A sharp gasp tore from his lips as he jolted awake, lungs burning as if he'd been drowning moments before. His body convulsed, raw energy surging through his veins, each pulse syncing with the pounding in his skull. But none of it compared to the overwhelming sensation of simply being alive.
For a moment, he didn't recognize where he was.
A stark white ceiling loomed overhead, unfamiliar and sterile, bathed in a faint bluish glow. His limbs felt heavy, strapped down by thick metallic restraints that pinned him to a rigid hospital bed.
Wires snaked from his chest and arms, connecting him to sleek monitors that pulsed with indecipherable data in cold, rhythmic beats.
His breath came in short, ragged gasps as he struggled to process his surroundings.
The air was too clean—sterile in a way that felt unnatural, almost suffocating. The constant hum of machinery buzzed around him, a mechanical heartbeat that only deepened his disorientation.
'Where the hell am I?'
"Ezra Valentine. Age sixteen. Born February fourteenth. The boy who survived six months in the forests of District Five after the breach of the walls."
The deep, unfamiliar voice sliced through the haze like a blade.
Ezra's gaze snapped to the side, muscles tensing instinctively against the restraints. A figure sat just beyond the glow of the monitors, silhouetted against the dim, sterile light, flipping through a folder.
The man was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a sleek black uniform lined with silver embroidery. Medals gleamed faintly on his chest, though Ezra didn't recognize their meaning.
His sharp, chiseled features were impassive, carved from stone—but what unsettled Ezra were his eyes. Two different colors. One blue, one green. Piercing. Unblinking. Thin glass frames perched on his nose, giving him an air of cold precision.
A dark trench coat draped over his shoulders, the high collar framing his face and amplifying his already imposing presence. He exuded authority—a cold, absolute dominance that spoke of someone accustomed to command. A military cap rested on his head, adorned with a crest that gleamed ominously in the low light.
Despite his aura of power, the man looked young—late twenties, early thirties at most. But there was a calculated stillness in his posture, like a predator waiting for its prey to move.
Ezra squinted, noticing a pale line crossing the man's eyebrow. At first, he thought it was a scar, but no—it was white hair, blending seamlessly into his skin. Strands of muted pink slipped from beneath the cap, catching the faint glow of the monitors.
'Strangely handsome,' Ezra noted bitterly, though the thought brought no comfort.
"You're awake sooner than I expected," the man observed, his tone neutral, almost bored.
Ezra strained against the restraints, his pulse pounding in his ears. His breath came in sharp, ragged bursts as he fought to steady himself.
"Who the hell are you?" he rasped, his voice hoarse from disuse but laced with defiance.
The man didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stood, his movements precise and measured, each step carrying the weight of authority.
"You've been unconscious for a while. Given your condition, most wouldn't have survived." His gaze flicked to the monitors, then back to Ezra. "But you're not most people, are you?"
Ezra's muscles tensed. "Where am I?"
The man's lips curled ever so slightly.
"Nexus HQ. Inner District." His tone carried a faint trace of amusement. "Where most people would kill to even catch a glimpse."
Ezra's body went rigid.
Nexus.
He'd heard whispers—rumors of Nexus. A faction beyond mortal nations, operating in the shadows, pulling strings that made kings and emperors dance. No one knew who controlled Nexus. Only that they existed above all. A force that influenced wars, politics, power struggles—untouchable, unseen.
And now, somehow, he was in their grasp.
"How did you manage to kill a Dread Reaver?"
Ezra blinked, the words barely registering through the fog in his mind. "Kill what?"
The man let out a quiet, almost amused breath. "A Dread Reaver. Big brute. Ugly thing, too." He removed his military cap, running a hand through his hair.
Ezra's gaze flickered to the man's head—short, pink curls catching the sterile light, with a stark white streak running through, almost like a scar cutting across his scalp.
"And you did it as an unawakened," the man continued, his mismatched eyes narrowing slightly. "That's the part I don't get."
He paused, letting the words hang in the sterile air before leaning in slightly.
"Someone like you should've been dead. But you managed to survive." His gaze sharpened. "Why is that?"
Ezra exhaled sharply, his mind racing.
"Why am I here?"
The man sighed, as if the question bored him. He tilted his head slightly, assessing Ezra.
"You're not the sharpest, are you?" His mismatched eyes glinted under the sterile light. "That depends—what's the last thing you remember?"
Ezra hesitated. His memories were fractured, scattered like shards of broken glass. The abomination. The tree. The endless cycle of death. The shard.
His breath hitched.
"I was… fighting," he muttered, his fingers twitching against the restraints.
Something flickered across the man's face—gone as quickly as it appeared. "Then you do remember."
Ezra's eyes narrowed. "Remember what?"
The man stepped closer, leaning in just enough for Ezra to see him clearly under the dim light.
"That you died."
A cold chill crawled down Ezra's spine.
The man straightened, his expression unreadable. "You were brought in, barely clinging to life. Your resonance was unstable. By all accounts, you should have been dead. But somehow…" He let the words hang in the air, heavy with meaning. "Somehow, you survived something no one else should have."
His mismatched eyes locked onto Ezra's, sharp and unyielding.
"And Nexus doesn't believe in coincidences."
Ezra swallowed hard. "What do you want from me?"
The man regarded him for a long, silent moment. Then, finally, he spoke.
"To see if you are truly one of us."
The words sent a bolt of unease through Ezra. 'One of them?'
The man's expression shifted—just slightly.
"Good news is," he continued, his tone casual, almost indifferent, "you might actually survive what comes next."
Before Ezra could ask what that meant, the restraints hissed and snapped open.
Ezra sat up slowly, his limbs heavy, his muscles sluggish and stiff. His skin felt too hot, his blood too heavy, as if something inside him had been altered.
He met the man's gaze, his throat dry. "And the bad news?"
The man smirked, but there was no warmth in it. Only a cold certainty.
"The bad news, Ezra Valentine, is that you're no longer just some stray caught in the storm." He turned, gesturing toward the door. "You belong to Nexus now."
The door slid open with a quiet hum, revealing a corridor bathed in that same sterile, bluish glow.
The man paused at the threshold, glancing back over his shoulder.
"Welcome to your new reality."