The artificial sun of Dome-7 flickered slightly, a reminder that even the light in this world was fake. The slums bustled with workers heading to their shifts at Red Bolt Industries, their faces dull with exhaustion. But today, Leon wasn't thinking about work. His mind was somewhere else—on the letter left at his doorstep.
It was a simple piece of paper, folded neatly and written in Iris's sharp, precise handwriting:
Leon,
By the time you read this, I'll be gone.
I'm going back to Earth to join the Tanker Division. This was always the plan, but I didn't want to tell you until it was final. I know you'll be mad, but I couldn't wait any longer.
Don't stop training. You're the only Martian I know who refuses to accept his limits. Keep pushing. Keep fighting. Maybe one day, we'll see each other on Earth.
— Iris
Leon clenched the letter in his hands, his fingers trembling.
She was gone.
Just like that.
No goodbye. No chance to argue. No chance to ask her to stay.
He let out a slow breath, staring at the gray metal walls of his tiny apartment. The air felt heavier than usual.
For the past year, Iris had been the only person who believed in his dream. Now she was on Earth, while he was still stuck in the dust-choked streets of Mars, working a dead-end job.
His fingers tightened around the letter.
No. I can't just accept this.
He turned toward the battered compound bow leaning against the wall. The same bow he had practiced with every night in secret. The same bow that reminded him how weak he still was.
He grabbed it.
The alley was quiet, save for the distant hum of factory machines. Leon stood in his usual practice spot, facing a row of battered metal targets. He nocked an arrow, squinting hard at the blurry shapes in the distance.
His eyesight was terrible. Always had been.
Martians weren't made for precision. The artificial light of the dome had ruined their vision over generations, making it nearly impossible to see fine details or distant targets. It was why no Martian had ever become an archer.
But Leon refused to let that stop him.
He pulled back the bowstring.
Breathe. Focus. Feel the arrow, not just the target.
The world around him blurred, but he trusted his instincts. He released.
The arrow clanged off the edge of the target. Another miss.
Leon cursed under his breath.
He couldn't keep training like this. If he wanted to get better, he needed real equipment, real guidance—things he could only find on Earth.
His mind raced.
There was only one way off Mars.
The Space Bus
At the edge of the slums, past the abandoned factories and rusted water tanks, there was a place called The Hollow—a lawless district where smugglers, criminals, and desperate dreamers gathered. It was there that Leon had heard whispers of an underground transport system to Earth.
A cheap space bus.
It was the only legal transport for Martians who weren't rich enough to afford a corporate permit. But it had a brutal reputation—outdated ships, malfunctioning life support systems, and a high rate of failure mid-flight.
Most people who boarded never made it to Earth.
Still, it was the only option.
Leon's hands tightened around his bow.
He could stay on Mars, live out his life working in a factory, and die without ever seeing Earth.
Or he could take the risk.
Leon turned the letter over, staring at the empty backside of the page.
"Iris did what she had to do," he muttered. "Now it's my turn."
If he was going to make it to Earth, he needed a plan. He needed money for the ticket. He needed a weapon to defend himself if things went bad. And most of all—he needed to find The Hollow.
A dangerous road lay ahead.
But he was ready to take the first step.