The soft ping of his Cellik broke through the scribbling of pen against paper.
Seyfe glanced at the screen—JANNET DWIGHT: "Report to the field. Now. Same location as the squadron drills."
No explanation. No preamble. Just cold instruction.
He stared at the message for a moment, hand frozen over the scattered sheets of half-finished reports. The ink was still wet. His thoughts were still a mess. But whatever this was—it wasn't something he could ignore.
"She really likes these dramatic calls, huh..." he muttered, grabbing his gear.
As he stepped out into the cool night air, Seyfe couldn't help but feel the edge of something building—like a calm before a storm. The drill grounds ahead of him were shrouded in silence, the moonlight tracing the faded scuffs and cracks from endless battles past.
Seyfe's boots crunched lightly against the gravel as he approached. The five Veilers beside Jannet stood motionless—stoic, armed, unreadable. Their presence was imposing, not just because of their size or weaponry, but because of the air around them—like they had already seen too much, done too much.
Jannet didn't waste time once he arrived.
"Now that you're here," she began, her tone crisp and clipped, "we'll brief you on the patrol details."
She stepped forward, hands behind her back, voice projecting clear and firm into the dim open space of the field.
"As you know, outside the city gates lie what's left of the dead cities—decayed remnants of civilization before the shattering. We're venturing into the eastern side tonight. Your role, Seyfe, is to observe and record everything, including our interactions, engagements, and any anomalies."
One of the Veilers, a man with a heavy rifle slung lazily across his back, nodded slightly, but said nothing.
"We're looking for any sign of life that can be retrieved—survivors, refugees, or even potential threats. If it can speak, move, or scream for help, we want to know about it," Jannet continued. "However, if it's hostile—" she paused, letting the weight of her words settle— "we neutralize."
The silence that followed was sharp. The wind brushed gently across the field, but it did nothing to ease the tightening knot forming in Seyfe's gut.
"This is not a drill," she added, eyes flicking to Seyfe. "Out there, there's no reset button."
Seyfe gave a curt nod, adjusting his earpiece and glancing toward the armored truck behind them, likely their transport. His fingers instinctively twitching behind the single black glove in his hand where half of his fingers are exposed in response to the words Jannet said.
"Understood," he replied, voice steady despite the cold that was starting to crawl down his spine.
Dead cities, possible threats, and Veilers prepared to kill. This was his first real step into the world they all kept warning him about.
And he wasn't sure if he was ready.
The ride was quiet, save for the steady hum of the armored vehicle and the occasional clatter of gear shifting in the back. Seyfe sat near the rear hatch, eyes fixed on the fading skyline through the reinforced window. The city lights grew sparser, replaced by the creeping decay of the border zone.
It wasn't just the change in scenery that sank heavy in his chest—it was the familiarity. These roads, these broken signs, the husks of old buildings swallowed by vines and silence... he knew them. Too well.
Every turn brought him closer to the ruins he used to call home.
The Veilers sat in silence, their expressions unreadable, masks of professionalism. But Seyfe? He couldn't help the knot twisting in his gut. Memories clawed at the back of his mind—flickers of his younger self darting between buildings, hiding, surviving.
He rested his head back against the cold metal interior and let out a long breath.
"Of all the places," he muttered under his breath, "you had to bring me back here..."
Maybe Jannet knew. Maybe that's why she requested him. Or maybe it was just a cruel twist of fate. Either way, the past was waiting for him just past the city borders—and this time, he couldn't ignore it.
The glove fit snugly around his hand, cool to the touch and humming faintly with a barely noticeable current. The silver lines running along each finger gave off a soft, pulsing glow with every twitch of his hand, syncing to his pulse. The circle insignia on the back radiated faint light, while the square in the palm remained dormant, almost as if waiting to be awakened.
It didn't look like much—not at first glance—but Seyfe knew better. This was no ordinary cadet issue. This was tailor-made, a prototype of sorts, probably stashed away in one of Aki's sealed vaults.
He remembered the conversation clearly from the night before.
"You could've just picked something from the racks," Aki had said, her tone flat, unimpressed. She didn't even look up from her desk as he made his pitch.
Seyfe had shifted uncomfortably under her stare. "I've tried. But I don't know what suits me. I need something that adapts—not something I have to adapt to."
Aki had clicked her tongue, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. "You're really racking up that debt, you know."
"Yeah. I know," he'd said, half-smiling. "Add it to the pile."
In truth, Seyfe didn't care anymore. If he was going to keep being thrown into danger, especially alone, he wanted to at least feel like he had some control over how he fought back. The glove—modular, reactive, and versatile—was the closest thing he'd get to that.
Now, as he flexed his hand in the patrol truck, watching the faint glimmers dance across his knuckles, he couldn't help but feel a flicker of assurance.
Debt or not, it felt right.
He muttered under his breath, "Let's hope you're worth the price tag."
The moment the armored vehicle crossed the border checkpoint, the shift in atmosphere was immediate. The air grew heavier—not just in the literal sense, with dust and lingering rot hanging in it—but in the emotional weight it carried. The broken skyline of the dead cities loomed ahead like jagged teeth, half-swallowed by time, ash, and silence.
The streets beyond the walls were cracked and lifeless, with buildings crumbling into themselves like forgotten memories. Vines had crept through windows and concrete, but even they looked dry and brittle, as though they'd given up growing. Burnt signs, tattered flags, and hollow vehicles stood as relics of lives abandoned.
Seyfe sat still, absorbing the view, his breath shallow as old echoes stirred in his chest. It was a city he had known—a world that used to be his. There was a familiarity in the decay that was almost more painful than the unknown.
He wasn't told which specific quadrant he would be scouting within the ruins, but as the Spearhead unit dismounted, it became clear that this wasn't a slow patrol. The team dispersed into strategic sweeps—two-man cells branching out into alleyways, ruined buildings, and broken streets, scanning with precision.
Jannet stood ahead, issuing final orders with swift gestures before turning to Seyfe.
"Don't just follow," she said, her tone sharp but not unkind. "Observe everything. Movement patterns, communication styles, engagement protocols. You're not here just to watch—we're teaching you how to survive."
Seyfe nodded, then adjusted the glove on his hand, the silver etchings glowing faintly. He stepped into the open ruins behind the lead team, the city welcoming him back with the hollow silence only the dead could offer.
The cadet suit clung to Seyfe's frame like a second skin, its matte grey surface almost shimmering under the muted light that filtered through the decaying sky. The fabric was smooth yet reinforced, built not only to provide agility but also to absorb kinetic impacts—a silent guardian stitched into each layer. It didn't carry the same ominous weight as a full black Veiler suit, but it was unmistakably cut from the same cloth: functionality first, survival close behind.
He reached up to the small, barely noticeable button tucked under his left ear and gave it a quick press. A quiet hiss followed as a sleek mask unfurled and locked over the lower half of his face, filtering the air and dampening his breathing sounds. It didn't just help with concealment—it helped keep out the toxicity that sometimes clung to the ruins like a second atmosphere.
Scaling the side of a broken building, he found his perch: a jagged rooftop of what used to be a tenement block, collapsed in the middle but still offering a decent view of the streets below. From there, Seyfe observed the movements of the Veilers, watching how they communicated with swift hand signals, how they spread out with intention but always maintained overlapping fields of awareness.
Each one moved with the confidence of experience. Seyfe, though separate, matched their rhythm. Every time they advanced, he adjusted. Every time they regrouped, he shifted. His eyes flicked from one Veiler to the next, mentally mapping out patrol patterns, distances between formations, fallback maneuvers, and blind spots.
Despite not being a part of the formation, he was with them—tracking like a shadow given shape. His glove hummed faintly with power, ready in case trouble stirred, but for now, the only sounds were the creaks of buildings, the wind through hollow windows, and the occasional static from the comms.
In that high vantage point, watching his assigned squad, Seyfe wasn't just observing anymore.