DECISIONS MADE

 YEAR 2040 

LOCATION: ????? CITY

The city was drowning in smoke and neon.

Skyscrapers, once towering monuments to progress, now stood like broken tombstones, their glass facades shattered, steel skeletons exposed to the elements. Fires burned unchecked in the distance, their glow licking at the night sky like the tongues of starving beasts. Airships hovered overhead, their spotlights sweeping through the ruins, scanning for movement—friend or foe, it hardly mattered anymore.

The streets were soaked in blood.

Bodies lay where they had fallen—some fresh, others rotting. Civilians, soldiers, scavengers—it made no difference. Their corpses bloated under flickering neon signs, their faces frozen in expressions of agony. Rats feasted on the remains, their fur slick with crimson. The stench of death mixed with the fumes of burning fuel, creating a smell that clung to the lungs like a disease.

And yet, despite all this.

 This city remained as one of the few places where people still clung to the illusion of safety.

Smoke curls into the air, mixing with the neon glow of flickering billboards—half-functional, their screens shattered by gunfire and seared by explosions.

BZZT. 

Static crackles over the speakers as the news broadcast struggles to play. The footage is shaky, filmed by a drone drifting over what used to be a city.

ON SCREEN:

A burning kingdom.

 The streets are flooded with debris, and cars are overturned and charred beyond recognition. Fires rage in the distance, casting violent orange streaks against the darkness.

The camera tilts downward—

Bodies.

The streets are filled with them. Men, women, children. Some slumped against walls, others piled in heaps. Their limbs are twisted at unnatural angles, eyes frozen wide in terror.

The broadcast cuts to a closer shot.

A soldier, his armor melted into his skin, mouth frozen in a scream that will never end. Beside him, a woman's body is peeled open—not from bullets, but something else. Something far worse.

The footage flickers.

NEW IMAGE:

A wide shot of towering warships, hovering just beyond the planet's atmosphere. They loom like silent gods of destruction, their underbellies glowing with charging energy.

The voice of a news anchor tries to break through the static, clipped and robotic.

ANCHOR (V.O.)

(Glitching) —civilians advised to remain indoors—repeat, global casualties—critical breach detected—

The camera tilts again—

A man, barely alive, drags himself through the blood-soaked pavement. His eyes lock onto the camera, his lips forming silent words before his body jerks—

A SHADOW LOOMS.

The feed abruptly cuts to black.

LOCATION : ????

A military barrack—no, something larger. A war front. A fortress of steel and concrete, pulsating with power.

Inside, soldiers moved with purpose. Some were fresh recruits, their faces still holding a trace of innocence that would soon be burned away. 

Others were veterans, their eyes hollowed, their bodies scarred, their souls burdened by what they had seen, what they had done. The air smelled of sweat, gun oil, and something metallic—blood, dried and fresh, clinging to the very walls.

Footsteps echoed in a dimly lit hallway.

Petrov walked with measured steps, his boots striking the cold floor in steady rhythm. In his hands, a datapad—his fingers curled around it with just a little too much force. His jaw was locked tight, his breath controlled. But the deeper he moved into the fortress, the more suffocating the air became.

The hallway hums with electricity. The glow of holographic monitors casts sharp blue light on the metal walls.

DATA STREAMS FLOW:

— Enemy positions shifting. Red blips creeping toward safe zones.

— Supply chains thinning. Markers blinking yellow, then red.

— Casualty numbers climbing. Too fast. Too constant.

A group of officers moves with urgency, their voices clipped, tense.

COMMAND CENTER – LIVE FEED

Inside, the main room is a storm of movement. Officers at stations, analysts running models, radios buzzing with reports.

RADIO OPERATOR (strained)

We've lost contact with Unit Bravo at Grid 26. No response for the last five minutes—

TACTICAL OFFICER (cutting in)

That sector's compromised. Mark it black.

A soldier types rapidly. The map on the central war table updates—a bright red circle expands over Grid 26. Another zone lost.

GENERAL  (gruff, pacing)

How the hell did they break through that fast?

A hologram flickers, revealing LIVE FEED FOOTAGE—bodies strewn across a trench, their armor shredded, blackened. No gunfire wounds. Something else tore through them.

COMMS OFFICER (rushed, into headset)

All units near Grid 26, fall back! I repeat, fall back! We are losing ground—

GROUND UNIT (V.O.) (desperate, over radio)

—we can't—Jesus, they're moving too fast—AARGH—!

STATIC.

The room goes silent.

Everyone knows what that means.

Hanover's jaw tightens. He turns, barking orders before anyone can hesitate.

GENERAL 

Divert Omega squad to reinforce the southern perimeter. Deploy heavy artillery at Grid 27—we hold that line, no matter what. If we lose it, we lose the corridor to HQ.

TACTICAL OFFICER (typing fast)

Redirecting Omega now. Artillery en route. ETA—four minutes.

Another officer turns from his screen, face grim.

INTEL ANALYST

Sir... we have movement near Outpost Theta.

A hush falls.

They shouldn't have movement there. Not yet.

The hologram updates. Red markers begin swarming over Theta's location.

It's already too late.

Petrov continues on to his destination .

At the end of the hall stood a door.

Not just any room. His room.

Petrov's grip on the datapad tightened. He had faced death. He had stared down execution squads, had slit throats in the dead of night, had watched comrades be torn apart by artillery fire. Yet nothing—nothing—compared to the feeling of stepping into that room.

It was like walking into the maw of a beast.

His throat felt dry. His heartbeat steady, but loud. He hated this part. Hated how, despite all his training, his body betrayed him with these involuntary signs of fear. He forced himself to breathe, forced himself to move.

He entered.

The air inside was thick. It carried an unspoken weight, pressing against his skin, sinking into his bones. The walls felt like they were watching. The lighting was minimal, save for the soft blue glow of the war map hovering in the center. It cast shifting shadows across the floor, bleeding across the room like phantom wounds.

Red lines spread across the map, creeping, devouring. The front was crumbling.

And then, there was him.

The man in the chair.

Petrov could barely see him at first. The shadows clung to him, shrouding his features, but his presence was undeniable. It was suffocating. Commanding. Heavy in a way that no title or rank could replicate.

He sat motionless. Not slouched, not at ease—waiting. A coiled predator.

Petrov swallowed the knot in his throat and stepped forward.

"Do not falter."

"Do not stammer."

"Do not show fear."

"Sir, the latest report."

His voice was steady, but his fingers betrayed him—a twitch. Almost unnoticeable, but he knew he noticed. He always noticed.

For a moment, there was only silence.

Then, a shift.

The man in the chair moved—just slightly. Just enough for the dim light to graze the edge of his face.

A strong jawline. A hint of scars. Eyes that swallowed the light whole.

Void.

His build was massive—larger than Petrov remembered. Not bloated with excess, but refined, sculpted by war itself. Every inch of him was built for violence, for survival. He was less a man, more a weapon honed to its deadliest form.

He took the datapad from Petrov's hand.

Even in that simple motion, there was something unsettling about him. A stillness. A quiet calculation, as if every movement was deliberate, measured, controlled.

Petrov stood at attention, forcing himself still, fighting the instinctual urge to take a step back. His breath felt too loud in his own ears.

The man scanned the data. His face betrayed nothing.

Then, he spoke.

His voice was deep. Controlled. Weighted with something that made Petrov's stomach twist.

"Casualty numbers are higher than projected."

It wasn't a question. It wasn't even disappointment. It was an observation. A confirmation of what was already inevitable.

Petrov straightened. "Yes, sir. The enemy's tactics are evolving faster than anticipated. We—"

"No excuses."

The words came like a knife. A sharp cut. A dismissal of justification.

Petrov swallowed hard.

"Adapt."

Petrov hesitated—a second too long.

A shift in the shadows. The faintest flex of fingers.

He forced himself to nod. "Yes, sir."

There was another pause. The silence itself felt like it had teeth.

Petrov's thoughts raced, but none of them led to safety. Only memories.

Memories of a different man.

A man who once laughed. A man who once bled with his men. A man who once cared.

This was not that man.

This was something else.

And as Petrov turned to leave, as he stepped back into the cold hallway, his thoughts whispered the words that had haunted him for years.

"What have you become, Arin?"

PRESENT:

The faint hum of the city filtered through the cracks in the window—a distant sound of sirens, construction whirring, and the occasional low roar of machinery. The world outside was still trying to rebuild itself, still learning how to function in the aftermath of the Shift.

But inside this dimly lit apartment, time seemed to move slower.

The smell of brewing coffee mingled with the crisp morning air as Maya stood by the kitchen counter, absently stirring a cup that she hadn't taken a sip from yet. The steam curled upward, disappearing into the space between them.

Arin sat at the small dining table, one hand idly tapping against the metal surface, the other hovering just above the datapad between them. The glow from its screen flickered faintly, illuminating the sharp lines of his face—jaw tense, brows furrowed, eyes locked on the device as if it held the answer to everything.

Maya had seen him like this before. 

Scared .

She sighed, glancing at him before shifting her focus back to her untouched coffee.

 "You haven't eaten anything," she murmured.

Arin barely reacted.

"You do this when you're thinking too much," she added, her tone softer now.

Still, nothing.

Maya set her mug down with a deliberate clink and walked over to the table, arms crossed. "Arin."

Finally, he blinked, exhaling through his nose before rubbing a hand down his face.

 "I'm not hungry."

"That's not what I asked."

Silence.

She pulled out the chair across from him, sitting down slowly, eyes flickering between him and the datapad.

"We need to decide," she said, finally breaking the quiet.

Arin leaned back, his chair creaking slightly. "You don't think we can handle this ourselves?"

Maya let out a slow breath. "I think we don't even know what this is yet."

 She gestured at the datapad, the glow reflecting in her tired eyes.

" Maybe it was just some psychotic episode he had" she said

"Maya, I showed you the files, there is somethin-" before Arin could finish

 Maya interrupted.

"Well I don't want it to be" with a tear in her voice

"Maya"

"He tried to kill you ,Arin!" she nearly shouted.

"and he knows something about it like , this might go way deep than we think"

 "And throwing it at that Yukimura without knowing how deep this goes? That's a risk."

Arin exhaled sharply, resting his elbows on the table. "So we just sit on it? "

 His voice had an edge—impatience, frustration.

 Desperation. 

He had always been like this. If there was a door in front of him, he needed to know what was behind it, even if it meant breaking it down.

Maya frowned. "You're not thinking straight."

Arin scoffed, shaking his head. "I know exactly what I'm thinking."

"No, you don't," she shot back, leaning forward. 

"After what happened with Petrov, do you really think this is just about us anymore? He tried to kill you, Arin. And now we have this?" 

She motioned toward the datapad again, as if it was some cursed object neither of them wanted to touch too long. 

"We don't even know if Yukimura can be trusted, but trying to handle this on our own? and if it is something deeper ,That could be worse."

Arin's expression darkened. He knew she wasn't wrong, but admitting that felt like giving up control.

His fingers curled into fists. "Dad went to Gaurav, didn't he?"

Maya hesitated. "Yeah," she said finally. "Your father wanted to get ahead of this before it spirals out of control."

Arin's jaw clenched. His father had always been like that—calculated, decisive, a man who saw three moves ahead when everyone else was still making their first.

 But  This was another matter entirely.

"He thinks Gaurav will fix this?" Arin asked, voice low.

"He thinks Gaurav will contain it."

Maya's fingers toyed with the rim of her coffee mug. She wasn't sure what was the right move here. But she did know one thing: 

Arin was chasing something dangerous.

"You've been looking for the something since the Shift," she said softly. "I get it. I know how much this means to you. But I also know..." She exhaled, searching for the right words. 

"I know you're more excited about uncovering the truth than worrying about what it might cost. this is thrilling for you."

Arin stilled.

"I see it in you," Maya continued, voice quiet but firm. "That need to know. It's always been there, but ever since the world changed—it's like you need to understand it to feel like you still belong in it."

Arin swallowed, looking away for the first time.

He hated that she could read him like this.

Maya reached out, placing a hand over his. "You're still here. You're still you. But if you go too far—if you chase this without thinking about what it might cost—will that still be true?"

His fingers hovered over the datapad, the weight of it feeling different now.

Maya let out a slow, measured sigh, rubbing her temples as if trying to knead away the frustration building behind her eyes. She wasn't angry—not exactly. It was more of that sinking feeling she always got when talking to Arin about things like this.

Things that mattered.

She took a deep breath, straightening up. "I'm heading out," she said, grabbing her jacket from the chair. "We need food. I'll get some groceries."

Arin barely reacted, still staring at the datapad, fingers tapping against the table in an erratic rhythm.

Maya hesitated for a second, watching him, waiting for him to say something. But he didn't.

Typical.

She didn't push it. She just nodded to herself and left, the door clicking shut behind her.

 MOMENTS LATER

The silence stretched, thick and heavy. The distant hum of the city outside barely reached him.

Arin inhaled deeply through his nose and then exhaled through his mouth. He rolled his shoulders back, loosened his stance, and started moving.

His fists snapped through the air in quick, precise motions. 

Shadowboxing.

An old habit. A way to clear his head when the weight of things became too much.

Jab. Jab. Cross. Slip. Step back. Pivot.

His muscles moved on instinct, each motion ingrained into his body after years of practice. He could feel the tension unraveling as his fists cut through the empty space, the dull thud of his bare feet against the floor the only real sound in the room.

For a few minutes, it was just this.

Just movement.

Just control.

Because right now, everything else felt like it was slipping out of his hands.

TWO HOURS EARLIER WITH RAJIV 

The office of the unfinished construction site was dimly lit, the overhead bulbs flickering intermittently. It smelled of dust, old metal, and faint traces of cigarette smoke—a temporary meeting space repurposed for a far more pressing matter.

Gaurav sat at the edge of his desk, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. The long shadows cast by the uneven lighting made the lines on his face look deeper, adding to the weight in the room. Rajiv, rigid with barely contained anger, sat across from him in a worn-out chair, his fingers interlaced in an attempt to keep his hands steady.

Near the door, Petrov stood with his usual air of indifference, though this time, his smirk was gone. His face was cold, unreadable, his stance relaxed yet deliberate. He wasn't apologetic. He wasn't defensive. If anything, he was simply waiting.

And then there was Carter—the quiet observer. He stood off to the side, arms at his sides, his presence serving only one purpose: witness.

The silence had stretched between them, thick and suffocating, until Gaurav finally spoke, his voice deceptively calm.

"So let me get this straight—Petrov, you attacked Arin? On my site?"

There was an unmistakable edge to his words. A warning.

Petrov exhaled through his nose, his response effortless

"Wasn't personal."

Rajiv's restraint shattered. His voice rose, sharp and unforgiving.

"The hell it wasn't."

His chair scraped against the concrete as he leaned forward, eyes locked onto Petrov with undisguised fury.

"You jumped my son. Don't stand there acting like it was nothing."

Carter shifted uncomfortably, his gaze flickering between them. He had seen what happened—Petrov had struck first, and there was no mistaking his intent. Arin hadn't gone looking for a fight. 

But he had been given one.

Gaurav's fingers tapped rhythmically against his arm, his patience thinner than he let on.

"Explain yourself, Petrov. Why?"

Petrov's gaze flicked briefly to Rajiv, then to Carter, before returning to Gaurav.

"Kid was poking where he shouldn't be."

"Thought I'd... discourage him."

A beat of silence followed, heavy with implication.

Gaurav's jaw tightened. Petrov had always been useful—resourceful, connected, a man who understood the necessities of the world they lived in now. But this? This was reckless. Uncalculated.

"And what exactly was he poking into?"

Petrov didn't answer immediately. That, in itself, was an answer.

Rajiv's glare sharpened. His fingers clenched into fists.

"And?" His voice was quieter now, but no less intense. "What are you going to do about it?"

For the first time, Gaurav hesitated. Not out of uncertainty, but calculation.

He was many things—an engineer, a businessman, a man who had spent a year designing structures meant to last centuries. 

But in this new world, 

strength wasn't in creation. It was in control.

There were rules—but only the ones people were willing to enforce.

Finally, he spoke.

"This stops here."

His tone brokered no argument. His eyes swept between them, settling on Petrov.

"No more attacks. No more... 'discouragement.' If I hear about anything else happening, there will be consequences."

Petrov let out a slow breath, his expression unreadable. He didn't argue. He had gotten his warning.

Rajiv, however, wasn't satisfied. His lips pressed into a thin line, but he gave a slow, reluctant nod. He would handle this in his own way if he had to.

Carter exhaled, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. He had done his part, spoken up when it mattered.