Stronghold Number 5
District Red
In a small, sterile hospital room, a boy of no more than fifteen or sixteen lay on a bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. His blonde hair was messy, and his skin was pale and rough from his harsh lifestyle in the slums. Blue eyes that should've been full of youthful energy were instead hollow, drained of life. He was thin—too thin for his age. His expression carried no hope, just an empty detachment from the world.
Beside him, a female doctor, wearing a white coat and a tired expression of her own, was examining his vitals. She glanced down at her tablet, checking the data as she gently poked and prodded at the boy's body, ticking boxes on the digital screen.
"Name: Jamie. No last name. Orphan since a young age. Blood type: B. Gender: male. Severely underweight and malnourished. No sponsor from any house or corporation. Age: sixteen. No siblings."
She rattled off the details as if Jamie didn't already know them by heart. To him, it was clear from all his personal details that he was a nobody. He had nothing to offer this world, and the world had made it very clear it had nothing to offer him. In the hierarchy of the strongholds, Jamie was less than nobody—a ghost in the database of the Zodiac Houses, unworthy of attention.
As the doctor continued her assessment, Jamie turned his gaze out the window. The sky was overcast, the autumn leaves swirling in the wind. He watched the brown and red leaves fall, one after another, until they were gone. He imagined the arrival of spring, a fresh start. He wondered if, in another life, he could have been something more.
"What's the point?" Jamie muttered under his breath. He knew he was going to die soon, and it wouldn't be pretty.
"Jamie, would you like something to eat or drink? Maybe something to help you sleep better?" the doctor asked, her tone clinical, but with a hint of compassion.
"Beer."
The doctor didn't laugh at his weak attempt at humor. Instead, she responded matter-of-factly, "We don't serve beer here, but we do have something that tastes similar—non-alcoholic. It's common for people your age to ask for it before the trial. It's become somewhat of a tradition."
Jamie snorted. "What's the point if it doesn't affect your mind?"
The doctor frowned but didn't argue. She had seen many like Jamie—kids from the lower rungs of society, born into a world that had already failed them. Many had no background, no education, and no future. They were just children and hadn't even passed their teenage years. For them, participating in the Trial Record, a brutal test, was a nightmare. They had already seen themselves dead before the trial even began. But the chance for survival was also a temptation that would either awaken them with new powers or leave them dead. For someone like Jamie, hope was a dangerous thing.
She handed him a small protein drink instead. "This will help with your physical state. You'll need all the strength you can get if you want to survive the trial. And don't think of this as the end—it's just a test. If you pass, your life will change. You're not sick, and you're not cursed. What you need more than anything is belief in yourself. That's the key. My parents always told me: Know thyself. It's what got me through the toughest times."
Jamie rolled his eyes, annoyed. Bragging about having parents to an orphan wasn't exactly the best way to lift his spirits. But he stayed silent, letting her words wash over him. Deep down, a small part of him wanted to believe she was right—that there was something inside him worth saving. But it was hard to hold onto that when life had done nothing but show him otherwise.
The doctor placed a small clock next to the hospital bed and strapped a metal band around his arm. It was cold and tight, digging into his skin. The prick of a needle followed as blood was drawn, though that wasn't the only purpose of the device. It was also a failsafe, a way to end his life if the trial went wrong.
Jamie knew what was coming. He had seen others go through it before. The Record Stories were more than just dreams—they were battles for survival inside a twisted narrative. Each sleeper who entered was forced to play a role in a randomly selected genre. Some got easy ones, like romance or mystery, but others… others were thrown into horrors beyond imagination. The goal was to complete the story, to make it to the end without breaking. Those who survived were granted a power—an Actor's grace—something that could be used to defend humanity against the End Devourers.
But those who failed? They either died in their sleep or woke up transformed—twisted into monstrous versions of themselves, joining the very creatures they had been meant to fight.
Jamie had no illusions about his odds. He wasn't special, wasn't loved, wasn't anything. The doctor's words of encouragement meant little to him. The reality was that people like him—those without sponsors, without a name or a place in society—weren't expected to survive. They were cannon fodder, thrown into the trial to fill a quota. The strong would rise, the weak would perish.
The clock beside him ticked louder in the silence. His heart rate monitor beeped steadily, but his mind was racing. What kind of story would he face? Would he even have a chance?
As the doctor finished her examination, she gave him one last look, something resembling pity in her eyes. "You still have time, Jamie. Time to change your fate. Don't give up before it starts."
He didn't respond. Instead, he looked back out the window, watching the last of the autumn leaves fall. Maybe, just maybe, there was still a chance to be reborn into something new.
But in this world, hope was a dangerous thing.