but a deafening explosion shattered the air. The shockwave slammed into him like a physical blow, throwing him against the side of the Humvee. The world dissolved into a ringing noise and then, nothing.