The base reeked of blood—
and something else Sylryk couldn't quite name.
What used to be full of people was now nothing but dust and silence.
Doors stood open on either side. Papers, drinks and weapons lay scattered in the center. Wood ripped free. Long scratches marred the walls—marks that didn't look like the work of human hands.
Something had torn it all apart.
Only two people remained.
Crrr… —the door creaked when Sylryk pushed it.
Kero was slumped against the wall, breathing hard.
His shirt clung to him, soaked in blood. His fingers fumbled for his gun.
"We have to get out," Kero said, voice broken.
"Let's go," Sylryk replied, flat.
There was no calm. Only observation, movement, protection.
The main room was a wreck.
In the shadows, something that didn't breathe like a man moved slowly.
Cornered, Kero tried to stand and aim again. His hand shook; the sight wouldn't stay steady.
A short, precise movement.
The thing passed through him.
Kero fell to his side with a dull thud.
Blood poured out and stained his clothes in seconds. His fingers reached for the gun again but failed to close around it. He lay still beside Sylryk.
Sylryk sank to his knees. He leaned over Kero and pressed trembling fingers to his neck, searching for a pulse that wasn't there.
The world blurred: edges softened, ceiling lights smeared into stains. He felt his vision slip. He tried to hold the image—but couldn't.
His attention returned to the blood, the cold wetness on his palm. The taste in his mouth was bitter. He rested his forehead against Kero's shoulder and whispered the name, barely audible.
"Kero. Don't go."
No answer.
The figure walked toward them without hurry, its footsteps dry on the cracked floor. It spoke quietly, the kind of voice that lists observations. Sylryk caught every syllable through the fog in his head, in that stretch of time where everything happens and then fades.
"You took the wrong path," the intruder said, cutting through the darkness. "You're not bound to that. Decide."
Sylryk turned his head. He saw the thing halfway across the room; the intruder planted himself before him and looked. There was no surprise in that look—only measured interest. Sylryk returned the stare with restrained cold. No pleading. No panic. Just a hard, steady gaze.
A thought formed inside his head as if someone had whispered it straight into his ear:
I'll kill you. I don't know when—but I will.
A dry promise that warmed his blood for a moment. There was no time to react.
The intruder smiled, like someone drawing the curtain on an experiment.
"I know you're skilled; I hope I'm not mistaken," he murmured. "I'll give you a second chance."
His words sounded like a verdict.
Sylryk tried to move, to reach for Kero's hand, but his body failed him. He fell forward; his forehead hit dirt and dust.
The last clear things he remembered were the cold weight of his friend next to his face and the repetition of a single word that lodged like a thorn:
Decide.
Everything went black.
He woke up on his back in a side room. A lamp's light struck his face. He was in a bed, stone walls around him, the door half open. The gun was gone; in its place a ragged robe hung on a hook. When he pushed himself up, memory came in fragments: the table, the shape, the fall. Kero was barely a beat.
Every attempt to set the scene right stabbed a dull ache into the back of his neck.
He opened the door. Outside came shouting, wheels, voices. The market throbbed with life. Among the noise rose a different sound—whispers and low complaints. The clamor stirred a mix of guilt and curiosity in him he couldn't explain.
At the central table an old man waited with a spoon in his hand. His eyes were hard—the eyes of someone who had seen too much.
"They left you here," the old man said bluntly. "You came in half-dead. Can you stand?"
Sylryk searched for words; his memory tangled. He nodded slowly.
The man set the spoon down and stepped closer, sizing him up.
"Must be confusing, and I'm not answering your questions," he continued. "You're one of the arrived. They come in droves and bring trouble. Sometimes they're useful. Sometimes they're just trash. Nobody expects miracles. Eat. Then go out and learn how not to die."
Sylryk tried to pull at the thread of memory. Only one syllable came loose, like an echo.
"Kero…" he said, weak.
The old man didn't feign surprise.
"I won't give you comfort," he said. "Knowing where you came from doesn't help now. Finish that soup so you can get out there and start looking for answers."
He added before dipping the spoon again:
"One piece of advice: avoid comfortable places. Comfort becomes a trap. Don't trust anything that feels too orderly."
Sylryk swallowed the soup without appetite. Every attempt to recover memory shot pain up his neck. Fragments arrived in bursts: the shot, the hand reaching, the voice that spoke. Loose words stuck to his thoughts:
…you're not bound to that…
…decide.
"Why did they bring me here?" he asked at last, voice raw.
The old man shrugged.
"Sometimes someone falls and someone else picks them up. Sometimes you're useful. Sometimes you're not. Learn to walk. Then ask questions."
Sylryk rose. The door to the street was open and light hit his face. He was blinded for a second. When his vision cleared he noticed something: his body looked younger than it felt.
He searched for a reflection. No mirror. A bent metal panel from a stall would do. He dragged it closer and looked.
The face that stared back was young and sharp. High cheekbones. Dark, tired eyes, but no wrinkles. Young hands. A chest still firm beneath the robe. He looked like someone who hadn't yet lived all the stories his mind remembered.
He looked himself over and the question slipped out before he thought it.
"Who am I?"
Echoes returned, altered. The pain in his neck flared. When he tried to hold Kero's image, it dissolved. The shards of his past slipped through his fingers. He tried to name them and failed. His memory sealed itself small and cold.
"I don't understand," he said, voice breaking. "I can't remember."
It wasn't the fear of injury—it was the fear of the void. If he lost that, what was left?
Sylryk pressed his forehead to the cold metal. The word stabbed him. He stepped back, tightened the robe with uncertain hands, and walked away.
The crowd swallowed him. Behind, the noise went on. Ahead, in his head, memory drew in: images closing like books. Threads snapping.
He tried to hold on to Kero's name…and couldn't.
The crowd engulfed him, between rusted stalls and hard stares.