The alarm screamed like it had something personal against her.
Nyra groaned—half-asleep, half-annoyed—and fumbled blindly across the bedside table. Her fingers knocked over a book, brushed against cold glass, and finally slapped the alarm into silence. The room fell quiet again.
Too quiet.
She turned her face into the pillow, hair spilling across the sheets, and exhaled slowly. Just five more minutes. Five minutes couldn't ruin anything.
Sleep pulled her back under like a tide.
"NYRA!"
The shout sliced through her dreams.
"NYRA, WAKE UP!"
Her eyes snapped open. She rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling, heart pounding. The second shout came with the sound of hurried footsteps.
"You're going to be late! Do you hear me? The interview is today!"
Nyra groaned and dragged herself upright. Sunlight crept through the thin curtains, cutting the room into pale strips. She rubbed her face with both hands and swung her legs over the side of the bed.
"I'm up," she muttered. "I'm awake."
Her mother's voice came from outside the door, sharp with worry. "You said that yesterday too."
Nyra didn't reply. She stood, stretched her stiff shoulders, and crossed the room. A cracked mirror hung beside the cupboard, its edges taped from a fall years ago. She didn't look into it yet.
First things first.
The bathroom was small and cold. She splashed water onto her face, letting the shock wake her fully. Dark circles clung stubbornly beneath her eyes—evidence of another restless night. She tied her hair into a low ponytail. Neat and practical. The way she liked it.
No distractions.
She changed quickly—simple trousers, a plain shirt. Nothing that stood out. The kind of outfit that blended into crowds. The kind her mother approved of.
When she finally faced the mirror, she paused.
Nyra stared at her reflection, chest rising and falling slowly. For a moment, she imagined someone else staring back—someone sharper, stronger. Someone forged for something more than interviews and rejection letters.
She inhaled. Held it. Exhaled.
Then she turned away.
The smell of toasted bread drifted from the kitchen. Her mother stood by the table, placing a plate down carefully—like this morning mattered more than others.
"Sit and eat," her mother said without turning around. "You can't think on an empty stomach."
Nyra crossed the room, grabbed a slice of bread, slathered it with peanut butter in one quick motion, and kissed her mother's cheek.
"I'll eat on the way."
Her mother sighed. "Nyra—"
"I'll be fine." Nyra cut in gently, already reaching for the door. "I promise."
She was out before her mother could say anything else.
The streets were alive with movement. People flowed in every direction, all chasing their own deadlines. Nyra walked fast, weaving through them, eyes always forward.
The metro entrance loomed ahead.
Too late.
She broke into a run anyway, heart racing as she descended the steps two at a time. The train doors slid shut just as she reached the platform.
She stopped short, breath burning her lungs.
Missed it.
She stood there for a second, fists clenched, watching the train vanish into darkness. Then she spun around and made her way back to the street.
A taxi screeched to a halt when she raised her hand.
"Office district," she said, sliding into the back seat.
The city blurred past the window. Glass towers. Concrete. Screens flashing advertisements promising better lives. Nyra watched her reflection ripple across the glass.
This was not the life she had imagined.
The building was already crowded when she arrived. People stood in clusters, murmuring nervously, folders clutched tight. Nyra scanned the room quickly—exits, corners, patterns—before catching herself.
Old habits.
She took a seat beside a woman who looked effortlessly composed. Perfect posture. Crisp clothes. Calm eyes.
"Hello," Nyra said quietly.
The woman smiled. "Hello."
They waited.
Nyra's name echoed through the hall sooner than she expected.
She stood, smoothed her clothes, and followed the assistant down a narrow corridor. The interview room was bright, sterile, intimidating. Three people sat across the table.
They asked questions.
Why this role?
What are your strengths?
Where do you see yourself in five years?
Nyra answered honestly—but carefully. She spoke of discipline, of adaptability, of wanting stability. She did not speak of night training sessions in abandoned fields. Of running until her lungs burned. Of memorizing tactics she wasn't supposed to know.
Some truths stayed buried.
The smiles across the table never reached their eyes.
When it was over, they thanked her politely.
She knew.
The rejection email arrived before she even reached the street.
Nyra stopped walking. The noise of the city pressed in around her, but she barely heard it.
"I'm sorry," she whispered to no one.
She thought of her mother's face. Of the breakfast left untouched. Of the sacrifices that had led to this moment.
And she had failed.
She took the long way home.
By the time she reached her building, the sky had darkened. The corridor lights flickered faintly as she climbed the stairs. She unlocked the door and stepped inside.
The apartment was silent.
Her mother wasn't home yet.
Nyra dropped her bag and leaned against the door, sliding down until she was sitting on the floor. Her chest tightened.
All her life, she had been preparing for something else. Something unnamed but certain. A calling she could feel in her bones.
And now?
She pushed herself up and walked into the living room.
That was when she saw it.
The window was open.
She was sure she had closed it that morning.
A strange stillness filled the room—heavy and charged, like the air before a storm. The curtains fluttered even though there was no wind.
On the table lay something that hadn't been there before.
A symbol.
Carved into wood. Ancient. Familiar in a way that made her heart pound.
Nyra stepped closer, every instinct screaming alert.
The room felt like it was watching her.
And somewhere deep within her, something long dormant stirred.
She stood over the table, her heart hammering against her ribs.
The surface was bare.
Just worn wood and a faint ring from a forgotten coffee cup.
Nothing. No carved symbol. No ancient mark. No proof.
The heavy stillness of the room seemed to mock her. The open window? She must have forgotten to close it this morning. The charged, watchful feeling? Just the exhaustion of a failed day playing tricks on her mind.
You're imagining things. The thought was cold and deflating. You're so desperate for a sign—for meaning—that you're conjuring ghosts from dust motes and shadows.
She let out a shaky breath, pressing her palms flat against the empty table. The day's humiliation crashed back over her—the missed train, the sterile interview room, the instant rejection. This was reality. This empty table. This quiet, hopeless room.
The front door creaked open.
Nyra flinched, snapping upright. Her mother stood in the doorway, grocery bags hanging from both hands.
"Nyra? How did it go?" Her mother's voice was tight with hope.
"I... I didn't get it."
The silence that followed was heavier than any sigh.
"Oh, honey."
"I'm sorry. After all the... everything."
"Don't be sorry." Her mother set down the bags and crossed the room, pulling Nyra into a warm, familiar embrace. But the disappointment was a living thing between them, unspoken but undeniable.
The door opened again, and Kieran shuffled in, headphones around his neck. He took in the scene—Nyra's defeated stance, their mother's comforting hand—and his easygoing expression sobered.
He dropped his bag and slung an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into a side hug. "Forget them. Seriously. You're like... a secret weapon. They probably took one look and got scared you'd figure out their whole operation was pointless and reorganize it in a week. They weren't ready for you."
Despite herself, a faint smile touched Nyra's lips. "Their loss, right?"
"Obviously." Kieran grinned. "Their monumental, life-altering loss. You'll find something that actually deserves you."
Their mother made tea, and for a little while, the apartment was warm with shared, unspoken solidarity. But as Nyra sipped her tea, the feeling of being caged returned, stronger than ever. Their kindness was a blanket, smothering the restless fire inside her.
Later, when the apartment was dark and still—the rhythmic sound of Kieran's snoring drifting from his room—Nyra moved.
She dressed in dark, practical clothes. The fabric soft and silent. She filled her backpack with the few things that felt truly hers: a multi-tool, a water bottle, a notebook of strange sketches and patterns she'd always felt compelled to draw, some protein bars, and all the cash she had.
She paused by her mother's door, listening to her steady breathing.
I have to go, she thought, the decision crystallizing in the dark. Or I'll vanish right here in this room.
She slipped out the front door like a shadow, pulling a dark hood over her head.
The night streets were different—emptier, sharper. The air tasting of concrete and distant rain. She walked without a clear destination. Just away.
After several blocks, on a deserted bench by a shuttered newsstand, she saw it.
A single bouquet of lilies. Stark white against the gray wood. They were fresh, dew clinging to the petals. There was no card, no explanation. Just beauty placed in the void.
It felt like a signpost.
An address surfaced in her mind then—clear and sudden: 17 Morlan Lane. It was in the old district, a place of decayed warehouses and forgotten streets. She didn't question how she knew it. She just turned her feet in that direction.
The building at 17 Morlan Lane was a shell. A three-story townhouse with a sagging roof and boarded-up windows. The front door hung open on one broken hinge.
Nyra stepped inside, her boots crunching on plaster and glass. Moonlight streamed through holes in the ceiling, painting the ruin in shades of silver and black.
This was it. The location from the strange, instinctive pull.
But it was just a dead, empty place.
Then she saw it.
On the far wall of the ground-floor room, where the wallpaper had peeled away in a long strip, a symbol was etched into the exposed plaster. It was the same one from her notebook. The same one that had haunted the edges of her dreams.
A circle, bisected by a wavy line, with three dots beneath it.
As she stared, a figure detached itself from the deeper shadows in the corner.
He was tall, dressed in a long, dark coat, his face obscured by a hood. He didn't startle her; his presence felt like an expected part of the room's new geography.
"You found the marker," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Good. Follow me."
He led her through a crumbling archway into what might have been a parlor. In the center of the room stood a statue—a stone figure of an owl, its features worn smooth by time and neglect.
The man walked to it, placed his hands on its head, and turned it clockwise. Stone grated against stone.
A section of the floor—perfectly disguised as part of the old, wide-plank wood—slid soundlessly aside, revealing a steep staircase lit by a cool, blue-white light from below.
The man gestured downward. "After you."
Nyra descended, the air growing cleaner, cooler with each step. The tunnel opened into a finished, modern corridor with smooth walls and recessed lighting. At the end was a door of brushed steel. It hissed open as they approached.
The room beyond was a revelation.
A circular chamber, walls lined with digital screens displaying maps, data streams, and what looked like real-time surveillance feeds from across the city. A central console hummed with quiet power. It was a command center, hidden beneath the city's decay.
The man from the warehouse finally pushed back his hood. He was older, with sharp, intelligent eyes and a face that looked like it had weathered many storms. He looked at her not with surprise, but with recognition.
"Welcome, Nyra." A faint, solemn smile touched his lips. He spread his hands slightly, indicating the incredible room around them. "Welcome to the world you've been waiting for."