In the outskirts of one of the last remaining human cities, a crumbling park sat quietly beneath the stars. It was a forgotten place—rusted swings, cracked stone paths, and dry, browning trees that barely whispered in the wind. Beneath one of those trees sat a young man, alone, staring into the vast night sky. His dark hair fell messily over golden eyes that shimmered in the moonlight. Pale skin stretched over high cheekbones and a well-structured face. He wasn't stunning, not in the traditional sense, but there was something about him—fragile, elegant, like a cracked statue left to weather with time.
His posture was slouched, arms resting limply on his knees. Dark circles pooled under his eyes like shadows carved into bone. He let out a long, tired sigh.
"Haaa... I'm tired," he muttered to himself, the wind catching his voice and carrying it into the night. "Guess my birthday's tomorrow."
He ruffled his hair, lips curving downward.
"Haaa... I'm going to die tomorrow."
Silence fell like snow around him. Only the faint rustle of brittle leaves stirred. He closed his eyes.
"Mom... Dad... I miss you."
The mark on his hand glowed faintly in the moonlight—a symbol etched into his skin like a curse. A floating island, abstract yet unmistakable. The mark of the chosen.
No one knew why or how the Trial to Awaken selected its candidates. It came suddenly, without reason, branding those it touched. Once marked, you were taken to the island—Anubis. A place that drifted above the clouds, invisible to satellite scans and human understanding. A prison. A graveyard. A test.
The death rate was nearly absolute. No one returned. It was called 'Anubis' after the Egyptian god of death, a cruel joke passed among the desperate.
Opening his eyes, the young man whispered, "The world abandoned us. Tomorrow's my last day."
His voice trembled. "Mom... Dad... I'm coming home."
He almost smiled, but it twisted into something bitter. A laugh—dry and broken—escaped his lips.
In the outskirts of the city, life was measured by exhaustion and survival. His parents had lived there all their lives. They weren't chosen. They never would be. Instead, they toiled in obscurity—his father maintaining the outer city walls, patching cracks with trembling hands and grease-covered tools. His mother worked beneath the surface, cultivating the fragile crops in the hydroponic farms.
Both had died within months of each other. Not from violence, but from being overworked. Their lives burned out by a world that no longer cared.
All that remained of them were his memories.
A family walked past the bench. Laughter. A child's hand clutching a stuffed bear. The sight pierced through him like glass.
A memory surfaced, unbidden.
"Noah! Noah! Food's ready!" his mother's voice rang with warmth.
"Coming, Mom!" a younger voice—his—responded.
He was ten, maybe younger. Black hair, gold eyes wide with joy. He placed down a battered manga, its pages nearly torn from age and water damage.
Their home was tiny. Cramped. But warm. He stepped into the small dining room where the table was already set. His mother stood, beautiful in her simplicity, even with the wear of hard labor upon her.
At the table sat his father, black-haired and green-eyed, flipping through a yellowing newspaper. He looked up and smiled.
"How are you, Noah?"
"I'm good, Dad."
His mother tilted her head, amused. "Why are you two smiling like that?"
Noah and his father jumped up in unison.
"Happy birthday!" they shouted.
His mother blinked, startled, before her face softened into joy.
After dinner, Noah had turned to them. "Can we go for a walk in the park after we eat?"
His mother kissed the top of his head. "Of course."
His father nodded. "Let's go."
Those days... they had been filled with light.
The memory ended. The present returned.
He stood slowly from the bench, bones aching with more than fatigue. His name was Noah. He was fifteen. Tomorrow, he'd be sixteen—the age when the trial took place.
The age of death.
He walked home through dim streets. Neon signs flickered from cracked buildings, casting shadows that danced like ghosts. The closer he got to his district, the more the city fell apart. The inner zones were bright and full of life—privileged lives shielded from the horrors beyond the wall. But here, in the outer sectors, the air smelled of rust, smoke, and despair.
Noah stopped in front of a small, crumbling house. The windows were cracked. The roof sagged. Yet it had been his home for two years.
He stood silently, thinking, 'What will happen to my house after I'm gone?'
He didn't dwell on it. There was no point.
After his parents' deaths, he'd been placed in an orphanage. But he hadn't stayed long. He escaped—ran into the streets. He worked odd jobs, scraped by. Delivered packages, sold scraps, even dealt drugs. The pay was terrible. The work dangerous. But he survived.
Opening the door, he stepped inside. The air was stale, filled with the faint scent of metal and old sweat. The room was bare. A couch, a cot, a small kitchen with a flickering light.
He kicked off his boots and walked to the cabinet. It creaked as he opened it. Inside were rows of energy bars—cheap, nutrient-dense food handed out monthly by the government to keep the outskirts from rioting.
"Greedy bastards," he muttered.
He peeled one open and bit into it. It tasted like ash and plastic.
He sat at the counter, staring at the empty space in the room. His watch ticked softly.
"Six minutes," he whispered.
Noah closed his eyes. A final memory returned—something his parents had said when he was little, when he asked why people kept going despite the suffering.
"People struggle because they believe in something better," his father had said.
"Hope," his mother had added. "Noah, no matter what... survive."
His eyes snapped open.
Gone was the weariness.
His golden eyes burned.
Resolve replaced resignation.
Noah stared down at the mark on his hand. It pulsed faintly.
"It's time," he said, rising to his feet.
He took a breath, lips curling slightly.
"Happy birthd—"
The world went dark.
Noah vanished from the room.
Gone, like a whisper in the wind.
End of Chapter One.