The sky above Tokyo fractured first—a jagged tear of light ripping through reality. The portal hissed and churned like something alive, radiating a pressure that pressed down on every living thing for miles. And then, with a sound like a million panes of glass shattering, it spilled its horrors onto Earth.

Monsters. Some impossibly large, casting shadows that swallowed entire city blocks. Others small and fast, scuttling through streets with jaws filled with serrated teeth and claws that tore through concrete. Their alien forms defied logic—limbs that bent the wrong way, mouths that dripped glowing venom, and eyes that glowed with cruel, animal intelligence.

Humanity's weapons weren't enough. Bombs exploded, missiles screamed through the air, even nuclear warheads were detonated in a desperate bid to halt the invasion. Cities turned to wastelands, millions died, but the monsters learned. They were too fast, too strong, and—worst of all—too adaptable. A missile strike might kill one wave, but the next came faster, avoiding the blasts entirely.

It was carnage. 

By the time the second portal opened over Rio, the world was in chaos. Governments crumbled under the weight of the invasion. Borders meant nothing when no continent was spared. For every victory, humanity paid a cost in lives that it couldn't afford to lose.

But in the ruins of a laboratory in Beijing, a dying scientist stumbled upon something that changed everything. 

The discovery of the blood orb was humanity's first glimmer of hope. These pulsing spheres of raw energy, formed within the monsters' bodies at death, were unlike anything known to science. Attempts to harness their power were disastrous at first—early volunteers who consumed the orbs directly exploded in flashes of crimson light, their bodies unable to withstand the surge of energy.

It wasn't until the invention of the Catalyst Serum that humanity turned the tide. The Catalyst acted as a regulator, compressing the wild, volatile energy within the orbs into something humans could absorb. Those who survived the transformation were reborn as Phasers enhanced beings who could rival the monsters in speed, strength, and resilience. With every blood orb consumed, they grew stronger.

Humanity finally had a fighting chance. 

But even this progress came with costs. The serum wasn't cheap. Blood orbs weren't plentiful. And the process of becoming a Phaser was as dangerous as it was rewarding. For the vast majority, it remained out of reach a cruel lottery where only the wealthy or lucky could participate. 

For people like Loren, survival meant scraping by, every day a battle of its own.

---

The marketplace buzzed with noise—a cacophony of shouts, laughter, and bartering as traders hawked their wares under the dim glow of neon signs. The stench of sweat, rusted metal, and damp concrete hung heavy in the air. Overhead, makeshift tarps sagged under the weight of years of grime, filtering the light into a grimy haze. Somewhere in the distance, the familiar whine of a siren blared, followed by the unmistakable hiss of energy weapons. 

Loren ignored it. Sirens always meant trouble, but trouble was constant in a city like this. 

He leaned across the counter of a supply stall, his voice rising with every word. 

"*Seventy Geno points?* Are you kidding me? It was a hundred yesterday! How the hell does it jump to one-seventy overnight?" 

The trader, an old man with skin like worn leather and a perpetual sneer etched into his face, didn't even blink. He rested his elbows on the counter, shrugging lazily. "Market's shifted. Demand's high. Supply's low. You know how it is." 

"Bullshit!" Loren snapped, slamming his fist against the counter. The sound barely registered over the marketplace din. "I've been saving for *three years!* You can't just—" 

The trader raised a hand to cut him off, his expression turning sharp. "Listen, kid, I don't set the prices. I just follow 'em. You don't like it? There's the door." He jerked his thumb toward the curtain of frayed fabric that passed for a door.

Loren's hands curled into fists at his sides. He had worked tirelessly for this. For three years, he'd scrounged, scavenged, and saved every Geno point he could—dodging gangs, risking his life in monster-infested ruins, and surviving on scraps. All for this moment. All to buy the Catalyst he needed to safely absorb the blood orb fragment hidden in his pack.

Without it, the orb was useless. Worse than useless—it was a death sentence. Even in its fractured state, the energy within it was enough to tear him apart from the inside out if he tried to absorb it raw. He'd seen it happen before—a desperate scavenger who thought he could skip the Catalyst. The memory of the man's screams still haunted Loren's dreams.

"Look, kid." The trader sighed, leaning closer. "I get it. Times are tough. But there's always someone with deeper pockets." 

"Yeah? Well, they're not here, are they?" Loren shot back. 

The trader smirked. "Actually…" 

"Get out of the way!" 

The sharp, flat voice from behind Loren was the last thing he needed. His frustration boiled over as he turned, expecting to see another desperate scavenger like himself. Instead, his heart sank. 

The man behind him wasn't just anyone. Even though his face was hidden beneath a cloak, his imposing presence was undeniable. His broad shoulders and straight-backed posture screamed discipline. The edges of the cloak swayed slightly, hinting at a layer of armored plating beneath. This wasn't a scavenger or a merchant—this was someone dangerous. 

"Move," the cloaked man repeated, his voice low and controlled. 

Loren didn't budge, though his knees wobbled slightly. "Wait your turn," he spat, the words spilling out before he could think better of them. 

The trader, however, wasn't as bold. His expression changed in an instant—greed giving way to deference as he straightened and leaned forward across the counter. "Ah! Forgive me, sir, I didn't notice you there," he said quickly, his earlier smirk replaced by a fawning smile. 

"Just a moment, kid," the trader muttered, waving Loren aside without even looking at him. "Important business to handle." 

Loren stared at the trader, his anger flaring again. But as he glanced at the cloaked man, a cold realization struck him. This wasn't a fight he could win. 

Grinding his teeth, Loren stepped back, his hands balled into fists at his sides. His pack felt heavier than ever, the blood orb fragment within a cruel reminder of how close he'd come to his goal. 

The trader leaned closer to the cloaked man, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. Loren couldn't make out the words, but he didn't need to. The way the trader's eyes gleamed with excitement told him everything he needed to know. 

They were negotiating. 

Loren turned away, his chest tight with frustration. He didn't want to see it—the Catalyst slipping through his fingers, sold to someone who didn't have to scrape and struggle for every Geno point. 

But then, as he took his first step toward the exit, Loren froze. 

The trader's voice rose again, carrying across the market. "Ah, about that, sir. There's been a sudden shortage of Catalysts across the black market. Supply and demand, you know how it is. I'm afraid the price is now... four hundred Geno points." 

The air seemed to shift, the noise of the market dimming slightly as if the very world was holding its breath. Loren turned back just in time to see the cloaked man tilt his head slightly, his stance eerily calm. 

"You think doubling the price is wise?" the man asked, his voice so quiet it was almost a whisper. 

The trader's smirk returned, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Just business, sir. If you can't pay, someone else will." 

What happened next left Loren rooted to the spot. 

The cloaked man exhaled slowly, his shoulders rising and falling. And then, without a word, a wave of black tendrils erupted from beneath his cloak, twisting and writhing as they spread across the ground like living shadows. 

The counter shattered. 

The trader stumbled back, his face pale as the cloaked man stepped forward, his every movement radiating power. Loren could feel it even from several feet away—an oppressive, suffocating force that made his heart race. 

"Too late," the cloaked man said softly. 

The air in the market was thick with tension, every eye fixed on the scene unfolding before them. Loren's breath caught in his throat as he watched the tendrils of energy coil around the cloaked man's fists. 

For a fleeting moment, he wondered if the trader would survive the encounter. 

Then, the reality of the situation hit him. 

This isn't over. Not for me.