Round 01 - Unveiling

Running had always been my sole sanctuary, my only friend in a world where I had never managed to form a single connection. I'm a savant, blessed with extraordinary intellectual abilities but cursed with crippling social awkwardness. And then there was my father, a dark shadow that had loomed over my very existence.

Since childhood, I had found solace in running. I would escape the orphanage on sweltering summer nights, covering distances that would make even an Olympic athlete think twice, just to reach the beachfront and the sea that seemed as infinite as my own loneliness. I would run along the shoreline until my muscles screamed in agony and my breath became a raspy whisper, only to return to the orphanage and do it all over again.

But as time wore on, even this freedom began to feel like a cage. My body adapted, my stamina increased, and the exhaustion that once allowed me to escape my darkest thoughts became elusive. By the age of 16, I couldn't take it anymore. The inhumane treatment from the caregivers and the relentless bullying from the other orphans pushed me to my breaking point. I ran away, covering a near-unbelievable distance of over 100 km, to a distant town where no one knew my name.

In that town, I found refuge in a hostel run by an old man who asked no questions. I worked at a local fair, earning just enough to get by. It was during this time that I discovered martial arts, a new outlet for my boundless energy and, at last, a way to find some fleeting moments of peaceful sleep.

Upon reaching adulthood, my life veered onto a new path. By day, I continued to lose myself amid the stalls and shouts of vendors at the fair, but as the sun dipped below the horizon, I transformed into a dedicated student. Within a year, I had completed my basic education, and thanks to an impeccable performance on an exam and a surprisingly effective interview, I secured a scholarship to a prestigious medical school. It wasn't that I had suddenly become a gifted speaker; it was my almost supernatural mastery of medical knowledge that set me apart.

In the years that followed, my life became a whirlwind of ceaseless activity. During the day, I plunged headlong into medical studies, and by night, I found myself in warehouses and docks, unloading goods in temporary jobs. Three hours of sleep each night were all I needed; my body seemed to thrive on its own exhaustion. My Muay Thai training sessions, once my sanctuary, were now relegated to weekends. And my diet? It tripled, as if my body was in a constant race to keep up with the colossal demands I placed upon it.

Each day became a carbon copy of the one before, a vicious cycle of study, work, and an exhaustion that never quite arrived. Throughout all these years, I had lived in near-complete isolation, devoid of any emotional bonds or meaningful social interactions. It wasn't for lack of attempts, especially from women. My rigorous exercise regimen and diet of oats and tuna had sculpted my physique in a way that drew attention. But I always found a way to dodge, to sidestep any approach. With men, I was even more aloof, often outright ignoring their attempts at conversation. I quickly earned a reputation as untouchable, and soon enough, people stopped trying to get close.

I graduated at the top of my class, boasting an academic record so impeccable that it hadn't been seen in years. I continued my studies in neuroscience, and by the time I reached 30, my expertise was so sought-after that I received invitations from various countries, all eager to tap into my knowledge. But I turned them all down. I had never left my hometown, and I still resided in the same apartment I had bought in my first year after graduating from medical school. This was where I felt "comfortable," if that word held any meaning for me, and it was likely where I would stay for the remainder of my days.

Throughout the year, I had immersed myself in a relentless cycle of work, lectures, and academic pursuits. With more money and time at my disposal, I intensified my training regimen and achieved the rank of Grandmaster in Muay Thai. But the true pinnacle of my year was an annual trip to some desolate, often rocky, landscape where I could engage in climbing and running amidst the harshest of terrains. It had become such a sacred ritual that I spent the entire year planning and eagerly anticipating these moments. It was the highlight of my existence, a period of self-examination and a quest for transcendence.

That year, I had set my sights on the Mojave Desert as my destination. I had visited the United States a few times before, and although I loathed the urban areas, the uninhabited regions had always been a haven for me. In recent years, I had also developed an interest in firearms, so I planned to test some out in the desert. Everything was meticulously planned. That's when Edward walked into my office, timid as always. He closed the door quietly, aware of my disdain for noise while reading. He approached my desk and, sensing he had my attention, began to speak.

"Boss, I noticed you're planning to go to the Mojave this year," he said, pointing to a magazine on my desk that featured the desert on its cover, its thickness doubled by various folded papers tucked inside. "I grew up in a nearby area and have been there a few times with my dad," he continued, clearly excited to have found a topic that could serve as a conversation starter with me.

Resting the book on my lap, I looked up at Edward with a mixture of intrigue and annoyance. For one, he was usually terrified to speak to me, fearful of jeopardizing his position at one of the country's top hospitals. But also, like everyone else in the department, he knew how much I despised any non-professional interactions.

"Yes, Edward, I am going to the Mojave this year. Now, could you please let me focus?" I shot him an indifferent glance, almost willing him to leave the room.

"Sorry, boss, I was just curious why you chose the Mojave over, say, Death Valley," he stammered, scratching his head awkwardly as he spoke.

"I tried, Edward," I reopened my book and spoke as I found my place on the page. "I was denied access to the area because there had been a number of recent deaths, and authorities were restricting entry."

Suddenly, Edward's eyes lit up. He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and laid it on the table in front of me. "I apologize again, boss, but I know a way in." On the paper were various details, including a route and contacts. I closed my book, this time placing it on the table, and began to scrutinize the paper. "These people can help you get in and navigate the area without any issues. There's also a link here with information on how to safely traverse the region. I would have sent it as a message or email, but you don't allow any non-professional contact."

For a moment, I studied the information on the sheet, impressed by its thoroughness and strategic insight.

"How did you manage to gather so much detail?" My question came out more suspicious than I intended.

"My dad's a park ranger! He travels all over and knows a lot of people across the country. I asked him as a favor and explained how you have a spirit of adventure like no one else I've ever met. He was happy to help, said it reminded him of his younger days," Edward seemed proud of his father and pleased to offer the opportunity.

After dismissing Edward, I called the numbers, checked all the sources, and followed the link to the maps. Everything was genuine. I could go to Death Valley, explore that wondrous place I had always dreamed of visiting. The anticipation was palpable; my hand trembled. Before I knew it, I had downed an entire bottle of whiskey. My legs seemed to quiver in anticipation of a run; I felt my body screaming for me to immediately head out to some random mountain. I promptly canceled my entire trip to the Mojave and began planning for Death Valley. Within days, everything was set—plans made, contacts confirmed, every detail in its place.

After a few months, the awaited date had arrived. My bags were packed, my leave approved, and the tranquility of a night flight came in the blink of an eye. I was heading to one of the most inhospitable regions on the planet, feeling like it would be the greatest adventure of my life. In a way, I now knew it had been the greatest adventure of my life, perhaps the greatest adventure any human had ever undertaken.

I met Victor at a bar in Fresno. We discussed crucial details, specifically how I could navigate the area while avoiding the authorities.

"In recent years, the patrols have been so intense in the region, you wouldn't believe it. I've seen military vehicles and even aircraft frequently. You'll want to avoid these areas," he began, pointing out locations on the map spread out on the table. To my disappointment, many of the most enticing regions were heavily patrolled. However, my plan was to ignore that and choose a more secluded area where the risk of getting caught would be higher. The very thought of the risk added an extra layer of adrenaline and excitement to my plans.

After a few drinks and several hours, I was ready. I left the bar, brushed off advances from a woman standing near the exit, and headed to my hotel. My entry time was set for 5 a.m., and the trail was already mapped out.

I took a long, relaxing bath, then laid down and slept for nearly 10 hours straight. It had been years since I'd experienced such deep, uninterrupted sleep. Whether it was the result of the journey or the tension from years of waiting for an opportunity like this, I woke up at 4 a.m. feeling so invigorated that I believed I could run across the globe without stopping.

I got ready, filled my backpack with the necessary provisions and equipment, and set off, brimming with enthusiasm for my destination.

I entered Death Valley from the flank Victor had indicated, and as expected, there was no patrol in sight. After walking for several hours and passing through various points of interest, the sun began to rise. I stopped to stretch, preparing for a long run through the rocky formations and mountains. With a nearly 45-pound backpack strapped to my back, I began running at a pace of 17 miles per hour, covering a range of perilous terrains in scorching heat that reached nearly 120 degrees Fahrenheit by noon. I explored a good portion of the valley where it was safe and far from patrols. The day was uneventful; I simply enjoyed my time and soaked in the landscape as much as possible.

Back in my orphanage days, there had been a small cave beyond a dense forest on the outskirts of town. I used to go there to bathe in a small lake at the foot of the cave. Navigating through the thick foliage, dodging insects, and being alert to the dangers of falling into random holes had been exhilarating. I couldn't help but feel the same thrill as I navigated the valley. The sensation was intoxicating, almost like a drug. Was this what my father had felt? After my mother had died in a car accident, he had become an addict, living off the settlement he squeezed out of the tycoon who caused the crash. I had often been the target of his violent neglect. Even cutting him down from the garage after his suicide had been a laborious task. For a child to untie the rope from their dead father is traumatic enough, but doing so amidst the foul stench of vomit and urine was the part that left an indelible mark on my memory. I still felt guilty for everything I had done, but I had been too young to dwell on my actions. What mattered now was that I could savor the best life had to offer someone like me.

As nightfall approached, I had begun searching for a place to set up camp. With the setting sun, the temperature had plummeted to levels that would make most people shiver on the brink of hypothermia. Yet, I felt no cold, even though I was only wearing shorts and a tank top. My body was different; it was so resilient and robust that sometimes my own physical capabilities frightened me.

I walked for nearly an hour, and in the distance, I thought I saw a flickering light. When I focused my vision, it disappeared. At that moment, I wasn't sure if my mind was playing tricks on me or if I had actually seen something. However, being accustomed to a body that functioned like a well-oiled machine, I had always trusted my senses. I headed in that direction, confident that the map indicated nothing of interest there.

After some time, I arrived at the location. It was a small hill with a somewhat rounded rock at the top. I searched the surrounding area for any clue as to what might have emitted the light. After a careful search, I found an odd imperfection in the hill. Upon closer inspection, it wasn't a rock formation; it seemed synthetic. When I tapped it lightly, I heard the sound of metal mixed with a muffled noise. Around it, I found grooves. I took out a silver spray can from my backpack—I usually carried it to mark important points with an 'X' to avoid getting lost if my GPS failed—and began outlining using the groove as a reference. When I finished, the outline strangely formed a door, about 6.5 feet tall and 5 feet wide, perfectly symmetrical.

I took a key from my backpack and began forcing it into the grooves until, at one point, I felt a click. I marked that point with the spray and continued around the entire outline. In total, I marked five different points.

At these points, I persisted in forcing the key until finally, a louder click broke the surrounding silence. After achieving the same result at the other four points, I heard the sound of something turning. I exerted more force until the door finally lifted upwards, like a hatch, creating enough space for me to enter. The door remained open. Inside was a darkness so profound and a silence so complete that I wasn't even sure if oxygen particles existed in the environment before me.

I took a flashlight from my backpack and aimed it directly down the center of the tunnel, trying to see anything at all. A strange sensation washed over me as I realized that even with my high-powered flashlight, I couldn't see the end of the tunnel. All I could see were the walls, made of some sort of shiny metal, similar to stainless steel, and the ceiling and floor made of a more matte, brushed metal that I couldn't identify.

I know it sounds insane to think that anyone would have the courage to enter such a tunnel, especially knowing that the area was patrolled by the military. I also instantly realized that the heightened security in the area was connected to what lay before me. It's like those movie scenes where you scream at the character not to proceed because it's dangerous, only to later accuse them of being foolish for walking into an obvious trap. But the fact was, I wasn't you. I didn't feel fear; I didn't feel tension; I didn't feel anything. My adventures were a hope to maybe feel something, a quest to become human.

I had this theory that if I could experience what a normal human felt, I might transcend this hollow existence. I had tried this with women many years ago, attempting to maintain relationships to see if I could feel any emotion, but it had failed miserably. My theory with fear was different; I had never found myself in a situation that could elicit such a feeling in me. Right before me was the perfect opportunity. The opportunity to become human.

I had stepped into the tunnel, not caring to leave the hatch slightly ajar, and proceeded at a brisk pace. I had walked for over an hour through the tunnel, covering what I estimated to be about 6 miles. The angle of the tunnel had subtly sloped downward, indicating that I was gradually descending deeper underground.

Then I noticed inscriptions on the wall to my right. I stopped to examine the strange marks, which appeared to be in an alphabet I had never seen before, full of geometric shapes connected by two or three lines. They looked more like chemical bonds, but something told me these were words. The characters had a purple hue that fluctuated in intensity and brightness depending on the angle at which my flashlight hit the metal surface. It was a peculiar phenomenon that reminded me of the Morpho butterfly.

I took out my phone and snapped several pictures of the inscriptions on the wall. Then I continued on my way, this time breaking into a slower run, keeping an eye out for more inscriptions.

Finally, I reached the end of the tunnel. There was a staircase, and at the top of the staircase were more inscriptions in the purple letters. Again, I took photos, but this time I also captured the stairs—the thirty steps that led to the end of the path and a brown door with no handles, just a panel on the right side that appeared to be non-functional.

As I approached the door, the panel lit up in a soft blue light. The panel, measuring about 20 inches by 8 inches, displayed various words in the unknown language similar to the inscriptions I had encountered earlier. At the bottom, a small sphere glowed while a tiny purple light orbited it rapidly. After spending some time trying to decipher the text, I placed my right thumb on the sphere, guessing it might be a fingerprint scanner. As if by magic, my hunch was correct. What surprised me more was that all the lights went out, the panel turned purple, and the sphere morphed to perfectly match my thumb. With a flash, the panel went dark, followed by a click. The door split in the middle, each half sliding to the side and retracting into the wall. As fascinating as this might seem, I was bored. It was all too simple for such high expectations.

I looked inside the door to find a circular elevator. I knew it was an elevator the moment I saw it. At the back of the hatch, which was about 6.5 feet tall and had a radius of about 3.3 feet, another panel like the one on the door lit up.

I walked slowly to the panel, observing the unremarkable elevator. The panel displayed letters I couldn't understand. At the bottom, there was just one symbol with an unlit arrow above it and a brightly lit blue arrow below it. I pressed the lower arrow; the symbol above changed, and a small sphere with another different symbol appeared on the right side. Before pressing the sphere, I pressed the arrow again, and the upper symbol and the symbol in the sphere changed once more. I repeated this process 27 more times until the arrow lost its glow and became unresponsive. Finally, I pressed the sphere next to it, which now had a green symbol in the middle—a color I hadn't seen until then.

Mechanisms activated, sounds resembling robotic machinery filled the air, metal clinked, and what seemed like a motor revved up to an unimaginable RPM. Then the hatch began to move at a tremendous speed. It was hard to stay upright without holding onto the walls. I couldn't even begin to guess the speed at which the elevator was moving, but it defied everything I knew about technology.

The journey lasted a few minutes, I'd say about three, but I was getting nauseous and dizzy due to the immense pressure the elevator's acceleration was exerting on me, so I can't be sure. Then I felt a deceleration and the pressure vector shifting until the structure finally stopped and slowly began to ascend instead of descend, for a few yards, until it stopped again, the lights dimmed, and the doors opened. I had initially expected some highly classified military installation when I found the tunnel, but after a while, I thought it was an abandoned site of some old experiment. The high-tech features I encountered later convinced me that I was wrong, that there was indeed something there that defied common sense. But nothing, absolutely nothing I had imagined, could come close to what lay before me. A massive hall, spanning at least the area of three football fields, with a ceiling so high it could easily accommodate a five-story building. The walls were made of rough rocks as if they had been excavated by machinery and were now supported by pillars made of what seemed to be concrete and metal. The floor was uneven, made of black stones resembling obsidian, and at the far end was a stage with what looked like a massive metal ring, so immense that even from this distance, I felt minuscule in comparison.

To my immediate right, shelves were laden with an eclectic array of weapons, their models unfamiliar and almost alien to me. Open cabinets revealed protective gear adorned with cryptic symbols, their meanings eluding me. Barrels with inscrutable markings were haphazardly scattered around the room. Wooden stands showcased bladed weapons, their designs a blend of the arcane and the exotic. Together, they formed an arsenal that seemed fit for a clandestine army preparing for an otherworldly war.

Before I could fully digest the surreal tableau, a voice reverberated from my left. "Hey, why are you so early?" I turned and was greeted by a corner transformed into a sanctuary of leisure—plush sofas, state-of-the-art refrigerators, pool tables, and computers. People were engrossed in conversations, seemingly indifferent to my sudden appearance. All except for one man who was making his way toward me. He was a formidable figure, likely in his forties, with a physique that screamed raw power. Dressed in military attire, he held a cigar as if it were an extension of himself. His face was a roadmap of life's battles, scars and marks accentuated by a rugged beard. His eyes, however, were the most striking—radiating an unspoken authority and confidence that marked him as a natural-born leader.

Before I could muster a response, he continued, "I don't remember seeing you around here before. We have a high turnover, so faces tend to blur." As he closed the distance between us, I realized he towered over me, standing at an imposing 6'3", a veritable titan sculpted from muscle and experience. Emblazoned on his chest was the name "Captain Maxwell."

"Ah, it's my inaugural visit," I replied, extending my hand for a handshake. "I received my instructions and, well, old habits die hard. I came early."

He gripped my hand firmly, his smile widening. "Maxwell. Captain Maxwell. I command the first assault unit here." He sized me up, his eyes scanning me as if reading an open book. "You strike me as a versatile type. Second or third unit, perhaps?"

"I'm a physician," I stated, my tone tinged with indifference.

His eyes sparkled, his grip intensifying. "A doctor, you say? And with the build of a Nordic warrior, no less! You're exactly what my unit needs. What's your name?"

"Dante," I replied, struggling to mask my discomfort at his touch. The sensation was unsettling, almost nauseating. Yet, I couldn't afford to break character; the enigma of this place was too compelling to abandon. "It's a name that seems fitting for this place—your personal hell, Dante," he chuckled, signaling to the other five individuals in the room, who now shifted their attention toward us.

The name Dante wasn't my true identity. It was borrowed from a tormentor from my past, a bully from the orphanage where I grew up. I had once fantasized about exacting revenge, but eventually realized the futility of such thoughts. Ironically, Dante had been the catalyst that forced me to seize control of my life.

"These are the leaders of my unit," he began, pointing to each in turn. "Meet Alex," a young man, likely not older than twenty-five, his robust physique a canvas for an intricate tapestry of tattoos that even adorned his face, hidden behind a veil of long, raven-black hair. "And this is Victor," seemingly a few years Alex's senior, a redhead sporting a mohawk and an equally impressive array of tattoos. His face was stern, framed by a long beard that was both tied and decorated with golden ornaments. The duo was engrossed in a game of pool.

Both acknowledged me with a nod, a tacit greeting that eased my nerves. "Over there are Jack and Robert," he continued, pointing to two men who looked like they were cut from the same military cloth—physically robust, disciplined, and focused. Jack was a Black man with a gallant demeanor, while Robert greeted me with a smile and a wave. His face bore the marks of a seasoned fighter—a repeatedly broken nose and cauliflower ears.

"And that vision at the bar is Marie," he gestured. Seated on a stool, nursing a drink, was perhaps the most breathtaking woman I had ever encountered. Her raven-black hair flowed like a waterfall, providing a stark contrast to her piercing blue eyes. Her physique was a masterpiece, each curve a perfect blend of strength and femininity, as if sculpted by an artist obsessed with the ideal form. Her face was a study in refined beauty, her makeup applied with a subtlety that enhanced rather than overwhelmed. Yet, it was her gaze that ensnared me—sharp, discerning, almost as if she possessed the ability to peer into the depths of my soul. For a fleeting moment, I felt as if I were the only person in the room.

My heart rate quickened, a sensation alien to me. For the first time, I felt a visceral connection, a magnetic pull toward Marie. A strange warmth spread across my face, and my eyes remained locked onto hers, as if tethered by an invisible force.

"This is Dante; he'll be the medic for our unit," Maxwell's voice broke the spell, eliciting approving murmurs from the group.

"These fine individuals will spearhead my unit during the first assault. Alex and Victor will lead the vanguard, Jack and Robert will secure the flanks, and Marie here commands the Snipers and Heavy Gunners. Dante, you'll be under her wing."

Still entranced by Marie, her voice jolted me when she finally spoke. "So, Mr. Medic, is that impressive physique just for show, or can you actually defend yourself?" A chorus of laughter erupted from the group.

"Never trained with those weapons," I retorted, "but I can hold my own. Might even keep you safe in the process." The laughter morphed into surprised murmurs, and Jack chimed in, "Savage."

Marie's smile was intoxicating, yet it triggered an unsettling realization. Emotional entanglements in this enigmatic place could be perilous. "Don't fret," she said, returning to her drink and the papers she was perusing. "I'll teach you the ropes with those weapons later."

Maxwell ushered me away, handing me a stack of papers. "Make yourself at home. Here's the briefing for today's assault. Food's there, drinks there, and if you need to rest, the couches are free."

It struck me as odd that no one questioned my identity or origins. I rationalized it away, thinking my initial access must have served as verification. But then a nagging thought surfaced—why did my fingerprint grant me entry?

My immediate task was to decipher the papers Maxwell had handed me. I retreated to a secluded corner, my eyes scanning the text. It outlined an operation unlike any military endeavor I'd ever heard of. The objectives were nebulous, the targets unspecified. It was as if they were preparing for a war, but against an undefined enemy.

The documents referred to this as Operation No. 530, part of a larger Mitigation No. 721. It estimated around 46 "effectives" would be involved. The first assault unit was expected to engage for approximately four hours before being relieved by the second unit. The last page ominously highlighted, "Start of the invasion of the first effective scheduled for 00:00 on the 25th"—Christmas night.

I was convinced now; something monumental was about to unfold. My eyes wandered to a massive metal ring at the back of the hall. I contemplated investigating it but hesitated, fearing any misstep could blow my cover. The thought of escape never entered my mind; the mysteries of this place had me ensnared.

My father had been in military intelligence, and my mother a federal investigator until my birth complicated her career. Neither ever blamed me for the sacrifices they had to make due to my early health issues. My father was often away, involved in what they vaguely described as "diplomatic activities."

I recalled a time when he returned from a U.S. trip, profoundly disturbed. He was emotionally and physically unrecognizable, reduced to a shell of his former self. My mother took a leave of absence to care for him. I would often wake up to the sounds of his retching and sobbing, my mother's soothing words barely penetrating his anguish. That was when our lives took a dark turn.

I was just six years old, too young to comprehend the gravity of the situation. My father spiraled into an abyss of addiction and neglect. Now, as I stood in this perplexing place, I couldn't help but wonder—what had shattered him so? The first thing on my agenda, once I leave this place, is to unearth the truth about that fateful trip. Perhaps my father wasn't entirely to blame for the ruin he became.

"Never laid eyes on the gate before?" Maxwell's gravelly voice jolted me from my reverie. He eased himself onto the sofa beside me, the leather creaking under his weight.

"No, only heard whispers," I replied, feigning a naive curiosity. It was a perfect moment to gather intel without arousing suspicion. "So, that's the epicenter of all the action, then?" I turned to meet his gaze, which had grown suddenly intense.

Maxwell's eyes took on a faraway look. He drew a long, contemplative puff from his cigar, exhaling slowly as he fixed his gaze on the enigmatic ring he referred to as 'the gate.' "My first time here was nearly two decades ago. I was a greenhorn, disoriented and petrified. If not for the valor of my comrades that night, I wouldn't be sitting here," he said, his voice tinged with a solemnity that made the air feel heavy. He looked at me, his hand finding its way to my shoulder. I stifled my instinctual discomfort at the touch. "Don't fret, Dante. We've got your back, so you can have ours." For the first time, I sensed a genuine connection, a burgeoning camaraderie.

It struck me then—had I donned more masks throughout my life, perhaps I'd have forged more human connections. Assuming a new identity seemed to lift the veil of my personal fears, fears that had long isolated me from the world.

Seizing the moment, I began, "So, Captain, what exactly—" My question was cut short as Alex interjected.

"Captain, I'm gonna catch some Zs. Wake me for the second round," he announced, sprawling himself on a nearby sofa. Maxwell rose, nodding in acknowledgment.

"Very well. I'll take the first watch, Alex the second, Robert the third, Jack the fourth, Victor the fifth, and Marie, you'll close it out," he declared. Everyone nodded, pulling pillows and blankets from a nearby cabinet. They lay down in their full military garb, clearly prepared for immediate action. Rounds? I pondered. Why the need for watches in a place seemingly so secure?

Yet, if I could infiltrate this fortress, there must be vulnerabilities. Pushing aside my curiosity, I followed suit. I noticed a locker room adjacent to the bar. Seizing a moment when no one was watching, I slipped inside. A corridor led to showers, where I quickly rinsed off the grime and sweat of the day. The expansive locker room was filled with lockers, none of which bore any identification. I rummaged through several until I found a uniform that fit. It was unlike any military attire I'd seen—crafted from a flexible, lightweight material that seemed designed to absorb impact. I donned the all-black ensemble, complete with a shirt, jacket, pants, elbow and knee pads, a helmet, and boots. I stashed these items in a backpack I found in the locker.

Emerging from the locker room, I saw Maxwell patrolling the cavernous hall, a bizarre weapon slung over his shoulder. Its twisted barrel made it resemble a futuristic toy more than a conventional firearm.

I chose a sofa near Marie, my heart pounding as I passed her. She lay on her side, her raven hair spilling over the pillow, her face partially obscured by a blanket. The mere sight of her sent my pulse racing, so I hurried past and settled down. Sleep, surprisingly, came swiftly.