Phillip's first step into the city nearly made him forget how to breathe.
The sky was a cage of steel and light.
Towering skyscrapers pierced the clouds, their glass surfaces reflecting holographic advertisements that drifted lazily through the air like artificial spirits. Trains screamed along elevated rails. Flying drones buzzed between buildings, scanning faces, mana signatures, intent.
This wasn't fantasy.
This was a nightmare dressed as progress.
Phillip stood at the edge of the medical platform, a thin blanket draped over his shoulders, Aria beside him. The hospital behind them rose like a fortress—white, cold, owned by Black Vein Corporation.
"So," Phillip muttered, eyes darting everywhere. "This is the city."
Aria glanced at him. "You sound surprised."
"I've… never seen it from this angle," he said carefully.
That wasn't a lie.
In his novel, descriptions of the city were always distant, poetic, abstract. Words on a page. Neon veins. Concrete lungs.
But standing here?
He could feel it.
The city pressed down on him, heavy and suffocating, like it was aware of his presence—and didn't approve.
They boarded a transport tram. The doors slid shut with a hiss, sealing them inside with a dozen other passengers. Workers. Soldiers. Corporate agents with glowing insignias etched into their coats.
Phillip noticed how no one spoke.
Everyone stared forward.
Waiting.
"Rule number one," Aria said quietly as the tram lifted off. "Don't stare too long at the advertisements."
Phillip blinked. "Why?"
"They stare back."
Right on cue, one of the floating holograms shifted—its smiling model's eyes flicking toward him for just a fraction of a second.
Phillip looked away.
Yep. Definitely wrote this world while sleep-deprived.
The tram sped through the city, descending toward the lower districts. The higher levels were pristine—polished buildings, glowing walkways, security everywhere.
Then they crossed the invisible line.
The light dimmed.
Buildings grew closer together. Neon signs flickered erratically. Streets twisted unnaturally, bending at angles that shouldn't exist.
Mana pollution.
The Slums.
Phillip's chest tightened.
"This is where the miner lived," he said before he could stop himself.
Aria's head snapped toward him.
"You remember that?"
He cursed internally.
"Bits and pieces," he corrected quickly. "Hard to forget where you almost die."
Aria studied him again, that same sharp gaze.
"You're full of contradictions, Phillip."
The tram slowed.
"Welcome to Sector Nine."
The moment Phillip stepped onto the street, noise swallowed him.
Shouting. Music. Laughter. Screams. Engines. Magic detonating somewhere far away.
Life, raw and ugly.
The air smelled like oil, smoke, and cheap street food.
Phillip's feet carried him forward without thinking.
He knew this place.
Too well.
"You okay?" Aria asked.
Phillip nodded, though his throat felt tight.
"In my story," he said softly, "this district burns down in Arc Two."
Aria stopped walking.
"What did you say?"
Phillip froze.
Idiot.
He forced a laugh. "Dark humor. Coping mechanism."
Aria didn't laugh.
"Be careful with jokes like that," she said. "The city listens."
Phillip believed her.
They walked until they reached a narrow building squeezed between two leaning towers. Paint peeled from the walls. A flickering rune glowed weakly above the entrance.
Home.
The miner's home.
Phillip's legs felt heavy as they climbed the stairs. Each step echoed memories that weren't his—arguments, exhaustion, hope that never paid off.
Aria stopped at the door.
"You sure you're ready?"
Phillip swallowed.
"No."
He opened it anyway.
The room was small.
One bed. One table. One broken window patched with plastic.
And a girl sitting on the edge of the mattress.
She looked up.
"Brother?"
Her voice was fragile.
Phillip's heart shattered.
She was younger than he imagined. Thin. Too thin. Dark circles under her eyes, mana sickness faintly glowing along her veins like blue cracks.
The miner's sister.
Mira.
She stared at him, eyes widening.
"You're alive."
Phillip didn't trust his voice.
He nodded.
Mira rushed forward and hugged him tightly.
"You were supposed to—" She choked on the words. "They said—"
Phillip wrapped his arms around her, hands shaking.
I wrote you sick. I wrote you waiting. I wrote you grieving.
"I'm here," he whispered. "I'm not going anywhere."
Ink burned faintly under his skin.
That night, Phillip couldn't sleep.
Mira slept fitfully on the bed. Aria stood guard by the window, watching the city like it might attack at any moment.
Phillip stared at the ceiling.
This is the cost.
Saving himself meant rewriting everything connected to him.
And the story wouldn't forgive that easily.
A soft knock echoed from the wall.
Not the door.
The wall.
Phillip sat up slowly.
The shadows near the corner twisted.
Lilith stepped out of them like a dream slipping into reality.
Aria moved instantly—blade half-drawn before Lilith raised a finger.
"Ah-ah," Lilith said pleasantly. "If you attack, the girl dies."
Aria froze.
Phillip's blood turned cold.
Lilith glanced at the sleeping Mira.
"How touching," she said. "You gained an anchor."
She turned to Phillip, eyes glowing faintly.
"Every story needs leverage."
Phillip clenched his fists.
"What do you want?"
Lilith smiled.
"To see which woman you'll choose."
Aria stiffened.
Lilith leaned close to Phillip's ear.
"The one who saves the world," she whispered, "or the one who burns it for you."
Then she vanished.
The shadows settled.
Silence returned.
Phillip exhaled shakily.
Arc One had only just begun.
And the city was already choosing sides.