The sky bled red above the ruins of Eden City.
Ash floated in lazy spirals from distant firestorms, blotting out the horizon in a sepia haze. Broken buildings leaned against each other like wounded soldiers, hollowed out and silent. Once the heart of commerce and dreams, Eden was now a graveyard with a pulse—faint, erratic, and cruel.
Amara Voss moved quickly, her boots crunching glass and dust beneath each step. A faded medical patch clung to the arm of her black jacket, barely visible beneath the grime. Her breath came in sharp puffs, heart hammering as she ducked behind a cracked concrete pillar.
"Don't stop," she whispered to herself. "They're close."
Behind her, the low whirr of a patrol drone buzzed in the air, scanning for heat signatures. She knew the Dominion wouldn't stop hunting people like her—healers, rebels, anyone unaligned with the regime.
She checked her satchel: two doses of morphium, an empty syringe, gauze, and the battered remains of a hand-held scanner. It wasn't enough—not for what she'd seen in the shelter.
Two hours ago, she'd received a distress beacon from the eastern sector—Zone 3. Refugees from the southern camps had been ambushed. She didn't know who was left alive. Or if they were at all.
Her grip tightened around the scanner as a drone swept overhead. Amara pressed herself flat against the wall. The eerie blue light swept across the alley, flickered... then passed.
She exhaled. Slowly. Softly.
The city was always testing her: when to run, when to freeze, when to trust the silence.
Thirty minutes later, Amara reached the edge of Zone 3. The stench of burned flesh and melted steel punched her in the gut. Bodies were scattered near the collapsed tunnel bridge. Blood soaked the ground, some still glistening fresh.
She moved among the bodies like a shadow, kneeling next to each one, checking pulses, whispering apologies to the dead. Then, a twitch.
A boy—no older than twelve—lay beneath a half-crushed barrel, blood matting his hair.
She dropped her bag and went to work.
"Shhh. You're going to be okay," she said softly, cutting fabric away from his shoulder. The wound was deep, but clean. Shrapnel. She injected the last of the morphium and stabilized his shoulder with torn gauze.
"Name?" she asked.
The boy's lips trembled. "L-Leo."
"Stay with me, Leo. Can you walk?"
He shook his head.
Amara bit her lip, then grabbed a nearby tarp. "We're going to move. There's a place not far. Stay awake, okay?"
She didn't tell him that the place she had in mind—an old maintenance bay beneath the train tracks—had been abandoned for months. But at least it had a door. And right now, anything with a lock was a miracle.
As she dragged Leo through the alleyways, dusk descended like a heavy curtain. The air grew colder. By the time they reached the old rail station, Amara was drenched in sweat and blood. She laid Leo gently on the floor and barricaded the entrance with a fallen beam.
"Water…" he croaked.
She handed him her canteen. It was nearly empty, but he needed it more.
"Thank you," he murmured, eyes fluttering shut.
Amara leaned back against the wall, closing her eyes just for a second.
Just a second.
She woke to the sound of metal scraping against concrete.
Her eyes flew open.
Someone was trying to get in.
She grabbed the rusted scalpel from her bag and rose to her feet, back to the wall, heart racing.
A voice spoke—low, firm, male.
"I'm not here to hurt you."
"Step away from the door," she warned.
A pause. Then, slowly, the door creaked open.
A man stepped inside—tall, broad-shouldered, face shadowed beneath a black scarf. A faded military jacket hung from his frame, and a sidearm was strapped to his thigh.
He raised his hands. "Name's Kael. I saw your trail. You're not very good at covering it."
Amara didn't lower the scalpel. "That was the point."
He blinked.
"I wanted someone to find us. Just not Dominion."
Kael's lips curled slightly. "You're lucky I got here first."
She looked him over—mud-caked boots, torn gloves, the way his fingers twitched near the holster. He moved like a soldier. But he didn't carry himself like one.
"Who do you fight for?" she asked.
Kael's expression turned cold. "No one anymore."
Amara finally lowered the scalpel, just a fraction. "There's a boy. He's wounded."
Kael's eyes scanned the room, then settled on Leo, still unconscious.
"Let me see."
She hesitated. Then stepped aside.
Kael knelt next to Leo, peeled back the bandage. "Clean work," he muttered. "He'll live."
"You're not Dominion."
"No," he said. "But I was."
Amara's jaw tightened. "That's not reassuring."
Kael looked up. "Neither is the world."
Later that night, after Kael had sealed the door and lit a fire with scraps, Amara sat across from him.
"Why are you helping us?" she asked.
He didn't answer right away.
"Because I remember what it was like," he finally said, eyes on the flames. "To be hunted. To be nothing."
Amara looked at him—really looked. Under the dirt and the scars, he was barely thirty. Too young to carry the weight he bore.
She didn't ask what he'd done for the Dominion. She didn't want to know yet.
Instead, she said, "There's a clinic. Outside the city. In the Red Line sector. I've been trying to get there. They have supplies. Medicine."
Kael nodded slowly. "You'll never make it alone."
"I don't have a choice."
"I'll take you."
Amara blinked. "Why?"
Kael stood, slinging his rifle over his shoulder.
"Because I owe the world something. And maybe this is how I start paying it back."
Outside, the crimson skies loomed—eternal and merciless.
But inside the broken shell of the old station, two survivors sat in uneasy truce.
The healer with haunted hands.
The soldier with too much blood on his.
And a boy who still dreamed of something better.