Ethan Vale was seventeen minutes late.
And late was a luxury he couldn't afford.
The morning sun had barely crept above the rusted rooftops of New Cordelia's industrial district, but the market streets were already alive — a cacophony of traders yelling prices, children chasing stray energy drones, and the ever‑present scent of iron and oil lingering in the hot, stale air. Here, life didn't wait on anyone, especially not on someone like Ethan.
At twenty‑eight years old, Ethan looked older than he actually was — more from exhaustion than age. His dark hair was unruly, always hinting that he'd fallen asleep mid‑thought rather than mid‑groom — which he had, many times. Sharp, intelligent eyes scanned the crowded street as he jogged, hands half in pockets, his battered messenger bag bouncing against his hip.
The bag itself was a testament to his life: torn seams patched awkwardly with threads of neon blue, wires poking out from unzipped sections, and a faded logo from a tech convention he'd attended once. If bags had emotions, this one would be embarrassed.
"Ethan! You late again, man!" called Jiro, a lanky youth with goggles jammed atop his head like a crown. Jiro was something of an apprentice — not by choice, but because fate had shoved him Ethan's way. He had a nervous energy that jittered like static, and today, like every other, he was fussing over a set of mechanical limbs that wouldn't stop twitching.
Ethan didn't bother hiding his embarrassment; he simply offered a weak smile.
"Morning, Jiro," he said, voice rough from lack of sleep. "Didn't expect to see you up this early. How long have you been fiddling with that thing?"
"Since before sunrise," Jiro replied without enthusiasm. "And it still thinks it's a chicken."
Ethan suppressed a laugh — although he appreciated the effort Jiro put in, the prototype definitely looked more like a poultry automaton than a working limb. A pathetic little thing, really, fidgeting every few seconds with an expression that looked suspiciously like confusion.
Ethan knelt beside it, eyes narrowing. "It needs balance recalibration and a new servo array. You've overloaded the torque — nothing else."
Jiro blinked at him, mouth open. "How did you—"
"Experience," Ethan said, gently lowering himself to rest on an upturned crate. The wooden surface was splintered; he winced as it grazed his pants. He didn't mind — he hadn't had a new pair in years, and the ones he wore had been handed down from someone who'd literally walked through flames. "Now fix it before someone steals it."
Jiro nodded, both terrified and thrilled — he admired Ethan, and anyone in the neighborhood did. Yet admiration didn't serve dinner or pay bills.
Across the street, a woman in a faded maroon dress was haggling with a fish vendor over glowing sea trout. Her small daughter tugged at the hem of her dress, eyes wide and curious as the boats on the canal behind them — canal water dark and reflective like shattered glass. The child's hair was tied into two tiny knots on either side of her head, bouncing as she scampered back and forth, entirely unbothered by the adult barter underway.
A little ways down, a scruffy boy — maybe ten, maybe eleven — was eyeing Ethan's bag with a hunger that had nothing to do with food. His eyes were sharp, unsettled, always calculating. What he lacked in years he made up for in wiles. Ethan noticed him, of course — he always noticed edges and corners of life the way most people missed them. Not with judgment, but with curiosity.
This city was a machine — parts rusted, oil‑streaked, mismatched — but every piece was a story.
Ethan stood and stretched, his back protesting lightly. He'd had only three hours of sleep. Not enough. Never enough. But he was awake. He was here. And he had plans — though no one else would know that by looking at him.
He crossed his arms, breathing in the mixed scents of grilled fish and iron. The city had a rhythm — a heartbeat — and even on its worst days, Ethan found a perverse comfort in it.
He glanced at his holoprojector — a sleek device emitting only a faint blue glow. Not strong enough to illuminate the cracked screen protector, but enough to feed his notifications.
Job Alerts: 0
Contract Offers: 0
Messages: 2
One message was from a recruiter he'd contacted years ago. Probably that automated "we don't have any openings" rejection message.
The other… was from his contact.
His heart skipped.
Ethan didn't skip often — he was too analytical for that. But right now, something in his blood fizzed with an excitement he hadn't felt in months.
He opened the message.
Secret Project Info – Classified:
"A government engineering initiative. Location redacted. Coordinates attached. This could change everything. — M."
That was it — short, cryptic, and far too valuable to ignore. The coordinates pointed to a hidden facility buried within New Cordelia's derelict industrial zone — a place rumored to be shuttered for decades. Rumors, gossip, street tales… and now something concrete.
Ethan's mind shifted into motion. Every engineer's nightmare and dream: a secret project. Something untouched. Something potentially revolutionary. And if he could mimic it — not just replicate it — but improve on it? It could launch him. Not just out of obscurity, but straight into financial stability, respect, maybe even discovery by major corporations.
But deep down, something held him back — a quiet voice in his head, full of cautious wisdom:
Be careful. This could be more than you think.
He ignored it.
Not because he was foolish — but because from where he stood, the risk was worth it.
He slung the bag over his shoulder, scanning the bustling market one last time. Jiro still fussed with the chicken‑limb contraption, the fish vendor grinned because he'd won his dispute, the little girl chased after a floating balloon someone had lost.
Life. Ordinary. Beautiful. Messy.
Ethan turned and made for the coordinates.
The journey wasn't long — perhaps a few city blocks — but it was enough to see how sharply the city changed. The vibrant market gradually faded into abandoned warehouses, broken doors hanging on rusted hinges, and graffiti that spoke of forgotten rebellions. Nature, in the form of stubborn weeds, pushed through fractured concrete.
Eventually, he came upon a massive steel door embedded in a wall of concrete, partially hidden behind a collapsed storage container. There were no signs — no labels — just silence.
Ethan paused, reading the signs and symbols etched into the door's frame. They looked official — a worn insignia of government engineering units long decommissioned. His pulse quickened.
He pulled a handheld device from his bag — a scanner. Three months' savings, and worth about half his body weight in utility. He pressed it against the panel beside the door.
Nothing happened.
He cursed under his breath. Of course. Nothing was ever simple.
Ethan stepped back, thinking, calculating. Then — a flicker. A hum. A low vibration beneath his feet.
The door breathed to life.
A soft hiss, like air escaping from a buried beast.
And then…
The door slid open.
Ethan didn't hesitate.
He stepped inside.
A huge cavernous space greeted him — dim lights flickering overhead, cables snaking along the floor like metallic vines. In the center of the room was a console — old but humming — and above it hovered a pulsing, crystalline core of white‑blue light.
His breath caught.
He didn't know that moment would change everything until that moment had passed.
The walls were lined with schematics — fluid, intricate, impossible. Blueprints for machines Ethan had only dreamed of. Designs that made his engineering instincts flare with both awe and jealousy.
His gaze drifted back to the console.
And then it lit up — bright, impossible, as if the place recognized him.
Words appeared in ethereal script:
SYSTEM INITIALIZING…
WELCOME, ENGINEER VALE
Ethan's jaw dropped.
He stepped closer.
RECOGNITION COMPLETE.
SYSTEM INTERFACE: ONLINE.
YOU HAVE BEEN CHOSEN.
Chosen.
That single word sent a jolt through his spine. His palms went slick with sweat.
And then, the system spoke — not in robotic jargon, but in a voice that was calm, neutral… almost sympathetic.
"Hello, Ethan Vale. You have one chance."
Ethan's mind spun.
One chance for what?
Before he could even think to ask…
A surge of white light exploded from the crystalline core, engulfing him completely.
The air vibrated. The walls shimmered. And somewhere — far off — a deep, unseen rumble shook the entire facility.
Ethan Vale screamed.
Not from fear — but from the overwhelming sensation of being torn open from the inside out.