A day had passed since Kael's arrival at the station.
And apparently, there was no rest for the wicked.
Less than twenty-four hours after surviving Metanoia — after waking in chains, learning new laws of existence, and discovering the word Sinner now applied to him — Kael found himself already under orders. His provisional assignment had been approved, logged, and scheduled with mechanical efficiency.
Post-Mortuary Support and Recovery Detail.
So here he was, walking through one of the station's lower operational corridors, a thin slate tucked under his arm, boots echoing faintly against polished stone.
As he moved, he began to notice them.
Others like him.
Sinners.
Some stood in training bays, sweat-soaked and shaking as they repeated the same movement again and again — manifestations flickering in and out of existence under the watchful eyes of evaluators. Others sat cross-legged in marked rooms, eyes shut, faces twisted in concentration as resonance sensors hovered around them, probably something to do with their Gnosis.
He passed a pair hauling damaged equipment together, murmuring tactics under their breath. A group nearby argued quietly over response timing, replaying a recorded simulation frame by frame. Down another corridor, a lone girl scrubbed dark residue from the floor with bare hands, jaw clenched as if daring the work to break her first.
None of it looked optional.
None of it looked easy either.
This was the staging environment Captain Ardan had warned him about — where Sinners without backing were given space, resources, and just enough rope to prove they deserved more. Every task, no matter how small or degrading, doubled as an evaluation. Someone, somewhere, was always watching.
All for the same reason.
To be noticed.
To attract a sponsor.
Because once that happened, conscription followed — not into this world's systems, but into something far stranger. Something waiting beyond it.
Kael swallowed, his grip tightening slightly around the slate.
"Two months," he muttered under his breath as he kept walking.
Two months, huh…
***
He stepped outside the station and was met by cold, open air.
'Wow...'
The Station sat like a slab of iron embedded into the land — angular, fortified, bristling with antennae and ward pylons that hummed softly against the sky. Beyond its perimeter stretched a wide expanse of reinforced ground and barricades, marked with warning sigils and scorched scars that hadn't yet faded.
Kael slowed, looking out toward the distance.
Somewhere beyond the layered security lines and industrial outskirts lay the main district. The place where he'd been supposed to die. Where the gateway had torn open reality and spilled abjection into the streets. From here, it looked impossibly far — like another city entirely.
He wondered how many blocks stood between this place and the exact spot he'd collapsed.
How close he'd been to never leaving it.
His thoughts were interrupted by movement to the left.
A few dozen people had gathered near a cordoned-off section of the yard — men and women in station-issued gear, some in light armor, others in plain utility uniforms like his. Sinners, he realized. All of them. Some spoke quietly among themselves, low murmurs tinged with nerves or forced confidence. Others stood alone, eyes forward, faces unreadable.
All of them performing small, meticulous rituals, each movement was like an unspoken plea: Look at me. I'm useful. I'm worth sponsoring.
Kael drifted toward the group and took his place near the edge.
Quiet, like he preferred.
A moment later, the murmurs died.
Boots approached with unhurried authority.
A man stepped into view — uniformed, posture relaxed but commanding. His black hair was tied back neatly, a few loose strands brushing his collar. An eyepatch covered his right eye, dark and unadorned, lending his face a sharper edge. He looked around the same age as Captain Ardan, maybe a year older at most.
"Listen up," the man said, voice clear and carrying without effort.
The yard immediately went stilled.
"My name is Rask," he continued. "Field Officer Rask, Support and Recovery Division."
"You're here because you've been provisionally assigned to this detail specifically." His uncovered eye swept across them.
"Our job is simple in concept and ugly in practice."
A pause.
"We recover remains. Secure corrupted zones. Identify residue patterns left by abjections and failed manifestations. We assist containment teams after the fighting's done — when the screaming's stopped and everyone else would rather look away."
No one spoke.
"Some of you think this is busywork," he continued calmly. "Some of you think it's punishment. You're wrong on both counts."
He folded his arms.
"This detail exists because aftermath kills just as surely as abjections do. Miss a fracture, misjudge a residue bloom, mishandle a body — and you get a secondary incident."
He tilted his head slightly. "So. Let's see what you know."
The man's gaze sharpened.
"Tell me," he said evenly, "what affects the speed of a turn?"
A few brows furrowed.
"A corpse to abjection," he clarified. "What determines how fast it happens?"
Silence.
Eyes flicked sideways. A few people frowned, searching memory that wasn't there. Others stared at the ground. No one answered.
Kael felt his stomach tighten.
He knew this. But he hesitated, fingers curling at his side. The last thing he needed was attention. Being noticed this early — being labeled competent, or worse, a 'know it all' — wasn't always a good thing.
The man's eye continued to scan the group.
Then it stopped.
"You," he said, pointing. "Tracksuit. Lower left."
Kael froze.
"…Me?" he asked, hating how thin his voice sounded.
"Yes," Rask said. "Answer the question."
Heat crept up Kael's neck. He swallowed once, then forced the words out.
"Temperature," Kael answered. "Heat accelerates breakdown and destabilizes residual essence faster. Cold slows decay and delays reconstitution."
He hesitated only a fraction before continuing.
"...Humidity can compound it. High moisture environments help the process take hold. But... temperature is the primary variable."
A beat of stillness followed.
The man studied him carefully, as if weighing more than just the answer.
Then he gave a small, decisive nod.
"Very good."
A ripple moved through the group — subtle shifts, quiet glances.
"Heat speeds it up," the man addressed them all now. "Cold buys you time. That means a body left in direct sun is a liability. A body stored improperly is a liability. And if you misjudge the window, it won't be a corpse anymore when you come back for it."
His tone sharpened.
"And once it turns, it's no longer recovery. It's containment."
He gestured outward, toward the distant skyline.
"Our operational zone today is the outer edge of the upper district," he went on.
"Still within the fallout radius of yesterday's high-grade gateway incident. The fighting's done — but the aftermath isn't."
His gaze hardened slightly.
"Welcome to cleanup."