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Chapter 1 - The Mark

Chapter 1: The Mark

The city gleamed in the early light, all glass and chrome, towering into the smog-stained sky like it had something to prove. It was the kind of morning where everything looked polished — clean walkways humming with efficiency, sleek monorails gliding past overhead, and well-dressed citizens moving in brisk, confident strides as if nothing in the world could touch them.

And then there was Ren.

He stood at the edge of the work zone, skin the color of sunbaked clay, but pale with exhaustion. His dreadlocks were tied back into a low ponytail, keeping them out of his eyes as he waited to be let through the checkpoint gate. He looked tired — not the kind of tired that went away with a nap, but the kind that burrowed deep into your bones after months of waking before sunrise and falling asleep long after you should've.

His hands, rough and calloused from laying steel beams and hauling concrete mix day in, day out, hung limply at his sides. The fingers were cracked in places, small wounds barely healed over from the last time he'd gotten them caught on rusted rebar. His knuckles were always a little swollen. His nails were always dirty, no matter how often he scrubbed.

People on their way to proper jobs passed by without so much as a glance — tall, healthy, dressed in expensive coats that adjusted for temperature, sipping their morning synth-lattes through biodegradable straws. Ren could see himself reflected faintly in the curved glass of a nearby café window. Compared to them, he looked like a smudge on an otherwise perfect picture.

His work boots were secondhand and too big, the soles nearly smooth. His clothes were a faded gray uniform issued by the construction company — the logo had long since peeled off. A thin scarf covered the lower half of his face, more to block out the construction dust than the cold.

A siren chirped, and the gate to the construction zone clicked open.

Ren stepped inside.

The site was chaos wrapped in metal — scaffolds everywhere, machinery rumbling, and the air full of sharp-edged noise. Smoke and concrete dust hung like fog. At the far end, barking orders through a comm-band, stood Mr. Garel, the site manager. Stocky, mean-eyed, and permanently chewing a plastic toothpick, Garel noticed Ren approaching and scowled.

"You're late."

Ren didn't argue. He wasn't. But there wasn't any point in saying so.

Garel squinted at him and made a dismissive sound. "Get your ass on tower duty. And don't drag your feet."

Ren nodded silently and started toward the scaffolding. His body already ached just from the thought of climbing up.

He knew the routine. Work the full shift. Lift what you're told. Shut your mouth. Then, when the shift ended and the city lights began to flicker on like stars, Garel would hand out pay slips. Ren's was always short.

Sometimes it was ten creds. Sometimes twenty. Garel would mumble something about "equipment rental" or "dock time" or "site fees," and Ren would just nod.

Because what else could he do?

There were no labor unions in the lower sectors. No supervisors to file complaints to. No time to go chasing after justice when rent was due and food cost more than it should.

And besides, if he pushed too hard, he knew what would happen: he'd get replaced. There were always more like him. Kids with hands like stone and stomachs too empty to argue.

So Ren clenched those hard, cracked hands into fists, raised his hood against the rising dust, and started climbing toward the day's labor — higher into the steel bones of a city that didn't even know his name.

***

Ren walked down the crowded street, dreadlocks tied up in a ponytail, bobbing slightly to the rhythm of the music playing in his ears. His brown skin glistened with a subtle sheen of sweat, a testament to the sweltering city heat. The sounds of car horns, chatter, and wailing sirens filled the air as he navigated through the throngs of people.

As he turned a corner, his gaze fell upon a large city TV display mounted on the side of a building. A male journalist's serious face appeared on the screen, and Ren's eyes instinctively shifted from the pavement to the news report. The journalist's words caught his attention: "...another victim of GWAT, the mysterious abductions that have left the city on edge."

Ren's fingers paused, and he pulled out his ear buds, joining the crowd in watching the report. The worry etched on the faces of passersby was palpable. Some stopped, like Ren, while others hurried along, casting anxious glances at the screen.

The journalist continued,

"The latest victim, a 22-year-old woman, was last seen leaving her job at a downtown café. Her phone and personal belongings were found abandoned near the park, but there was no sign of her. The police are urging anyone with information to come forward."

Ren's eyes scanned the crowd, seeing the concern and fear reflected in the faces around him. He felt a shiver run down his spine as he wondered if anyone was safe in the city. The music in his ears seemed trivial now, and he let the sounds of the city wash over him – the horns honking, the chatter, and the distant hum of traffic.

As the report ended, the TV display flickered to a public awareness campaign, urging citizens to stay vigilant and report any suspicious activity. Ren stood there for a moment, taking in the information, before tucking his ear-buds back in and continuing on his way home, the city's unease lingering in his mind.

***

Finally at home Ren shut the door behind him, dropped his backpack on the floor, and fell back onto his bed, exhausted.

"What a day," he muttered to himself.

For a moment, Ren just lay there, observing his room. The silence was punctuated by the hum of traffic noises from outside, and the constant dripping of the kitchen tap added to the sense of solitude. His room was a square, architectural structure, lit by a small electric lamp that stood on the cubboard, casting a warm glow.

The wardrobe stood half-open, with clothes spilling out, a testament to Ren's chaotic side. Despite being a minimalist at heart, his current living situation told a different story.

The small table at the center of the room was cluttered with cups and books, and the overall atmosphere felt lived-in, yet neglected. Ren's gaze wandered around the room, taking in the pots scattered around the kitchen, and the rusted gas bottle that seemed to be a safety hazard waiting to happen. It was clear that the weight of his responsibilities had finally caught up to him.

With a sluggish movement, Ren got up to cook himself some noodles. As he stood in front of the boiling pot, staring blankly at the noodles, his eyes revealed the toll of exhaustion – dark circles underscored his tired gaze. Normally, he would push through, but today was a Friday, and the thought of a long day ahead seemed to weigh him down.

Once his noodles were ready, Ren sat down on his creaky bed, phone in hand, and watched a video he'd left on repeat. He hit the play button, and Professor Greenwood's voice filled the room, discussing a unique theory concerning the GWAT disappearances. The professor's words were engaging, and Ren's gaze was fixed on the screen as Greenwood began to explain his hypothesis.

"Imagine a doorway, not just a physical entrance, but a portal to another dimension, one that exists parallel to our own. It's possible that people are being drawn into this reality, sucked in by forces beyond our understanding. 'The Gate,' as I've come to call it, is not a place of darkness and despair, but perhaps a realm of infinite possibility."

The professor's words were both captivating and unsettling. He continued, "The government would have you believe it's either criminal activity or the result of suicidal tendencies, but I'm here to tell you that's not the whole story. We need to think outside the box, to consider the possibility that there's more to reality than what we can see and touch."

Ren listened intently as the professor urged his viewers not to dismiss the idea but to consider it, to think beyond the conventional explanations. After finishing his noodles and watching the video, Ren thought the theory was interesting but probably a bit far-fetched.

"Good theory, but probably insane," he remarked to himself.

***

The GWAT [Gone Without a Trace] phenomenon as the masses call it, began two years ago, in the aftermath of a devastating earthquake and torrential rainfall that shook the city to its core. A year later, the first reported disappearance sparked a chain reaction of events that would leave the government scrambling for answers.

As the cases piled up, authorities implemented curfews, increased surveillance, and launched investigations, but to no avail. The people grew fearful, whispering among themselves about supernatural forces and unknown entities.

Meanwhile, on the internet, theories began to merge: some pointed to a dimensional breach, others to an unknown predator, and a few even suggested a government conspiracy. The truth, however, remained elusive, fueling the flames of speculation and terror.

***

As Ren stepped into the shower, the warm water washed away his fatigue. But as he began to relax, he thought he heard a whisper – his name, softly spoken. Ren stopped, looking around, but there was no one there. The whisper seemed to come from all directions and nowhere at the same time.

He continued his bath, but the experience repeated itself. Ren heard his name whispered again, and once more, he stopped to listen. The voice stopped, leaving only the sound of the water.

After his bath, Ren lay down on his bed, still thinking about the professor's theory. He scrolled through the comments on the video, noticing that opinions were divided. Some people thought the professor was onto something, while others called him crazy. Ren couldn't help but lean towards the latter opinion.

As he continued to browse, his eyelids grew heavy, and before he knew it, he had drifted off to sleep, the city outside his window humming softly in the background.

 

***

3:04.a.m Ren Kael woke up gasping, his sheets tangled around him, soaked with sweat. The room was dark, except for the sliver of moonlight cutting across the floor, casting an eerie glow. His heart pounded like he'd just finished running, but he couldn't remember why. A dream, perhaps, or a nightmare that slipped away the moment he opened his eyes. Ren sat up and rubbed his face, his fingers freezing as he noticed something on his hand.

A mark, dark, jagged, and pulsing faintly like a weak heartbeat, adorned his palm and stretched halfway up his wrist. It resembled a cracked eye with a single vertical slit. Ren's mind reeled as he stared at the mark, unsure what to make of it. It didn't hurt, but it didn't feel natural either. Like it didn't belong to him.

Ren grabbed his phone from the nightstand, the screens light casting strange shadows on the wall behind him, making his small room feel unfamiliar. 3:07 a.m. No messages. He turned the camera on, pointing it at his hand, but the mark didn't show up. Yet, he could still see it, still feel it, and... Wait, hear it? A whisper, like wind through dead branches or someone breathing behind a closed door, seemed to emanate from the mark.

Ren stood up, stumbling toward the mirror. His reflection stared back – same face, same messy black hair, same tired eyes. But the mark remained, even if it didn't show up in the reflection. His fingers trembled as he realized it wasn't paint, wasn't a cut. It was... something else.

The air in Ren's room shifted, growing heavier like a storm was brewing. Shadows on the floor stretched too far, bending in ways they shouldn't. The closet door creaked open by itself, just an inch. Ren backed away, his heart racing. His phone screen went black, then white, displaying a message:

*DO YOU SEE THE ECHO?*

The question blinked once before vanishing, leaving Ren confused.

The phone turned off completely, plunging Ren into darkness. He turned toward the closet, now open wider. A shape, thin and crooked like a puppet made of smoke and bone, stood inside. Its eyes glowed faint white, watching Ren with an unnerving intensity. Ren's breath caught in his throat as the shape spoke in a voice like broken glass scraping against wood:

"The Gate has found you, Ren Kael."

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