Zone 5-C housed the poorest in the base. Zones 2-5, sectioned around the center, were divided into regions that could be managed in the event of an outbreak or the appearance of a Rift. In the past, the protocol was to eliminate the entire section in case exposure to the Rift led to a mutation.

  Zones 2-4 were divided into three sections surrounding the center, while Zone 5 formed the outer ring, carrying the highest risk of elimination.

  Once an Infected appeared, it would spread like wildfire.

  Thankfully, symptoms appeared quickly in all recorded cases. Those returning from missions outside would be isolated in Zone 5–where the sacrifice would be minimal, not in quantity but in quality.

  The train rumbled into a torn station fastened with scraps. The lights flickered wildly along the filth-covered walls, rusted and covered in cobwebs.

  He walked towards the fenced gates bordering the station, blocking the cement staircase leading to the surface level. A guard was stationed behind a glass screen, lazily glancing at him with a yawn.

  "Identification?"

  Ian stood there blankly, and the guard sighed, shaking his head in irritation. "What's wrong with you? Scan your band underneath there—" He nodded at the blinking scanner positioned over a small gap in the window. "Hurry up. I haven't got all day."

  The Esper had changed Ian into regular clothes—loose jeans and a slightly oversized black windbreaker. His shirt was tight around his chest, strapped with a harness that kept two blades at his back, hidden underneath the jacket.

  He didn't know how to use knives, but the Esper had said he'd have a guilty conscience, leaving him weaponless.

  Ian didn't think that was possible. As if that bastard knew guilt.

  He pushed his wrist underneath, hearing the dull beep of the scanner. The guard squinted at his old monitor, coughing.

  "Coming from Zone 1? Guide F-28–what does that mean?" He sneered, fiddling with a small cylinder in his fingers. A puff of smoke filled the space, and Ian's nose wrinkled as wisps slipped out. "Looks like you were abandoned by your Esper, little Guide? A migration to this zone can't mean anything else."

  Ian stared unblinkingly, his cold black eyes unnerving. F-28, unknown. That fact registered in his mind. It was the facility's method of identifying Guides—

  —but did society not know of their existence?

  His eyes flickered with uncertainty. The guard's attitude told of the discrimination, but the air ghosted through the fence and prickled against Ian's skin.

  Too many unknowns.

  In the facility, he was strong—he knew the layouts, the location of every camera, the attitude, and the hierarchy.

  "Where do I go to make money?"

  The guard blinked at the abrupt question before throwing his head back with a guffaw. "Ha! What pretty cage have you wandered from? The base runs on a point system. Here, most take on outside missions to get by—though that's hardly suitable for a solo guide."

  Then, the guard leaned closer to the window with his square jaw covered in stubble. He blew out a puff, smoke seeping from the gap underneath.

  "You're a little on the more muscular side, ay? Not too bad, a bit simple but it's better that way, ain't it?" He coughed, waving his hand. Ian's pitch-black eyes stared back, like bottomless pools of the abyss. The guard frowned. "Your eyes, though, little guide, could sell for a pretty penny."

  Ian considered it, running a finger over his eyelid and brushing against his dense lashes.

  How painful would it be to pop it out? He was a poor, penniless man now, and the poor could only remain so or use all resources available. All he had was himself.

  The guard licked his lips. "How 'bout this? My shift is done in say, an hour or two. You wait here, and I'll treat you to a nice meal that'll keep you full for days."

  He wriggled his short, fat fingers between the gap suggestively.

  Ian lowered his eyes, flicking them back up. Then, in the blink of an eye, a blade slammed onto the counter with lightning speed, narrowly missing the guard's fingers.

  The booth trembled violently, and the guard froze in horror, feeling the slice of the sharpened blade scraping a thin layer of skin.

  His breath caught, and he choked on the smoke still in his throat.

  The simple Guide, tall and muscular, regarded him calmly. He leaned in, holding the hilt of the blade, and looked a little mournful.

  "You're too fucking ugly." Disgust swarmed in his gaze, and in the sea of black ink, nothing was disguised. Ian pulled away, yanking the blade that had embedded in the counter slightly. "Just looking is enough to make me want to hollow out my stomach."

  The crude words were spoken with the sharp edge of a blade, every word enunciated. The guard came to his senses, trembling with rage as he slammed his fist into the glass barrier.

  "You fucking—I'll wash your mouth with soap, you good for nothing Guide!"

  Ian already turned away, ignoring the shouting behind him. By the time the guard could escape the little box, he'd already be a distance away. Abandoning the post could result in punishment.

  Anyway—Ian's eyes flicked to the blade held securely in his hand—it wasn't a bad weapon. He could see why Lucian favoured it.

  He decided against his original plan of tossing it later.

  He left the station, passing the cracked walls that were dusted with dark hues of moss and dirt. Ants gathered in the corner over a rotten apple core.

  Zone 1, with the furthest development, had a magnificent city with towering buildings, made and scraped together of old materials, broken buildings, and the ones that remained standing. The electromagnetic field created a dome over the entire base, limiting the infiltration of mutations or disease that may escape the Rifts.

  Zone 5-C was the lowest point of living.

  Buildings stacked on top of each other, bleeding into another, broken and old lights strung together from building to building to create a glimpse of brightness when the night fell.

  It was the zone of old things—ratted tarps and blankets hung high to create shelter, chipped wood holding unsteady structures.

  Ian continued walking for a while, ignoring the curious gazes that attached to his black jacket, free of grime.

  He walked underneath tattered flags poking out of broken windows, through arches tilted at random spots along the sidewalk—if the sidewalk existed. There were people curled along the drains, clutching a blanket to their chest or nursing a loaf of stale bread.

  He didn't linger, didn't cast a second look of pity.

  But he looked—his clear, black pupils took in the scene before him. This was the surface—the lowest point in the base. In this place, named Humanity's Last Defense.

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  Of course, there were boundless worlds outside and other bases that met less success, less development, but perhaps they were happier. There might be those who survived the Rifts and Infected, retreating underground.

  All the unknowns haunted him, a phantom of possibility lingering.

  There was so much caving over him, and when he looked up at the skies—at the wisping clouds that streaked across the pale blue skies as if everything were right in the world, he felt as if he were trapped in a glass dome.

  The crescent moon and the rich red glaring sun remained firm in the skies, sitting a distance apart.

  A black trail followed the clouds' edges, polluting sections of the clear canvas.

  But for Ian, this was the sky.

  This was a whole, entire world.

  A giggle floated into his ear around the narrow alleyway of two buildings. A stack of crates obscured his vision as a small white object flew out of the space, soaring towards him.

  He reached out his hands, standing underneath a hanging tarp as the sunlight cascaded down half his face, and the object crashed into his open palms.

  There sat a paper airplane with crisp, even edges. There were little doodles in black and red pen. A smiley face looked at him from the wing. It was a good smiley face, Ian evaluated.

  A boy came darting out, his head turned back. "Hey, you threw it too far! The Director told us not to play in the pathway!"

  A girl's voice complained, echoing against the walls. "It's not my fault you remade my plane too well! Whatever!"

  "Are you complimenting or insulting me?" The boy laughed joyously, and in his distraction, collided with a pair of long, sturdy legs. His face squished, and he leaped back in fright.

  Ian blinked at the small child wearing brown shorts and a tucked-in shirt, all proper and neat despite the frayed edges.

  He sniffed, narrowing his round eyes at Ian before the lucid blue eyes fell onto his hand. "...!"

  Ian crouched down, holding out the plane. "This is yours."

  "It is." The boy remained a step away, carefully examining him. His feet were eager to rush up to the plane, but he eyed the adult warily. "I'm sorry for getting in your way."

  Ian tilted his head. "Why? It's a good-looking plane."

  Ian liked good-looking things by his subjective and unyielding opinion.

  The boy's eyes lit up. "Really? Right? I spent so long straightening the edges... heh!" He rubbed his nose, hopping closer to take the plane. "Even Myra has to admit it, and she hates losing."

  "Zero, you liar! I almost never ever lose!" A frail, irritated voice yelled from behind the crates. A long, dangling pigtail popped out, followed by half a small face. "...The Director says not to speak to strangers."

  Ian pointed at himself, and she nodded furiously.

  Zero poked his tongue into his cheek, glancing back and forth. He cleared his throat loudly, clutching the plane protectively. "Well, it's true. But this gentleman is a plane master."

  Myra wrinkled her nose. "Says who?"

  "Says me!"

  "Then it's wrong! You're always wrong!"

  Zero pivoted, shoving his large, glittering blue eyes towards Ian, who blinked slowly without reacting. "What's your name? Ahem—please tell me your name... stranger! I'm Zero!" The boy proclaimed, purposely lowering his voice.

  "Ian."

  "Okay! Now it's all okay—anyway, Mister Ian, are you a plane master? You are, right?" He lowered his voice into a whisper. "If it's a secret, though, you can lie!"

  Ian felt a little amused watching the proud little boy's antics. The children in the facility were separated for their lessons and restricted to a segregated area for easy monitoring.

  He hadn't seen a child in a long time.

  A woman carrying a wooden basket scurried past the trio, glancing down with suspicion. Her long skirt rustled, and metal clanged against each other underneath the blanket mound.

  From the window, two men were yelling across separate buildings, arranging a meeting that evening. Another young woman was picking at trash along the streets, fishing for random gadgets collected by the edges.

  His vision flickered to the past, to the easier days when he hadn't dared to dream beyond the cold walls that surrounded him.

  His sister's small but reassuring hands.

  His sister's young but resolute eyes.

  "Let's play a game, Ian. You're bored, aren't you? Here, come grab a paper."

  Ian nodded dazedly, and the boy hurriedly darted to the girl, grabbing a piece of frayed paper before thrusting it into his hands. He shifted, folding the paper once.

  Her instructions flowed into his head, scraping at the edges of memory. Another fold, a sharp crease—unfold, and fold it the other way. In the past, these little crafts were how they lived; how they survived in a limited reality.

  Back then, there was a large glass wall that overlooked the stimulation world. If you took three rights from the dining hall, opened the third door that was left unlocked, you reached the observation deck.

  That was where the participating Guides were judged.

  The two small children crept into that dark room, shadows in an expansive space.

  His sister seemed to know the perfect timing to slip inside, using it as their secret base. Little Ian had folded the paper plane, swinging his arm.

  It soared across the room, like a fleeing creature chasing the freedom of wind.

  Ian exclaimed loudly, enthusiastic at his success. He watched the nose of the plane collide into the wall, crumpling and sliding towards the ground. He sniffed, feeling a little upset, but quickly picked up his mood.

  A mere paper plane could only go from one wall to the next.

  The child hadn't dared to dream of more.

  But when he swiveled his head to brag about his success, he was met with his sister's side profile cast with the glow of the stimulation room, light fracturing in her gaze.

  The young girl saw beyond the walls—towards the fake forest of freedom, and even beyond that.

  Ian pressed the last crease down as Zero hopped in the air enthusiastically. "Throw it! Throw it!"

  Myra's entire body peeked out from behind the crates, slowly inching closer to join the excitement. Ian robotically lifted his hand, fingers curled around the delicate wing and swung his arm.

  A breeze appeared, sweeping past them and collecting the plane with its movement.

  The plane slipped past his fingers, taking off with momentum as it soared into the air. With no barriers to hinder its flight, the white plane curved and reached higher and higher.

  Beyond the hanging string of flags between two buildings, past a man who hooted after it. Towards the brilliant blue of the corrupted skies and then—

  —beyond the boundary of the world he knew.

  Myra laughed with joy, clapping her hands together. Zero cheered the plane on, waving his hands in the air. They watched until they could no longer.

  Zero hurriedly grabbed a collection of papers, rushing over to Ian with Myra cautiously following behind. "That was so cool! Can you make another? Pretty please, plane master!"

  Ian reached out and the boy's short fingers brushed past his skin.

  A spark, and then pale blue wisps of energy floated out, trembling. Ian lifted his gaze with surprise. The boy was an Esper.

  Before he could speak, a shadow plummeted towards them, sweeping the two children into his arms within seconds. With one little girl on his back and one little boy lifted in his arms, a short man glared at him.

  "What the hell are you doing?"

  Ian felt a nerve tick at being accused. "Are you kidnapping those children?"

  "What?" The man stared in disbelief as he scolded the struggling Zero in his arms. "These are my children, like hell I've kidnapped them! And you—" He poked Zero's cheek. "Stop being a little menace, you brat!"

  "Help me, plane master!" whined Zero as Myra laughed, clinging tightly to the man's back. He had charming bright hazel eyes and bright pink hair.

  "I swear—I'll punish you! Stop moving, and no, you don't need help!"

  Ian frowned, narrowing his eyes. "He's asking for help."

  "Yeah, well, children are all liars. Can't you see how this little angel is obediently on my back?"

  Myra giggled at his words, batting her eyes.

  Ian continued to stare suspiciously. The man sighed, pointing at himself as Myra began to braid his fluffy hair. "Do I seriously look like a kidnapper?"

  Ian tilted his head. "Yes," he answered honestly, giving a good sweep up and down for good measure.

  "....." The man relented, placing Zero on the ground. However, the little boy obediently stood behind him, straightening his clothes. It was clear that the two children were familiar with this person.

  Since there would be no more plane-making, Ian turned around to leave.

  "Hey! Where are you going?!"

  The man liked to shout, Ian noted as he ignored the voice behind. He'd taken three steps when his collar was grabbed, choking him. He coughed, spinning around as irritation began to brew.

  "That was an accident, I swear." The man held out his hands in surrender.

  "You didn't mean to grab my collar?"

  "What? No, of course I did. I meant the choking part."

  Ian's gaze was impossibly cold, akin to the utter look of disappointment from a superior. The man had the urge to bow down and repent a thousand times.

  He scratched his neck awkwardly with one hand, the other still holding onto the clinging child on his back. "Okay listen. Go past those buildings, though that archway covered in graffiti, and you'll find yourself in the red light district."

  "Red light district?"

  "Yeah, yeah. You know, selling yourself. There are all sorts of people who linger around there, although I guess in this Zone, the law's just a piece of paper nobody follows."

  Ian caught the words: 'Selling yourself.'

  Selling equaled money, and money equaled wealth. He needed money, left with the expensive clothes on his body and nothing else. The golden ticket he caught was actually cheap and useless.

  Ian nodded and started walking in the direction again. The man jerked his hand out, yanking hard on Ian's collar until he saw the afterlife.

  A vein ticked along Ian's jawline as he coughed, ready to grab his knives.

  "What are you doing? Why are you still walking down there?"

  Ian stared at him impassively and spat out two words. "Making money."

  At that moment, his stomach rumbled loudly, cutting through their conversation. Ian blinked and looked down, placing a hand on his stomach.

  The smaller man heaved a sigh, ruffling his hair in frustration before he jerked his head back up. "Okay! You're coming with me, don't say anything, I'm pretty sure it's going to be sarcastic or rude. Zero! Secure the prisoner! But put on your gloves first please."

  Zero happily nodded, eager to invite his new friend. He slipped on a pair of rubber gloves and grabbed Ian's hand with an iron grip.

  Captured and guarded, Ian had no choice but to follow.