Kael sat on a narrow bench bolted along the inner wall of what was essentially a reinforced troop carrier — though no insignia marked it as military. Overhead, dim strip-lights flickered with every uneven shift of the vehicle's suspension. The interior was plated in dull alloy, scuffed and dented from long use.
Rows of other provisional Sinners sat beside him.
And across from him.
Boot to boot. Knee to knee.
Cramped enough that every turn jolted them into one another, shoulders knocking, gear clinking softly in the confined space. Some held issued recovery hooks across their laps. Others clutched containment satchels or portable scanners, screens dim but active. No one spoke above a murmur.
The back hatch was sealed, but thin slits along the upper plating revealed passing light—fading district glow giving way to something darker and less orderly.
Kael rested his forearms on his thighs and stared at the grooved floor.
This kind of job shouldn't have unsettled him.
Back in the slums, he had been a Burner. A corpse handler. Retrieval, incineration, disposal — he'd seen bodies in every state decay could offer. He knew the weight of the dead. Hell, he even knew their smell.
So why did he feel nervous now?
Was it because of these whole new scenery and environment around him?
Or was it the fact that this wasn't just labor anymore?
This wasn't just a mere survival work.
It was performance.
A proving ground disguised as sanitation.
Across from him, a boy barely older than sixteen adjusted his gloves for the third time, jaw tight. To Kael's left, a broad-shouldered woman closed her eyes and breathed in slow, measured counts, as if rehearsing composure.
Everyone here wanted the same thing.
To be noticed.
To be selected.
To secure a sponsor before the next Accession Program swallowed them whole.
Kael's gaze dropped to his hands.
'Yeah, right...'
In his case, that door was already half-closed.
Low caste. Burner background. No pedigree. No institutional grooming. The kind of profile sponsors glanced over in seconds.
Unless they were looking for something very specific.
The truck lurched over uneven ground, metal rattling sharply for a moment before settling back into a steady growl.
***
Finally, they have arrived at the district.
Or... what was remained of it, anyway.
Up close, it felt wrong in a way distance hadn't prepared him for. Buildings were no longer buildings but split shells — facades peeled open like broken ribs. Streetlights leaned at unnatural angles. Entire sections of roadway had collapsed inward, leaving jagged cavities that swallowed debris whole.
Ash clung to everything.
The gateway's epicenter was visible even now — a warped stretch of air near the intersection where reality had once folded. The visible tear was gone, but its aftermath lingered in subtle distortions, like heat haze that refused to dissipate.
This was where he had almost died.
Up close, it felt smaller than he remembered.
And far more intimate.
Field Officer Rask stepped forward, boots grinding against fractured asphalt.
"You've all been pre-assigned sectors," he said, voice carrying easily over the wind. "Check your slates. You'll see grid markings and recovery priorities."
Kael glanced down. A section of the outer perimeter lit up in muted red.
"Procedure is simple," Rask continued. "Primary objective: recover identifiable remains. Secondary: scan and report anomalous residue. If you encounter destabilization—"
A pointed look.
"You mark, withdraw, and report. You are not containment units."
He let that hang for a second.
"Go to your assigned zones. Keep line-of-sight where possible. You have two hours before rotation."
A beat.
"Disperse."
***
The group fractured into smaller units, boots crunching across debris as each followed the glowing grid lines on their slates. The murmur from before was gone now — replaced by the quiet focus of people who understood that hesitation could cost more than reputation.
Kael adjusted his grip on his issued hook and scanner and headed toward his sector.
And then—
He fell into something familiar.
He moved through rubble with measured efficiency, stepping where the ground wouldn't shift, scanning corners and collapsed recesses with practiced eyes. He lifted sheets of twisted metal, marked remains, cataloged fragments with steady hands.
Detached.
Clinical.
Almost like watching a vulture at work — patient and methodical.
Only this time, he wasn't circling a single corpse in an alleyway.
He was combing through an entire graveyard masquerading as a district block.
He worked in silence.
Until his steps slowed.
His slate map glowed faintly, but he barely needed it now.
Because his feet — unknowingly, or perhaps knowingly — had guided him elsewhere.
The incinerator.
The building had partially collapsed inward, its smokestack snapped cleanly in half. Blackened brick and fractured steel lay strewn across the surrounding lot.
Kael stood at the edge of the debris.
"Can't believe I almost got buried here…" he murmured.
The words barely left his mouth before he stepped forward.
He shifted broken brick aside with the hook, scanning as he moved. The handheld device hummed softly, its indicator line steady but faint — residual traces, nothing active. He edged past a slab of collapsed roofing and ducked beneath a bent support beam, boots crunching against powdered mortar.
Kael moved toward what had once been the side loading area, where bodies had been processed before incineration. The familiarity made it easier. He knew the layout. Knew where things would've fallen.
That was why he saw it.
Half-pinned beneath a twisted metal rack.
A body.
Uniform intact, though dust-stained and torn along the shoulder.
Kael crouched automatically.
The fabric registered first.
Dark tactical weave. Upper district insignia. Reinforced collar.
"One of the guards."
Memory flickered — brief and insignificant. A bored exchange by the entrance. A half-dismissive comment. The man had barely looked at him back then.
"Poor bastard..."
Still.
Kael reached down and carefully shifted the body onto its back.
And froze.
The man's skin had taken on a faint gray sheen.
Not unusual.
But around the wound at his throat — just beneath the collar — something darker clung to the air.
Condensation.
No.
"Vapor..."
It bled outward in thin, smoky tendrils, not rising like heat—but coiling.
Kael's eyes widened.
Cold sweat broke instantly along his spine.
"Shit," he breathed.
The corpse's fingers twitched.
A faint cracking sound followed—too dry to be bone breaking, too wet to be simple movement. The skin along the man's neck tightened unnaturally, dark veins spidering outward from the wound as if something inside was pressing against the boundary of flesh.
Kael stumbled backward, heel catching on loose debris. He fell hard onto one palm, scraping it raw, but barely felt it.
The body jerked.
Its chest convulsed once—
Twice—
Then inhaled.
Kael scrambled to his feet.
"Shit—shit—"
The corpse's spine arched violently, lifting it halfway off the ground as a guttural sound forced its way out — a distorted, layered echo of a human gasp tearing into something feral.
Its jaw cracked open wider than it should have.
Skin along its throat split further, not bleeding — but unraveling.
Kael fumbled for his slate.
"Come on—come on—"
His fingers shook as he activated the emergency interface. The screen flickered, menus overlapping.
"How does this thing work?!"
He swiped too fast. Wrong tab. Diagnostic overlay. He cursed under his breath and backed away as the thing's limbs began to move in disjointed, testing spasms.
"Alert—sector—" he muttered, trying to remember Rask's instructions. "Mark, isolate, call it in—"
The abjection's head tilted.