White light.
Too bright.
Too sterile.
Buzzing like a warning.
The hum of machines.
IV drip.
The faint, persistent beep of a heart monitor, ticking away what's left of him.
Rain against glass.
Leif Rancor stirs beneath stiff, blood-stained sheets.
Bandages cinch around his ribs like a cage.
Every breath is a warning.
Every blink is a fight against drowning.
The ceiling above him flickers.
Fluorescent. Cold.
The air smells of alcohol and metal, like a place between life and death.
His hands twitch.
His mouth is dry. Tongue thick like sandpaper.
He tries to sit up — lightning in his spine. His lungs rebel.
His memories fog in and out.
The house . The men. His mother. His sister.
The gunfire. The blood.
Her.
He doesn't know what was dream and what was real.
But it all hurts the same.
There are shadows.
Two figures at the foot of his bed.
Suits. Damp shoulders. No medical clipboards.
Cops.
One leans forward — a man with thinning hair, a face like old bread, and eyes that don't blink enough.
"Leif Rancor. You're awake."
His voice is flat. Like he's said this to dying boys before.
Like it doesn't matter what the answers are — only how long the silence lasts.
"We have a few questions," he says, already flipping to the right page in his script.
Leif's lips twitch, but no sound comes.
The second officer, younger, flips open a folder.
Brown stains mark the corners. Rain or blood.
Doesn't matter.
"Three men found dead at the woods near the old time city . You were discovered nearby. Unconscious. Bleeding out."
"A firearm was recovered. Serial filed off. No fingerprints. No clear security footage. No witnesses."
The first man crosses his arms.
His eyes scan Leif like a checklist.
"You're not under arrest."
"But your rights are active. Do you understand?"
Silence.
Leif finally opens his mouth.
Dry.
A rasp. Then a cough.
Then — laughter.
Ugly, cracked, wet with blood.
"Do I look like someone who gives a damn?" he whispers, voice like rusted metal.
The younger officer shifts. The older one frowns.
But before either can speak —
The door creaks.
Another figure enters.
Tall. Calm. Not a doctor. Not a cop.
Black coat. Black gloves. Eyes unreadable.
Boots make no sound against the tile.
Like death entering politely.
The officers stiffen. Step aside like dominoes.
No names are exchanged. No words.
Just a shift in gravity.
The man approaches the bed. Looks down at Leif.
"You don't look like a killer," he says.
His voice is smooth. Measured.
Like someone who's already seen how the next ten steps play out.
"You look like a kid who's been dragged through hell… and hasn't decided whether to come back."
Leif blinks. Doesn't answer.
But something tightens in his chest.
The man isn't trying to threaten him.
He's recognizing him.
"Rancor," the man muses. "That's a name that bites. Sounds like someone who doesn't forget."
He reaches into his coat.
Pulls out a card. Plain. White. Blank.
Places it gently on the steel tray beside the IV.
"We're not looking for soldiers," the man says.
"We're looking for survivors. People who've seen too much and still get out of bed."
"This work eats people. But you—"
He leans in. Just enough to make Leif feel like the world narrowed to two.
"—you already look half-devoured."
The man turns. Walks to the door.
Stops.
"Take the card, Rancor. Or don't. Up to you."
"But let's be honest… what else do you have to lose?"
Click.
He's gone.
The room feels heavier without him.
Leif stares at the card.
His fingers twitch.
No name. No title. No explanation.
Just a silent door out of something worse than hell.
Then —
A sound.
A hum.
Soft. Warped. Like a lullaby buried under static.
Her.
⸻
It started with smoke.
Leif was walking home from school. Hoodie zipped to his chin. Bag dragging from one shoulder.
Rain fell like a whisper—constant and gray.
The city felt like it had been crying for days.
He saw it first — a thread of smoke twisting in the middle of the street.
Then her.
A girl.
Barefoot. Drenched.
Holding a lighter to a wrinkled piece of paper.
The flame sputtered, clinging stubbornly to wet edges.
Ash curled between her fingers like something trying to escape.
Leif hesitated.
"Yo… you good?"
She didn't move.
"You're standing in traffic," he said, stepping off the curb. "You wanna die or something?"
"So hit me," she murmured.
The rain seemed to get quieter.
Then she turned.
Face pale. Eyes dark and rimmed in charcoal smudges.
No fear. No sadness. Just stillness.
"I was kidding," she added flatly. "Mostly."
He stared.
"Are you scared of fire?" she asked.
"No."
"You hesitated."
"I was just surprised someone's out here burning memories."
"Is that what you think they are?" she asked, letting the paper disintegrate in her hand.
He watched ash scatter.
"What's your name?" she asked.
"Leif."
She tilted her head. "Like… leaf?"
"With an 'i'."
"So you fall easy," she said.
He didn't know how to answer that.
"I'm Yin," she said. "Like… the dark half of something."
She stood there in silence for a moment longer, then glanced at him like she could see through his shirt, through his skin, through the whole damn life he'd lived up to now.
"You always burn stuff in the rain?" he asked.
"Only when I want something gone so bad, I'll even fight water to do it."
"Did it work?"
She shrugged. "Depends if forgetting counts as winning."
She looked at him again. Longer this time.
"You looked like you were about to fall," she said.
"I thought maybe I'd catch you."
"You're the one in the road."
"Some people fall even when they're standing still."
She turned away then. Just like that.
Smoke trailed behind her like breath.
Then—
He saw them.
The men.
Three shadows trailing behind her.
The warehouse killers.
Their eyes hidden behind black hoods.
Guns raised. Silent. Waiting.
"Yin—" he choked.
He bolted forward, ready to shove her out of the way.
But she was already in front of him.
Her palm pressed to his chest.
Cold. Familiar. Real.
"Don't look at them," she whispered.
"Look at me."
And he did.
The world behind her shattered.
The killers vanished.
Only her remained.
"This is where you belong," she said softly.
"Not in that world. Not with their lies. With me."
His heart stuttered.
Everything felt upside down.
She leaned in, her breath cool against his cheek.
"You think your mother would even recognize you now?"
He froze.
Then — she hummed.
That same lullaby.
His mother's.
But wrong. Slower. Tainted.
He reached for her, fingers outstretched—
And the sky collapsed.
Rain reversed.
The air buckled.
The clouds descended like hands, reaching.
Judgment.
She didn't flinch. Just smiled.
"You already chose, Leif."
⸻
Back in the hospital.
Leif gasped awake.
His chest burned. His fingers clenched the sheet.
The card was still there. White. Blank.
Waiting.
The hum of machines. The beep of life. The whisper of something darker.
His hand trembled.
His breath caught.
Outside, the rain got louder.
He picked up the card.
White light.
Too bright.
Too sterile.
Buzzing like a warning.
The hum of machines.
IV drip.
The faint, persistent beep of a heart monitor, ticking away what's left of him.
Rain against glass.
Leif Rancor stirs beneath stiff, blood-stained sheets.
Bandages cinch around his ribs like a cage.
Every breath is a warning.
Every blink is a fight against drowning.
The ceiling above him flickers.
Fluorescent. Cold.
The air smells of alcohol and metal, like a place between life and death.
His hands twitch.
His mouth is dry. Tongue thick like sandpaper.
He tries to sit up — lightning in his spine. His lungs rebel.
His memories fog in and out.
The house . The men. His mother. His sister.
The gunfire. The blood.
Her.
He doesn't know what was dream and what was real.
But it all hurts the same.
There are shadows.
Two figures at the foot of his bed.
Suits. Damp shoulders. No medical clipboards.
Cops.
One leans forward — a man with thinning hair, a face like old bread, and eyes that don't blink enough.
"Leif Rancor. You're awake."
His voice is flat. Like he's said this to dying boys before.
Like it doesn't matter what the answers are — only how long the silence lasts.
"We have a few questions," he says, already flipping to the right page in his script.
Leif's lips twitch, but no sound comes.
The second officer, younger, flips open a folder.
Brown stains mark the corners. Rain or blood.
Doesn't matter.
"Three men found dead at the woods near the old time city . You were discovered nearby. Unconscious. Bleeding out."
"A firearm was recovered. Serial filed off. No fingerprints. No clear security footage. No witnesses."
The first man crosses his arms.
His eyes scan Leif like a checklist.
"You're not under arrest."
"But your rights are active. Do you understand?"
Silence.
Leif finally opens his mouth.
Dry.
A rasp. Then a cough.
Then — laughter.
Ugly, cracked, wet with blood.
"Do I look like someone who gives a damn?" he whispers, voice like rusted metal.
The younger officer shifts. The older one frowns.
But before either can speak —
The door creaks.
Another figure enters.
Tall. Calm. Not a doctor. Not a cop.
Black coat. Black gloves. Eyes unreadable.
Boots make no sound against the tile.
Like death entering politely.
The officers stiffen. Step aside like dominoes.
No names are exchanged. No words.
Just a shift in gravity.
The man approaches the bed. Looks down at Leif.
"You don't look like a killer," he says.
His voice is smooth. Measured.
Like someone who's already seen how the next ten steps play out.
"You look like a kid who's been dragged through hell… and hasn't decided whether to come back."
Leif blinks. Doesn't answer.
But something tightens in his chest.
The man isn't trying to threaten him.
He's recognizing him.
"Rancor," the man muses. "That's a name that bites. Sounds like someone who doesn't forget."
He reaches into his coat.
Pulls out a card. Plain. White. Blank.
Places it gently on the steel tray beside the IV.
"We're not looking for soldiers," the man says.
"We're looking for survivors. People who've seen too much and still get out of bed."
"This work eats people. But you—"
He leans in. Just enough to make Leif feel like the world narrowed to two.
"—you already look half-devoured."
The man turns. Walks to the door.
Stops.
"Take the card, Rancor. Or don't. Up to you."
"But let's be honest… what else do you have to lose?"
Click.
He's gone.
The room feels heavier without him.
Leif stares at the card.
His fingers twitch.
No name. No title. No explanation.
Just a silent door out of something worse than hell.
Then —
A sound.
A hum.
Soft. Warped. Like a lullaby buried under static.
Her.
⸻
It started with smoke.
Leif was walking home from school. Hoodie zipped to his chin. Bag dragging from one shoulder.
Rain fell like a whisper—constant and gray.
The city felt like it had been crying for days.
He saw it first — a thread of smoke twisting in the middle of the street.
Then her.
A girl.
Barefoot. Drenched.
Holding a lighter to a wrinkled piece of paper.
The flame sputtered, clinging stubbornly to wet edges.
Ash curled between her fingers like something trying to escape.
Leif hesitated.
"Yo… you good?"
She didn't move.
"You're standing in traffic," he said, stepping off the curb. "You wanna die or something?"
"So hit me," she murmured.
The rain seemed to get quieter.
Then she turned.
Face pale. Eyes dark and rimmed in charcoal smudges.
No fear. No sadness. Just stillness.
"I was kidding," she added flatly. "Mostly."
He stared.
"Are you scared of fire?" she asked.
"No."
"You hesitated."
"I was just surprised someone's out here burning memories."
"Is that what you think they are?" she asked, letting the paper disintegrate in her hand.
He watched ash scatter.
"What's your name?" she asked.
"Leif."
She tilted her head. "Like… leaf?"
"With an 'i'."
"So you fall easy," she said.
He didn't know how to answer that.
"I'm Yin," she said. "Like… the dark half of something."
She stood there in silence for a moment longer, then glanced at him like she could see through his shirt, through his skin, through the whole damn life he'd lived up to now.
"You always burn stuff in the rain?" he asked.
"Only when I want something gone so bad, I'll even fight water to do it."
"Did it work?"
She shrugged. "Depends if forgetting counts as winning."
She looked at him again. Longer this time.
"You looked like you were about to fall," she said.
"I thought maybe I'd catch you."
"You're the one in the road."
"Some people fall even when they're standing still."
She turned away then. Just like that.
Smoke trailed behind her like breath.
Then—
He saw them.
The men.
Three shadows trailing behind her.
The warehouse killers.
Their eyes hidden behind black hoods.
Guns raised. Silent. Waiting.
"Yin—" he choked.
He bolted forward, ready to shove her out of the way.
But she was already in front of him.
Her palm pressed to his chest.
Cold. Familiar. Real.
"Don't look at them," she whispered.
"Look at me."
And he did.
The world behind her shattered.
The killers vanished.
Only her remained.
"This is where you belong," she said softly.
"Not in that world. Not with their lies. With me."
His heart stuttered.
Everything felt upside down.
She leaned in, her breath cool against his cheek.
"You think your mother would even recognize you now?"
He froze.
Then — she hummed.
That same lullaby.
His mother's.
But wrong. Slower. Tainted.
He reached for her, fingers outstretched—
And the sky collapsed.
Rain reversed.
The air buckled.
The clouds descended like hands, reaching.
Judgment.
She didn't flinch. Just smiled.
"You already chose, Leif."
⸻
Back in the hospital.
Leif gasped awake.
His chest burned. His fingers clenched the sheet.
The card was still there. White. Blank.
Waiting.
The hum of machines. The beep of life. The whisper of something darker.
His hand trembled.
His breath caught.
Outside, the rain got louder.
He picked up the card.