Chapter 2 – Someone Waiting

The hospital doors groaned as they swung open, sunlight spilling into the dim corridor behind him like a slow, reluctant confession. Dust spiraled in the air, catching the golden hue of the setting sun. He stepped out, his legs still trembling, a dull ache buzzing through his joints. He squinted.

To his left, the cracked road stretched into a tangle of collapsed buildings and broken streetlights. To his right, it disappeared into a hollow mist that made even the air look tired. Forward—more of the same. Desolate. Empty.

He stood still, the wind tugging at his thin hospital robe.

"Where am I?" he whispered.

The world had become a skeleton of itself. Time had scraped it bare. The buildings leaned like old men about to fall over. Cars, half-rusted, were frozen in place—some crushed under rubble, others with shattered windows, stripped to metal bones. There was no blood, no bodies, no heat of panic. Just… abandonment.

Then he saw it.

A body, slumped across the cracked sidewalk in the distance. It didn't look fresh. Crows—no, things like crows—were clustered around it. He stepped closer, curious despite himself. They flapped their wings but didn't flee. Their eyes glowed faintly.

And they had horns.

Each of the black-feathered creatures sported a different kind. One had small spirals like a ram's. Another, sharp white antlers splitting from its brow. He recoiled slightly. "That's not right," he muttered.

Above, the sky was smeared with fog. Two suns hung in the haze—one full, golden and descending, the other a half-orb of muted warmth behind it, like a ghost moon refusing to leave. The horizon shimmered faintly with heat. Or maybe something else.

He looked down.

A tag on his robe.

Printed in faded ink: Niko.

"Oh," he muttered. "So that's my name. I guess… I'm Niko, then."

The name felt true, though it stirred nothing else. No memories. No images. Just… a quiet certainty. Everything else was blank.

He exhaled slowly. "What happened while I was asleep?"

That memory, that strange fight… The thing—the nurse—Nullborn. That was the name the log had given it. And that screen—no, that message that appeared after it died. It hadn't glowed, not like a hologram. It had felt… real, but not physical. A thought pushed into the air.

He hadn't touched it. It had vanished before he could try.

"Essentia…" he whispered. "What is it? Power?"

He clenched his fists, then winced at the sharp pain still trailing through his arms. He wasn't healed. Not completely. He was still weak. But he could walk. He looked left. Then right. Then forward again. Each road stretched into decay. Which way should he go? He didn't want to pick the wrong path. Not when each direction looked equally dead.

His heartbeat picked up.

"Where the hell do I go?"

He felt it then.

A flicker.

His vision blurred slightly. Not out of pain—but something shifted. The world dulled… except for one spot. To his left. Faint, but there. A shimmer. A hue. Like heatwaves rising off the road. A soft, distant glow only he could see.

His breath caught. His instincts surged. That place… felt right. As if someone—or something—was calling him.

Without thinking, he turned left.

---

He walked for what felt like hours. The mist never cleared entirely. It clung to the ruins like cobwebs, thick and warm. Somewhere in the distance, he heard metal creaking. Or maybe it was just the wind playing tricks.

Eventually, the shimmer grew stronger.

There—a wall.

Cracked and worn, but still standing. Concrete wrapped around a small stretch of buildings. Watchtowers loomed above. No guards. No signs of life.

A gate, half open.

He approached cautiously. No alarms. No sounds.

"Where is everyone?" he muttered. "Don't they care about the Nullborns?"

Maybe he was imagining them. Maybe he was going mad.

Still, he slipped through the gate.

Inside the walls, the streets were cleaner. Not perfect—but less decay, less chaos. Someone had been maintaining this place. Recently.

He passed what looked like a market. Most shops were closed, shutters drawn down. One, however, caught his eye. A small clothing store, its glass cracked but not broken. Shirts and coats hung inside, bathed in dim orange light from the setting sun.

He stepped in.

Rows of worn clothing lined the racks. A small bell jingled.

Footsteps.

No one stopped him at first. His eyes scanned the racks. So many choices. He reached toward a dark gray shirt.

"Hey!" a voice barked.

An older man with thinning hair stormed from behind the counter, eyes wide with disgust. "What do you think you're doing?"

"You think you can just walk in here and take things?

Niko froze. He hadn't even realized he was reaching out.

"I—I just…"

The man's hand reached for something under the counter. "Don't make me call the guards."

Niko stiffened. So they do have guards, he thought bitterly.

That's when the voice came.

"He's with me."

Another man stepped in through the doorway, taller, calm-eyed. Late thirties, shaggy dark hair, old jacket over a cleaner set of clothes. He moved like someone used to danger, but not in a hurry.

The shopkeeper hesitated. "Joran?"

Joran gave a quick nod. "It's fine. He's a friend."

Niko blinked. Friend?

Joran turned to him and smiled faintly. "Come on. Let's get you cleaned up."

"Mr. Ledo," Joran said, turning to the shopkeeper. "Can we get him something? He's had a rough time."

The shopkeeper, who had moments ago been ready to throw Niko out, straightened up immediately. "Of course, of course," he said, the scowl on his face replaced by a forced smile. "For you, Joran, always."

He gave Niko a once-over and wrinkled his nose slightly. "But the boy's still in that rag. And filthy, too." He gestured to a side hallway. "Bath's through there. We've still got running water. Hot, if the pipes are being kind today."

Niko opened his mouth to say something, but Ledo was already bustling behind the counter and pulling out a towel and a small bar of soap wrapped in paper.

"Go on," the man muttered, handing the items to Niko. "Don't try anything funny. I'll be checking inventory while you're in there."

Joran gave him a reassuring nod. "He's not that type."

The bath wasn't anything luxurious—just a small tiled room with a cracked mirror and a steel pipe showerhead—but it might as well have been a palace. The water was lukewarm at best, but it was clean. As he stood under the stream, watching dirt swirl down the drain in lazy spirals, Niko felt like some invisible weight was finally washing off of him.

He didn't linger. After drying off, he stepped back out into the shop.

Waiting on a bench beside the front counter was a small set of folded clothes. Mr. Ledo glanced at him, then gave a grunt of approval.

"Put those on," he said. "They'll fit."

The shirt was soft, slightly faded, and reminded Niko of something he might've seen in a storybook he couldn't quite remember. Familiar in a distant, fogged-up kind of way—simple, long-sleeved, with a loose collar and slightly rough stitching. Over it came a sleeveless jacket, dark brown, cut high at the shoulders with small clasps at the chest. The trousers were long and surprisingly well-fitted, with leather-lined seams and reinforced knees. There was even a belt.

Niko looked down at himself. He felt… human again.

"You clean up well, kid," Joran said with a small smile. "Better than most."

"Thanks," Niko muttered.

As they stepped toward the door, Mr. Ledo leaned on the counter and nodded to Joran. "Always a pleasure to be of help," he said. "Try not to vanish for another three months this time."

Joran chuckled. "No promises."

Outside, two guards stood leaning near a low metal railing, their rifles slung casually over their shoulders. One of them gave a nod when he spotted Joran.

"Glad to see you around again," the man said. "Feels safer when you're here."

Joran lifted a hand in casual greeting. "You're doing fine without me."

Niko blinked at the exchange. He looked between the guards and Joran, unsure what exactly Joran was to these people. A soldier? A hunter? Some kind of protector? The man didn't look like he belonged in charge—but everyone kept treating him like he did.

They moved on, walking through the quiet streets of the Shelter.

This place felt different from the ruins outside the walls. There was still decay—buildings with collapsed roofs, cables dangling like vines, faded murals flaking off brick—but life peeked through in small ways. A woman was sweeping the steps of a closed shop. A lantern burned faintly outside a food stall, its shutters halfway open. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked.

Most of the market was shuttered for the night. Fabric hung from awnings like tired flags. The stone-paved road beneath their feet was cracked but walkable. Moss grew between the stones. Here and there, they passed old posters glued to walls—many too faded to read, some with symbols that looked almost military.

"It's quiet," Niko said.

Joran nodded. "Yeah. Zaria's always is."

"Is that what this place is called?"

Joran smiled faintly. "Officially, yeah. But people call it something else."

They turned a corner where vines had climbed a broken signpost. The wind stirred slightly, carrying the scent of burnt wood and distant rain.

"The Shelter of Beginnings," Joran said. "That's what the rebels call it."

Niko slowed a step. "Rebels?"

Joran didn't answer right away.

"The ones who think there's still something worth fixing," he finally said. "They romanticize this place. Say it's where everything started."

Niko furrowed his brow. The name sounded… familiar. Like something from a video game. It stirred a weird mix of nostalgia and confusion in him.

"This all feels... made up," he muttered. "Like I'm inside a story someone else wrote."

"You kind of are," Joran said, only half-joking.

They walked in silence for a bit longer, the sky overhead darkening into a soft violet. The twin suns had set, but their afterglow still tinged the clouds.

Then, Niko's stomach growled.

Loudly.

Joran raised an eyebrow. "You must be hungry, kid."

Niko gave a sheepish nod.

Joran jerked his thumb toward a side alley. "Come on. I know a place."

They rounded another corner, and a small building came into view. Warm yellow light flickered from behind foggy windows. A wooden sign creaked above the door, half hanging by rusted chains. The lettering, barely legible, read: The Zar Bowl.

Inside, something smelled wonderful.

Niko's stomach growled again.

 CHAPTER END.

[Chapter Preview: Chapter 3 – "The Name I Carry"]

He sat across from Joran, steam rising from a chipped cup of soup. Clothes no longer clung to his skin like paper. The name tag was gone, but his name lingered in his mind now, heavier than it had ever been.

Niko.

He still didn't know who he was.

But maybe… now, he had someone who would help him find out.