Rain smeared the city's night lights into blurred patches of color, streaming across wet asphalt like a shattered galaxy. At the entrance to East District's Seventh Lane hung a rusted iron sign, the street name carved into it worn nearly smooth. Only regulars recognized the place now.
The lane had no streetlights.
It didn't need them.
Three men stood deep in the alley, light coming not from flashlights but from pale runes floating above their palms. The symbols writhed like living things, casting swaying shadows that painted grotesque shapes across piled garbage bags and graffiti-stained walls.
"Hand it over," said the middle man, voice kept low. A scar ran from beneath his left eye down to his jaw. The rune-light played across his face, making the scar look like a living centipede.
Opposite him stood a young man, probably not yet twenty, back pressed against damp brick. He clutched a black metal box to his chest, intricate patterns etched into its surface glowing faintly blue—a contrast to the men's pale runes.
"I... I don't know what's so important about it," the young man stammered. "It's just an old box—"
"Then why run?" Scarface interrupted, the rune in his palm flaring brighter.
The young man's swallow was audible in the alley's silence. Rain dripped from his dark hair, mixing with sweat as it slid beneath his collar. He hugged the box tighter, knuckles whitening.
The shorter man on the right snorted. "Why waste words? Management's hounds will be here in ten minutes. Take it and go."
"Hear that?" Scarface stepped forward. "Last time. The box, or your life?"
The young man closed his eyes.
Then he made a decision.
With all his strength, he hurled the box toward the alley's entrance while spinning to run in the opposite direction—straight at the left wall. Not suicide: a fire escape hung there, rusted but functional.
His fingers closed around the bottom rung.
Pale light exploded behind him.
Heat seared past his back, instantly charring a patch of his jacket. He didn't look back, climbing desperately as the iron ladder groaned under his weight. Curses echoed from below, then footsteps—more than three people. Others were approaching from the alley's far end.
When he reached the third-floor platform, he glanced down.
Six men now stood in the alley, all looking up at him. The pale runes clustered like hungry fireflies, converging on the fire escape from different directions. The short man began chanting something, syllables harsh and twisted, unlike any human language.
The fire escape's mounting bolts began to loosen.
The sound of metal twisting set teeth on edge.
The young man kept climbing, ignoring the rusted iron slicing his fingers. Near the roof, he heard the crash of the lowest ladder section tearing free and hitting the ground. Now he was trapped midway, the pale runes climbing the iron rails like glowing vines, reaching for his feet.
"It's over," Scarface said below, no emotion in his voice.
The pale runes reached the young man's shoes.
And stopped.
Not by choice.
As if they'd hit an invisible wall.
All six men in the alley looked up—not at the trapped youth, but above him, to the roof's edge.
A figure stood there.
The rain was too heavy to see details, just someone of medium height in a dark hooded coat, the hood pulled low. The figure simply stood at the roof's edge, looking down at the scene below, unmoving.
"Who?" Scarface demanded, the rune in his palm blazing brighter.
The rooftop figure didn't answer.
Just raised a right hand.
No incantation, no runes, no light.
But every raindrop in the alley—thousands of falling beads of water—froze mid-air simultaneously.
Time seemed to stop.
Drops hung suspended, reflecting the alley's pale rune-light like countless tiny crystals. The young man on the fire escape gaped, forgetting to breathe. Below, the six men assumed combat stances, magical barriers of various colors unfolding around them in shimmering halos.
The rooftop figure crooked a finger.
The frozen raindrops began to move.
Not downward, but horizontally, flying so fast they became silver threads. Thousands of drops became thousands of needles, piercing the magical barriers with precision.
The barriers shattered like glass.
Not exploding, but fracturing, peeling apart in flakes that dissolved into drifting motes of light. Three of the six men dropped to their knees, coughing blood. The other three remained standing but pale as death.
Scarface stared at the rooftop, the scar beneath his eye twitching. "Impossible... that level of control... Who are you?"
The figure jumped from the roof.
Not falling, but something between falling and floating. She clearly female now landed lightly in the alley's center, less than five meters from Scarface. The hood still shadowed her face—only the lower half visible: a clean jawline, thin lips pressed into a straight line.
She bent to pick up the black metal box.
"This," her voice was calm, almost flat. "I'm taking."
"You think—" the short man struggled to rise, but froze mid-sentence.
Because he saw her raised hand.
More precisely, he saw the faint mark on the back of her right hand. Rain had washed away the grime, making the symbol clear: a magic circle pierced by a sword, entwined with ivy and rose patterns.
The mark of a City Magic Management Bureau Enforcer.
A high-ranking one.
"You..." Scarface's voice changed completely. "You can't be... They said you died. Three years ago, that mission—the Bureau published the casualty list—"
"The list might have been wrong," she interrupted.
Then she tucked the box under her arm and turned toward the alley's entrance.
"Wait!" Scarface roared. "Even if you really are an Enforcer, alone against six of us—"
She stopped.
Didn't turn, just glanced over her shoulder. The corner of her mouth beneath the hood seemed to twitch slightly—not a smile, more a habitual muscle movement.
"Who said I was alone?"
Footsteps sounded from the alley's entrance.
Even, heavy, boots splashing through puddles. At least ten people, wearing matching dark gray uniforms under rainproof cloaks. The light in their hands wasn't pale, but soft silver-white, like solidified moonlight.
City Magic Management Bureau Response Team.
The leader was a woman in her thirties, blonde hair pulled into a tight bun, expression neutral. Her gaze swept the alley, paused on the young man trapped on the fire escape for a second, then settled on the Enforcer holding the box.
"Situation contained?" the blonde woman asked.
"Contained," the Enforcer replied. "Target item recovered. Six suspects, four minor injuries, two may require medical."
"Acknowledged." The blonde woman gestured behind her. Team members immediately dispersed, arresting the six men, checking injuries, collecting scattered magical residue.
The process was efficient, quiet, no unnecessary talk beyond essential commands.
The blonde woman approached the Enforcer, studying her. Rain dripped from both their hoods, splashing in the small space between them.
"We need to verify your identity," the blonde woman said. "Hand-markings can be forged."
The Enforcer raised her right hand, fully exposing the mark. The blonde woman pulled a small instrument from her pocket, about the size of a pocket watch, and scanned the mark. The device emitted a soft beep, screen glowing green.
"Verification passed." The blonde woman put the device away, but the wariness in her eyes didn't diminish. "Alicia Winter, former Seventh District Senior Enforcer, codename 'Silence'. Declared deceased three years ago during Operation 'Echo from the Abyss'."
"You see me now," Alicia said.
"Yes." The blonde woman paused. "But that raises more questions. Where have you been for three years? Why reappear now? Why apparently, at this attack scene?"
Alicia finally looked up, pushing her hood back.
When her face was fully revealed, the blonde woman's breath caught.
Not because she was strikingly beautiful or terrifying—in fact, Alicia's face was ordinary. Short brown hair plastered to her forehead, gray eyes so pale they resembled rainy skies. Ordinary, except for the scar on her left cheek.
It ran from cheekbone to ear, thin, slightly lighter than surrounding skin but not overly conspicuous. The key was its shape—not a simple cut, but the remnant of a forcibly erased magical brand. The blonde woman recognized that pattern: a mark the Bureau used to tag dangerous individuals, applied only under extreme circumstances. And the process of removing it... was said to be more painful than the branding itself.
"I was recovering," Alicia answered the first question, voice still calm. "As for why I was here—"
She handed the black metal box to the blonde woman.
"—I sensed this thing's fluctuations. It shouldn't be circulating on the black market."
The blonde woman took the box, examining its patterns closely. Her expression gradually changed. "This is... an old-model resonator sealed by the Academy. One of the items stolen in last year's warehouse breach. But it should be inert."
"Someone reactivated it," Alicia said. "Through irregular means. If those men had known how to fully activate it, this street would be rubble now."
A faint sound came from the fire escape. The young man had finally climbed onto the roof, peering over the edge with a mix of fear, confusion, and dawning relief.
The blonde woman sighed. "And a witness. Perfect."
"He was just a courier," Alicia said. "Scare him, erase short-term memory, let him go. No need to drag civilians in."
"Procedure requires—"
"Procedure also requires protecting civilians," Alicia interrupted, gray eyes fixed on the blonde woman. "You can write in the report that the witness escaped. Tonight's report is already complicated enough—one more item won't matter."
The two women locked eyes for several seconds.
The blonde woman looked away first, murmuring instructions to a team member beside her. The member nodded and headed toward the building, presumably to handle the young man.
"You need to come back to the Bureau with me," the blonde woman turned back to Alicia. "Not just for questioning. Identity verification is only the first step. Higher-ups will want to see you. Someone declared dead for three years suddenly returns, bearing an erased brand mark... This will cause ripples."
Alicia nodded, as if she'd expected this outcome.
The rain lightened, from downpour to fine mist. Magical residue in the alley was mostly cleared, the six attackers in suppression cuffs being loaded into a black van parked at the alley's entrance. The Bureau's emblem adorned the vehicle's side: sword and magic circle, identical to the one on Alicia's hand, just not pierced.
"Let's go," the blonde woman said.
Alicia took a last look at the alley. Rain washed the ground, carrying blood and magical remnants into the drains as if nothing had happened. The city's night lights seeped into the alley's mouth, casting long shadows on the wet ground.
She turned, following the blonde woman toward the exit.
Boots splashed softly in puddles.
Step, step.
Walking back into the world she thought she'd left forever three years ago.
The black van's interior was more spacious than it appeared from outside. No windows, metal benches along the sides, a narrow aisle down the center. Alicia sat at the end of the left bench, the blonde woman opposite, tapping rapidly on a tablet.
The van drove smoothly, barely any sensation of movement.
"I'm Lila Thorne, Field Commander of the Bureau's Third District," the blonde woman said without looking up. "My team was monitoring the black market transaction tonight, but the target item's fluctuations suddenly intensified, so we rushed over. Didn't expect you'd already handled it."
"Coincidence," Alicia said.
Lila finally looked up, blue eyes sharp as blades. "I don't believe in coincidences, especially involving deceased Enforcers and prohibited magical artifacts."
Alicia didn't respond, just studied the van's interior wall. The metal surface reflected a blurred image—her face pale in the dim light, the scar almost invisible.
"I pulled your file," Lila continued, turning the tablet to show the screen. "Alicia Winter, twenty-five. Graduated early from the Magic Academy at seventeen, promoted to Senior Enforcer at nineteen. Participated in forty-seven high-risk missions, ninety-four percent completion rate. Three years ago, during Operation 'Echo from the Abyss,' lost contact with your squad. Three days later, excerpt ... personal items and magical residue were found, confirming death."
The screen showed a photo. A younger Alicia, no scar, wearing Enforcer uniform, expression serious but eyes bright. Her archive photo at twenty.
"You're twenty-five now," Lila set the tablet down. "Three years. Where were you? And the brand on your face—what happened?"
Silence hung in the compartment for several seconds, only the engine's low hum.
"I was injured," Alicia finally spoke, slowly, as if choosing words carefully. "Badly. A kind of... anti-magic backlash. Erased most magical imprints on me, including the Bureau's tracking brand and clearance markers. I recuperated somewhere outside the city. Only recently regained mobility."
"Outside where?"
"West, near the old mining district. An abandoned medical station, left from before the war."
Lila made notes. "Why not contact the Bureau?"
"Communications were damaged," Alicia said. "And my condition at the time... I wasn't sure who I was, what had happened. Memories returned gradually."
The explanation was full of holes. Lila knew it, and Alicia knew she knew. But sometimes what the bureaucracy needed wasn't truth, but a story that could be written into reports. A miraculous survival of a deceased Enforcer, while suspicious, was at least a positive narrative—if certain details were overlooked.
Like that erased brand.
The Bureau only branded two kinds of people: traitors, or those who'd accessed absolute secrets and posed a risk of going rogue. Neither identity allowed for an easy return.
The van stopped.
Lila pocketed the tablet. "We're here."
The rear door slid open, revealing not a street but an underground garage. Cold white lights illuminated concrete floors and pillars, clean but oppressive. Several Bureau personnel already waited there, expressions mixed: curiosity, wariness, bureaucratic neutrality.
Alicia exited, following Lila toward an elevator. Their gazes felt physical on her back, the weight of scrutiny. Three years gone, but some things never changed: suspicion, examination, calculation always hidden beneath politeness.
The elevator doors closed, cutting off outside eyes.
"They'll take you to an interview room," Lila pressed a floor button. "Standard procedure, forty-eight hours isolation questioning. After that..."
She paused.
"After that, someone will decide your disposition. In your current state—incomplete clearance markers, traces of an erased brand—it's unlikely you'll resume Enforcer duties. Most probable outcome: sent for re-evaluation."
"Re-evaluation?" Alicia repeated the term, her tone gaining something new for the first time—something like irony, or weariness.
"The Magic Academy has a re-evaluation program," Lila said officiously. "For Enforcers and magic users who've been long-term absent due to injury or illness. Six months to a year of coursework. After assessment, new assignment."
The elevator arrived.
Doors opened onto a pure white corridor, identical unmarked doors on both sides. The air carried a faint antiseptic smell, subtle but persistent.
"Good luck," Lila said, but made no move to exit.
Alicia stepped out. Two security personnel immediately approached, flanking her. They didn't touch her, but stood close enough to act if necessary.
"This way, Ms. Winter," one said tonelessly.
They led her to the corridor's end. A door slid open automatically, revealing a small room: a bed, a table, a chair, a bathroom. No windows, no decorations, only a camera in the corner blinking red.
"Please wait here. Meals will be delivered on schedule. If you require anything, press the call button by the bed." The security personnel withdrew.
The door closed, the lock engaging with a soft but distinct click.
Alicia stood in the room's center a moment, then walked to the bed and sat. The mattress was hard, the blanket military-green, rough but clean. She removed her soaked coat, hung it on the chair back, then looked at her right hand.
The mark on her hand was clearer under the indoor light. Sword and magic circle, ivy and rose. Representing her former status, former loyalty, former...
She clenched her fist, hiding the mark.
Then lay down, staring at the ceiling.
The camera's red light pulsed rhythmically, like some creature's heartbeat.
She closed her eyes.
Not memories came, nor plans, but fragmented images: rain, alley, pale runes, the young man's terrified face, and the box—the patterns on that black metal box. Where had she seen similar designs before? Not recently, longer ago, back when she was still a student...
Very faint footsteps sounded outside the door.
Someone stopped outside. Not guards—their steps were heavier. These were almost inaudible, but Alicia's senses hadn't dulled that much.
The person stood there about ten seconds, then left.
Alicia didn't move, eyes still closed.
She knew the evaluation had already begun. Forty-eight hours isolation wasn't just questioning, but observation, testing, assessing whether she was stable, controllable, still useful to the Bureau.
And her answers had been prepared long ago.
Or rather, prepared for three years.
The pillow was thin; she could feel the bed board's hardness beneath. Room temperature was neutral, neither cold nor hot, but the air felt stagnant, unmoving.
Time passed minute by minute.
After an indeterminate interval, sounds came again from outside. Meal delivery this time—a cart stopped outside, a security guard opened a small hatch in the door, passed in a tray. Simple food: sandwich, apple, bottled water. No utensils, probably to prevent their use as weapons.
Alicia sat up to eat. The taste was mediocre but filling. She ate slowly, chewing thoroughly, as if performing a ritual. Finished, she returned the tray to the hatch, which closed.
Then she returned to bed, lying down again.
Waiting.
One of her most honed skills. Three years ago she'd learned how to wait—in darkness, silence, moments when tomorrow was uncertain. Waiting wasn't passive; it was preparation in another form. Like a hunter awaiting prey, or the calm before a storm's first lightning strike.
She needed to enter the Magic Academy.
The "re-evaluation program" Lila mentioned was exactly what she needed. Not because she wanted to resume her post, but because the Academy held what she sought—or who she sought.
Those patterns on the box...
She closed her eyes again, this time forcing herself to relax. Steady breathing, slowed heartbeat, muscles gradually releasing tension. Outwardly she appeared asleep, but consciousness remained alert, like thin ice floating on dark water.
Hours passed.
Perhaps a day.
Time lost meaning in a windowless room, measured only by meal deliveries. After the third meal, the door finally opened.
This time, not security personnel entered.
A man in his fifties, gray hair meticulously combed, wearing Bureau administration uniform with senior examiner rank insignia. He held an electronic pad, a young assistant behind him carrying more files.
"Alicia Winter," the man spoke, voice mild but trained to flatness. "Examiner Miller. Shall we begin?"
Alicia sat up, nodded.
Miller took the chair by the table, assistant standing behind. Only one chair existed in the room, so Alicia remained on the bed, three meters separating her from the examiner.
"First, thank you for cooperating with our procedures," Miller said, as if reciting an opening. "We know this isn't easy, especially after all you've experienced. But for your safety and the public's, thorough assessment is necessary."
"Understood," Alicia said.
"Then let's start from the beginning." Miller looked at his pad. "Three years ago, November 3, 2047, you and your squad entered the Western District underground facility for Operation 'Echo from the Abyss.' Mission objective: recover a pre-war era magical artifact. Records indicate you lost contact with command at 21:47. What happened?"
Alicia was silent several seconds.
Not because she needed to fabricate, but because real memories surged up, vivid: darkness, damp concrete tunnels, squad members' breathing echoing in confined space, and that low hum from deep underground, like a giant beast's heartbeat.
"We located the target artifact," she said slowly. "But it wasn't dormant as intelligence described. It was active... absorbing surrounding magical energy. We tried to retreat, but the tunnel collapsed. I was trapped in a side chamber. The others... I don't know."
"You alone survived?"
"If survival is the right word." Alicia raised a hand, indicating the scar on her face. "When a support structure collapsed, the magical rune array on it detonated. Anti-magic backlash hit me directly. When I regained consciousness, I was outside the ruins—maybe thrown clear by the blast."
Miller took notes. "Then?"
"I tried contacting command, but all equipment was dead. Magical imprints on me were fading too, including tracker and life-monitoring runes. I walked a long time, finally collapsed near an abandoned medical station. There were basic supplies, so I... stayed."
"Three years, you were there the whole time?"
"Mostly unconscious or incoherent," Alicia said. "Anti-magic backlash effects were worse than I thought. My magical abilities were unstable, memories fragmented. Only in recent months did I gradually regain coherent thought."
Miller looked up, studying her through his glasses. "But the control you displayed last night hardly seems 'unstable.'"
"Sometimes better, sometimes worse," Alicia met his gaze. "Last night might have been a good period. Today might not be. That's why I need evaluation—I don't know my own limits anymore."
Plausible. Anti-magic backlash aftereffects varied wildly; any scenario was possible. Miller noted something on his pad, expression unreadable.
"About the brand on your face," he changed topics. "That's a Bureau high-risk marker. Regulations state only two circumstances warrant such branding: confirmed treason, or exposure to 'absolute secrets' with risk of going rogue. Which are you?"
The room's air seemed to solidify for a moment.
Alicia felt the temperature in her palms drop, but controlled her breathing rhythm.
"The second," she said. "Operation 'Echo from the Abyss' involved pre-war classified magical research. I was exposed during the mission, and subsequent injury caused unstable mental state, so I was branded. But when I left, it should have been removed."
"Removing a brand requires Bureau highest-level approval," Miller said. "Who approved?"
"I don't know," Alicia answered truthfully. "Many things happened while I was unconscious. When I woke, the brand was already fading—maybe some... delayed effect. Or something at the medical station accelerated its dissipation."
Miller's assistant quickly flipped through files, whispering something. Miller nodded, turning back to Alicia.
"We checked that abandoned medical station you mentioned," he said. "It does exist, near the Western District old mining area. Signs of recent habitation, magical residue consistent with your description. But one thing is strange."
He paused, observing Alicia's reaction.
Alicia simply looked at him, waiting.
"The magical residue at the medical station... is very old. Not from recent years, more like decades ago, or older. And complex—healing magic, but also defensive and concealment spells. That place isn't an ordinary abandoned site; it resembles a pre-war secret facility."
"I didn't know its history," Alicia said. "I was just recuperating there."
Miller studied her a moment longer, then lowered his head to continue notes. For the next several hours, he asked more details: the medical station's exact location, layout, how she obtained food and water, encounters with others, memory recovery process, exact reason for appearing in the alley last night...
Alicia answered each, sometimes detailed, sometimes brief, but always consistent. She'd prepared for three years, every detail over and over polished, no contradictions. Of course, some areas were deliberately vague, but reasonably so—an injured, amnesiac person couldn't possibly remember everything.
Fourth meal delivery time arrived.
Miller stood. "We'll stop here for today. You need rest; we need to analyze existing information. We'll continue tomorrow."
He headed for the door, assistant following. Before the door opened, Miller glanced back at Alicia.
"Whatever the final assessment outcome," he said. "Welcome back, Enforcer."
The door closed.
Alicia slowly exhaled, shoulders relaxing a millimeter. First stage passed. Miller might still have doubts, but he hadn't challenged her outright, meaning her story was at least superficially credible.
She walked to the table, picked up the water bottle, unscrewed the cap and took a sip. The water was lukewarm, tasting of plastic.
Outside, the city—though unseen—operated normally. People worked, studied, shopped, returned home, completely unaware of last night's alley events, unaware of the Magic Management Bureau's existence, unaware of hidden currents beneath daily life.
Most would never touch this world's other side.
Alicia had once been among them, until age seventeen when magical talent abruptly awakened, the Bureau found her, sent her to the Magic Academy. From that day, ordinary life became an unreachable shore.
She set the water bottle back on the table, fingers unconsciously tracing a simple rune on the surface. No magical energy infused it, just empty drawing—a habitual motion.
The rune was basic Academy curriculum: Energy Channeling Form Three, for stabilizing output.
She stopped.
The Academy.
Following standard procedure, her situation most likely meant being sent for re-evaluation. And the re-evaluation location was her former alma mater—the City Magic Academy, officially "First City Advanced Magical Education and Research Center," but everyone called it the Academy.
There lay what she needed.
And who she wanted to see.
And the truth she wanted to uncover—about the mission three years ago, about the brand on her face, about those patterns on the black metal box, about why someone would steal and reactivate a supposedly sealed old-model resonator.
All threads led to the Academy.
So she had to return.
As a student.
Alicia returned to bed, lying down again. This time she truly closed her eyes, allowing herself shallow sleep. The body needed rest; more examinations, more tests, more situations requiring focus lay ahead.
At consciousness's edge, images surfaced again.
Not memories, more like dream fragments: long corridors flanked by tall arched windows, rain forever falling outside; the scent of old paper and magical ink in the library; sparks from colliding spells on training grounds; and a face, blurred, but she remembered the eye color—
Green.
Like the deepest parts of an early spring forest.
Then the image shattered, swallowed by darkness.
Alicia sank into sleep.
Outside the door, the camera's red light continued pulsing.
Down the corridor, Examiner Miller stood before a monitoring screen, watching the former Enforcer sleep. His young assistant organized files behind him.
"Do you think she's telling the truth?" the assistant whispered.
Miller didn't answer immediately. He studied Alicia's face on screen, the scar appearing softer in sleep but still noticeable.
"There are many kinds of truth," he finally said. "What she said may all be facts, but not necessarily all the facts. What matters is whether she remains controllable, whether she remains useful."
"So you'll recommend sending her to the Academy?"
"That's the committee's decision," Miller shut off the monitor. "But I'll note in my report: she requires close monitoring, and the Academy is currently the best monitoring location. After all, what place better than a fully enclosed magical education facility to observe a former Enforcer?"
The assistant nodded, continuing to organize files.
Miller turned, leaving the monitoring room, footsteps echoing softly in the corridor. His expression resumed its usual calm, but deep in his eyes lingered a trace of unease.
A high-ranking Enforcer declared dead three years ago suddenly returns.
That was never good news.
Thirty years with the Bureau taught Miller one principle: the dead returning usually didn't bring glad tidings.