The hill was not marked on any map.
It rose gently from the outskirts of the average sector, an old spine of earth left behind by the city's expansion. No rails climbed it. No roads bothered to cut across it. People rarely came here unless they were looking for quiet—or running from something loud inside their own heads.
Ethon stood near its crest, hands resting loosely at his sides, boots planted in dry grass that whispered with every small shift of weight. The city spread below him in layered blocks of concrete and light, stacked lives humming in their usual rhythm. Traffic lines pulsed like veins. Rooftop water tanks caught the sun. Distant sirens rose and fell, never urgent enough to matter.
He had been here before. Many times.
But today felt… angled.
Not wrong. Not right. Just slightly off, like a familiar room rearranged by someone who knew exactly which chair to move to unsettle you.
His gaze drifted south.
That direction always did something to him.
The average sector thinned the farther his eyes went, buildings growing smaller, older, less confident. Past that was the buffer zone—restricted airspace, fenced land, surveillance towers that blinked lazily even in daylight. Beyond that, nothing the public was meant to talk about.
The south wasn't forbidden in the dramatic sense. There were no signs screaming do not look. It was worse than that. It was ignored. Politely erased. Spoken around, never about.
Ethon narrowed his eyes.
He didn't know what he was expecting to see. Mountains, maybe. Ocean. Storm clouds. Anything to justify the pull that had been sitting in his chest since morning.
Instead, there was only distance.
A long, empty stretch of sky.
He exhaled slowly and laughed under his breath.
"Figures," he muttered, more to himself than to the world.
The wind shifted, brushing past him, carrying the dry smell of dust and sun-warmed metal. He closed his eyes for a moment and let it pass through him. His senses were sharp—too sharp, sometimes. He could hear the faint click of a loose panel on a rooftop below, the whine of a drone far above, the distant laughter of kids he couldn't see.
All normal.
And yet—
Arman's face surfaced in his mind without warning.
Not the dramatic moments. Not the chaos. Just Arman standing still, eyes steady, voice low. Words spoken not like advice, not like prophecy—just truth, delivered too early for Ethon to understand.
You won't stay here forever.
Ethon opened his eyes.
He hadn't thought about that line in years. It had been filed away with other half-buried memories, tucked behind the routines of daily life. Wake up. Work. Train. Laugh. Eat. Sleep. Repeat.
Blend in.
Survive.
Belong.
He swallowed and shifted his stance, boots grinding softly against stone.
"I stayed," he said quietly, almost defensively. "Didn't I?"
The city didn't answer.
The hill didn't answer.
For a while, nothing did.
Then he heard it.
At first, he thought it was wind—just another trick of open air and distance. A low sound, barely there, like a vibration rather than a noise. He tilted his head, listening harder.
It wasn't rhythmic. It wasn't random either.
It reminded him of standing near high-voltage lines as a kid, that subtle pressure behind the ears. Or the hum of a massive engine idling far away, too large to be heard properly.
His heartbeat picked up.
The sound was coming from the south.
Ethon scanned the horizon, eyes sharp, muscles unconsciously tightening. He expected drones. Jets. Security patrols. Anything that would explain it.
There was nothing.
No movement. No shadow. No disturbance in the clouds.
The sound deepened, not louder, but clearer—like his ears were finally tuning to the right frequency.
A chill ran down his spine.
"Okay," he whispered. "That's new."
He took a step forward, then another, drawn toward the edge of the hill like gravity had quietly increased in that direction.
That was when he saw it.
At first, it looked like glare. A trick of sunlight caught between atmosphere and distance. He almost dismissed it—almost.
Then it moved.
Not across the sky. Not closer.
It turned.
A faint swirl of silver light, far beyond the buffer zone, hanging low near the horizon. Thin and delicate, like a spiral drawn with a single stroke. It shimmered once, dimly, as if unsure whether to exist at all.
Ethon froze.
His breath caught halfway in.
The light pulsed again—slightly brighter this time. A soft spark, like a distant star deciding it didn't want to die yet.
It didn't vanish.
It stayed.
Every instinct in him screamed that this wasn't for anyone else.
The city continued its noise below. A transport roared overhead. Somewhere, a billboard flickered.
No alarms.
No reactions.
Just him.
The sound in his ears settled into a steady presence, no longer threatening, no longer ignorable. His chest felt tight, not with fear, but with a strange, aching familiarity. Like recognizing a place you've never been to.
"I haven't…" His voice cracked, and he stopped, clearing his throat. "I haven't seen anything like this before."
Years since the dreams.
Years since the voice.
Years since he'd woken up shaking, lightning burned into the backs of his eyelids.
He stood there until the sun shifted and the silver light remained unchanged—patient, unwavering.
When he finally turned away, it felt like tearing something loose inside himself.
The rest of the day passed in fragments.
He walked the long way back, barely noticing the streets he knew by heart. People passed him, brushing shoulders, trading jokes, complaining about work, about prices, about nothing that mattered. He nodded when spoken to. Smiled when expected.
Inside, his thoughts spiraled.
Why now?
Why there?
Why after years of silence?
He replayed Arman's words again, this time hearing new weight in them. He remembered other things too—smaller moments he'd dismissed back then. Glances held a second too long. Pauses where answers should have been.
Had they known?
Or had they simply seen the same thing he was only now beginning to see?
By the time he reached the duplex, the sun was already leaning toward evening. The building greeted him with its familiar creaks and chipped paint, the front door sticking slightly before giving way.
"Hello?" he called out.
No answer.
He stepped inside and let the door close behind him, the sound echoing through the empty space. The place felt larger without people in it, like a stage after the actors had gone home.
Everyone was out. Work shifts. Side jobs. Training sessions. Life, happening.
Ethon dropped his bag by the door and leaned against the wall for a moment, eyes closed. The silence pressed in—not uncomfortable, just… revealing.
He pushed off and moved through the common area slowly.
Photos lined the walls. Stupid ones. Blurry ones. Group shots taken too late at night with bad lighting and worse angles. Mira mid-laugh. Jax throwing up a peace sign for no reason. Someone had taped an old receipt to the wall and written WE SURVIVED across it in marker.
Ethon snorted softly.
"Yeah," he murmured. "Barely."
He traced a finger along one frame, then another. He hadn't realized when it happened—when these people stopped being roommates and started being something else.
Family, he thought, then corrected himself.
Something like it.
Gratitude welled up unexpectedly, warm and sharp at the same time. Alongside it came sadness—not regret, not yet—but awareness. The kind that only appears when something is about to change.
He moved into the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror.
For a long moment, he didn't recognize himself.
The face staring back was older than the boy who'd woken up from a coma years ago. Harder around the eyes. Thinner in places that mattered. Scars faded but present, telling quiet stories of fights that didn't make headlines.
He lifted a hand and rested it against the glass.
"I made it," he said softly. "Didn't I?"
No answer came, but he didn't expect one.
His jaw tightened. His expression shifted—not into a smile, not into a frown—but into something braced. Prepared. Like someone stepping into cold water on purpose.
He turned away.
The roof was his favorite place.
Up there, the city felt honest. No walls to hide behind. No ceilings to muffle the sky. He climbed the ladder and emerged into open air just as dusk began to bleed color across the horizon.
Lights flickered on below, one by one.
He walked to the edge and sat, legs dangling over the side, eyes fixed south.
The silver light was still there.
Clearer now, though the distance hadn't changed. It didn't pulse anymore. It simply was—a quiet certainty against the darkening sky.
Ethon's chest tightened.
"So it's real," he whispered.
The sound returned, stronger now but still restrained, like a breath held just below a voice. His skin prickled. Every sense leaned forward, alert, aligned.
He thought of Arman again. Of the way he'd spoken about the world, not as a single place but as layers stacked atop one another. Of the way he'd said elsewhere like it was a direction, not a concept.
For the first time, Ethon allowed the thought to fully form.
Another world exists.
Not in stories. Not in theories. Out there. Past fences and silence and lies of omission.
And something from it had found him again.
He swallowed, eyes never leaving the light.
"I don't know what you want," he said quietly. "But I'm not the same person I was."
The wind answered, curling around him, tugging gently at his clothes.
Behind his eyes, something old stirred—not fear, not excitement, but recognition.
Time stretched.
Then, without warning, the sound sharpened.
Not louder. Focused.
A single word cut through the air, bypassing his ears entirely.
It wasn't spoken to him.
It was spoken into the world.
"COME."
The light flared once—just once—then settled back into its steady glow.
Ethon didn't move.
But somewhere deep inside him, a decision had already been made.
And the world, quietly, began to lean in his direction.