Humanity had become nothing more than a fragile memory suspended in the void. Ever since Earth had succumbed to the fury of its own destruction—rising temperatures, poisoned oceans, ravaged continents—the last survivors had taken refuge aboard the Ring, a colossal orbital station built in a rush, like a technological scar encircling the dying planet.
Here, between cold steel and flickering neon, every breath was a victory over the void. The air was thin, tightly controlled, and filled with the constant tension of a place where existence hung by a thread.
In the inner layers of the Ring, a young boy moved through narrow alleyways, weaving through a maze of rusting structures and crumbling warehouses. This sector—nicknamed "The Furnace" by locals for the heat radiating from the smelting plants—was home to the forgotten, the discarded dregs of orbital society. Most of the buildings barely reached two stories, bristling with old satellite dishes and tangled electrical wires hanging like the web of a torn spider.
Much of the tech and architecture dated back to before the Collapse, humans used this word to describe the forced exodus. Cryptic graffiti covered every wall, a fusion of ancient symbols and futuristic tags—a mute testimony to a youth consumed by anger and shattered hopes.
The air stank of burnt oil, melted metal, and a strange scent—metallic and faintly sweet—that wafted from the industrial furnaces spaced along the streets. The constant hum of aging generators followed Nael's footsteps, while the dim blue glow of flickering ceiling lights trembled under the pressure of time.
The alleys crawled with shadows. Figures cloaked in synthetic rags moved silently, trading whispered words or black-market goods. A few kids, bold or reckless, played on the cold ground with shards of broken glass. Others ran between piles of debris and puddles of sterilized water that shimmered weakly under the lights. Their laughter—light and haunting—echoed in the dark, a fragile spark in a dying world.
At the end of one street stood a massive structure, a fortress of black steel and glass panels that seemed to suck the air around it. Officially named the Center of Evolution, it was, for some orphans, a rare sanctuary. Compared to the decay outside, this place was clean, protected. It was said to be where certain children might be "chosen" to receive an Attribute—a gift bestowed by an alien artificial intelligence known as the Codex, capable of amplifying human potential far beyond its limits.
The building rose three floors high, its walls made of smooth steel plates interrupted by glowing white panels that pulsed with a cold, steady light. Two massive statues flanked the main entrance: abstract, angular forms with a menacing edge. One depicted a half-human, half-machine figure with arms raised to hold back an invisible force. The other was a colossal clenched fist, forged from darkened metal—a brutal symbol of power and resistance. These sculptures gave the place a near-religious aura, a stark reminder of past and future battles.
Nael stepped inside. The air was thick and filtered, smelling faintly of metal and antiseptic. Fluorescent lights flooded the wide halls, whose smooth gray walls held rows of touchscreens displaying a continuous stream of data—from local alerts to Ring-wide updates. At least they were allowed that much information.
He entered the common room. The furniture was basic: cold metal tables, worn-out benches, and shelves filled with synthetic paper books. Children filled the room, some sitting, others standing, all dressed in old, worn clothes marked by hard lives. Their eyes—young but heavy with experience—landed on him, a mix of indifference, curiosity, and quiet challenge.
A voice rang out—calm but firm.
It was Madam Lys, the head caretaker. Her commanding figure radiated authority. With brown hair pulled into a tight bun and a face hardened by years of struggle, she was both mother figure and warden of the Center.
"Nael. You always show up late when it matters most," she said dryly, though there was a hint of care in her tone. "The Governor will be here in a few hours, and he doesn't like being kept waiting. Go find a seat."
Nael nodded and scanned the room for a spot. Toward the back, he saw a space between two kids about his age. He wasn't the oldest, nor the youngest—but he had been at the orphanage the longest.
A whisper moved through the room. Some of the kids exchanged glances as he took a seat. A sharp-faced red-haired girl sitting nearby gave him a teasing smile.
"You're always the last to show up, but the first to vanish when things get scary, uh ?" she said with a soft laugh. "That's why we call you the Ghost of the Alleys."
A taller boy across from him, eyes hard and arms crossed, added with a smirk:
"Yeah, the famous ghost. Let's hope this time you stick around long enough to see the Governor."
Nael answered with a faint smile. He knew that, beneath all the weight of their lives, friendship and rivalry still held them together.
Madam Lys raised a hand. Silence fell.
"The Governor is here to see those of you who might soon face the Attribution Trial. The Codex has detected promising signs in some of you."
The name of the AI was spoken with a strange mix of reverence and fear. Some saw it as hope. Others as a threat.
For Nael, it was a mix of both, and maybe a tint of excitation. His heart starts beating faster at the thought of being chosen.
This was the day everything could change.
A heavy metallic door creaked open in the hall, and the shadow of a powerful figure fell across the threshold.
Nael, like the others, stood tall—ready to face the unknown. The air thrummed with silent tension, an omen he couldn't yet name.
In the cold shadow of the orphanage walls, under the watchful gaze of the caretaker, a new chapter of his life was about to begin—one of pain, revelation, and perhaps, a twisted kind of salvation.
Or so he hoped.