flash
The wind howled like a dying god over the skeletal remains of District 4. Ten days had passed since the night the sky broke open, yet the air still tasted of sulfur and wet ash. Leo sat huddled beneath the shattered concrete awning of what used to be a bustling corner bakery, his bare feet pulled tight against his chest. His clothes were stiff with dried mud and someone else's blood—or perhaps his own; he couldn't remember anymore. / Chapter 1 / 8

Chapter 1 - THE ASHES OF TOMORROW

The wind howled like a dying god over the skeletal remains of District 4. Ten days had passed since the night the sky broke open, yet the air still tasted of sulfur and wet ash. Leo sat huddled beneath the shattered concrete awning of what used to be a bustling corner bakery, his bare feet pulled tight against his chest. His clothes were stiff with dried mud and someone else's blood—or perhaps his own; he couldn't remember anymore.

Around him, the city was a graveyard of twisted rebar and drowned dreams. Emergency sirens had stopped wailing days ago, replaced by a heavier, more sinister silence.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

The sound of heavy boots cut through the howling wind. Leo froze, his breath catching in his throat. He pulled the torn grey tarp tighter around his shoulders, trying to blend into the concrete shadow. In the post-storm ruins, survivors weren't always people you wanted to meet. The government relief drops hadn't reached this side of the river, leaving the streets to scavengers, gangs, and men in unmarked tactical gear who asked no questions and left no bodies.

A beam of a high-intensity flashlight sliced through the gloom, sweeping blindingly close to Leo’s hiding spot.

"Check the perimeter," a harsh, mechanical voice rasped through a respirator mask. "Command wants all unregistered minors cleared from the industrial sector before nightfall. No exceptions."

Leo’s heart slammed against his ribs like a trapped bird. Unregistered minors. He knew what that meant. The rumor mills in the underground shelters whispered about the "Reclamation Directorate"—a shadowy corporate entity sweeping through the ruins to harvest healthy young bodies for undisclosed labor camps.

Suddenly, a heavy hand grabbed the edge of his tarp and ripped it away.

"Well, look what the storm washed up," a sneering voice grunted.

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Before Leo could scream, a heavy boot kicked him squarely in the ribs, sending a shockwave of agony through his small frame. As darkness danced at the edges of his vision, a sharp, metallic object fell from his pocket—a small, peculiar silver pendant his father had pressed into his hand just before the fire consumed their home. It wasn't just jewelry. It bore a strange, glowing circuit-like engraving that hummed faintly against the cold concrete.

The scavenger gasped, his eyes widening in sudden, greedy shock as he reached for it. "What the hell is this...?"

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