The sky above Neogate was not moving.
It was a vast, oppressive canvas of bruised violets and stagnant greys, but it lacked the grace of a painting. It wasn't calm, for calmness implied a choice to be still. It wasn't frozen in time, for time suggests a flow that has been paused. It simply… failed to move.
High above, the clouds hung in place like unfinished brushstrokes abandoned by a frustrated god. The light did not shift across the jagged horizon; the sun if there even was one behind that shroud seemed to have forgotten its duty to set. Even the wind, which usually carried the salt and iron of the Outer Districts, did not breathe. It was as if reality itself had encountered a fatal error mid-process and lacked the instructions to resume.
Fitran opened his eyes, and the world screamed.
The moment his eyelids parted, the silence was incinerated. Everything rushed in at once—a brutal, sensory assault that felt less like awakening and more like being struck by a high-speed projectile. Light stabbed into his retinas with the intensity of a dying star. Sound followed like a delayed, distorted echo, the rhythmic thud of distant boots, the metallic clatter of something heavy being dragged across cobblestones, and a high-pitched whine that vibrated in his very teeth.
Colors flooded in next, sharp and garish, saturating his vision until his surroundings looked like a hyper-realistic projection forced into a mind that wasn't ready to host it.
"...ugh…"
The sound escaped his throat, a ragged, pathetic thing. He didn't recognize the voice.
He pushed himself up slowly, his muscles screaming with a stiffness that felt wrong. It wasn't the ache of a long sleep; it was a profound, systemic unfamiliarity, as if his consciousness had just been poured into a suit that didn't quite fit. His palms pressed against the ground, finding only the bite of cold, dry stone. Dust, fine as powdered bone, clung to his skin.
He looked down at his hands. They were pale, trembling, and utterly devoid of history. No scars from childhood accidents, no callouses from honest work. Just… blank.
He was surrounded by ruins. The architecture of Neogate's edge was a graveyard of ambition. Wall fragments reached for the static sky like broken fingers. Weathered stone mingled with twisted, glowing copper wires that hummed with a sick, blue light. This place had been abandoned for a century, or perhaps it had been torn apart ten seconds ago. In this world, the difference felt negligible.
He frowned, his throat parched. "…Where…?"
The question dissolved into the dry air. He blinked once. Then twice.
And then, reality snapped.
With a sound like a physical inhalation, the sky shifted. The clouds lurched forward, drifting once more in a parody of natural movement. The wind returned with a sudden, violent gust, carrying the heavy scent of ozone and scorched metal. The cacophony of the city stabilized. The distant chatter of a market, the rhythmic tolling of a bell, the pulse of a living, breathing machine.
Fitran froze, his heart hammering against his ribs. "A moment ago… it was all…"
He looked back up, searching for the stillness, but the sky was busy pretending nothing had happened. He raised his hand, watching the way the dim light hit his knuckles.
"No wounds," he whispered, his voice sounding like dry parchment. "No blood. No scars. Who am I?"
The question felt detached. It was as if he were watching a character on a screen ask it, rather than feeling the existential terror himself. There was no memory to offer an answer. No mother's face, no childhood home, no secret shame. Just a vast, echoing void where a soul should be.
"Hey! You! Don't just sit there!"
The shout was sharp, cutting through his internal fog. Fitran turned his head with a mechanical stiffness.
A man was running toward him through the rubble. He wore the reinforced leather plates of a Neogate City Guard, the metal trimmings tarnished by the smog of the Lower Tiers. A short sword was secured at his hip, and his face was a map of exhaustion and professional concern.
"Are you hurt?" the guard asked, slowing to a halt a few paces away. He didn't reach for his weapon, but his hand hovered near the hilt a practiced habit. "You shouldn't be lying around here, civilian. This area's flagged for instability. It's not safe."
Fitran stared at him, mesmerized by the man's humanity. The guard was sweating. He was breathing heavily. His eyes were a dull, tired brown. He was real.
"You fell from somewhere?" the guard continued, glancing up at the fractured rafters of a nearby warehouse. "The Rift's been spitting out debris all morning. You're lucky you didn't end up as a smear on the pavement."
Fitran opened his mouth, but his mind was a desert. There was no data to retrieve, no story to tell.
"…I don't remember."
The words felt alien. As soon as they left his lips, the air seemed to thicken.
The guard stopped. His entire body went rigid, his hand freezing mid-gesture. It wasn't a pause for thought. It was a total cessation of animation. For a fraction of a second, the man's eyes turned into glassy marbles, reflecting the violet sky with terrifying emptiness.
Then, his jaw moved.
"…I don't remember," the guard repeated.
The voice was identical to Fitran's. The same hollow tone. The same terrifying lack of inflection. The same precise pause.
Fitran's breath hitched in his chest. A cold, oily dread slid down his spine. "What?"
The guard blinked once.
The moment vanished. The guard's face softened back into confusion, his brow furrowing as he rubbed the back of his neck. "Sorry," the man muttered, shaking his head. "What did I just say? My head's been ringing since the last pulse."
"You… you repeated me," Fitran said, his voice trembling. He scrambled backward, his boots kicking up clouds of grey ash.
Daren, the nameplate on his chest piece suddenly caught the light frowned deeply. "Repeated you? Kid, I just got here. I asked if you were hurt."
"No," Fitran insisted, his pulse racing. "I said I don't remember. Then you said it. Exactly like I did. You looked… you looked like you weren't there."
Daren crossed his arms, his expression hardening. "I asked if you were hurt. That's it. Look, head injuries can mess with your wiring. You're disoriented. The Nexus Engine's been throwing out Echoes all morning. You probably just heard your own voice bouncing off the Rift."
Fitran went silent. He watched Daren's chest rise and fall. He watched the way the man shifted his weight. It was perfect. It was a flawless imitation of life. But he couldn't forget that split second of hollow repetition. It was as if the world had run out of dialogue and had to borrow his.
"…Are you sure you're alright?" Daren asked, stepping closer. "You look like you've seen a Voidwyrm."
Fitran didn't answer. He couldn't. He was too busy watching the world. He looked past Daren toward the distant skyline of the Inner Circle, where the Great Spiral Tree supposedly reached toward the heavens.
Something flickered.
A spire in the distance, a massive obsidian needle, simply… shifted. It didn't crumble. It didn't move. It skipped. Like a frame of film caught in a projector, it disappeared for a millisecond and reappeared three inches to the left.
"…There," Fitran said, his finger pointing toward the impossible.
Daren turned, his hand finally gripping the hilt of his sword. "Where? What are you seeing?"
"That building. It jumped."
Daren squinted at the horizon. After a long moment, he let out a frustrated sigh. "Nothing moved, kid. It's the heat haze from the core. Or the amnesia. Take your pick."
"I know what I saw," Fitran whispered. He wasn't just confused anymore. The confusion was being replaced by a terrifying, sharp awareness.
The wind passed through the ruins again, but this time, Fitran listened to the subtext. There was a rhythm to the howling a looping, digital hum hidden beneath the sound of air. And beneath that a delay. The world was lagging behind itself, struggling to render the simple act of a breeze.
"…Something's wrong," Fitran said.
Daren didn't respond. He stood there, staring at the ruins, but his figure began to lose its edges. For a heartbeat, the guard's arm became translucent, revealing the cracked stone of the wall behind him. Then, he snapped back to solidity.
Fitran's eyes sharpened. It wasn't just the sky. It wasn't just his memory. The entire fabric of Neogate was fraying at the seams.
"What's this place?" Fitran asked, his voice gaining a sudden, desperate authority.