The next morning, Ian registered for an apartment in a low-end building by the gates. He swiftly signed the liability agreement, acknowledging the risks of living by the gate—including, but not limited to, death, excruciating agony, noise, and strange odors.

  Sylvan protested, claiming that Ian's swift departure only insulted him for being a poor host. But William stood, smiling faintly, and didn't offer the typical agreement he did to all of Sylvan's words.

  In that Rift, Ian knew he had lost control.

  That tantalizing taste of power, the swarm of energy that rushed up his veins like a drug—it could be addicting, and without control, it would be deadly.

  However, William held out his hand in offering and said they'd continue to perform as a group in missions. "I'm sorry," William said quietly. "But I would like to continue extending our company for future Rifts. I don't believe it'll be safe alone."

  Ian didn't like half-baked people. Lucian had been the same, gazing with those gentle and warm eyes filled with affection so obvious, it was hard not to notice.

  He thought of that man again, his companion of so many years.

  But their paths had long separated, as they were meant to. He could only hope Lucian lived the life he aimed to and would claw his way to a stable position. For them, the fight would never cease.

  In response to William, Ian shook his head. "You agreed to help with one Rift."

  William insisted, worry creasing his features. "Please allow us to, Ian. If you died in a Rift—"

  "If I die, it'll be because you cursed me here."

  The younger Esper sighed helplessly, fiddling with his sleeve. "Please. I have no explanation other than the fact that I want to. If I didn't, I wouldn't offer out of pity."

  Sylvan had returned from an extremely long toilet break with an unnecessary description of his bowel movements and popped his head beside, looking up pleadingly. "Is he begging you? I agree! Ian, you're still a fresh hatchling!"

  Ian ignored the last comment and eventually relented. He was weak to those younger, and especially weak to pleading.

  Mostly because he couldn't be bothered rejecting for too long.

  He jabbed the key into the rusted lock of the apartment, rattling it violently with an impassive face. His contribution points were nearly non-existent, and so was his access to luxuries.

  The door swung open with a low, scraping creak on the second floor that led to a staircase, wrapped around the tall building. Dust sprayed out, and he coughed, narrowing his eyes. He stepped inside.

  A spider scattered across the ground as he flicked on the faint, dying light bulb, which hung at the center of the square space. The inside was moderately maintained, with most of the dust gathering at the edges of the door and window.

  The apartment itself was two skinny rectangular buildings that faced each other, each with a staircase in the middle fissure that led to the next floor. He walked out towards the balcony bordered by sketchy, rusted railings and looked up.

  There, he could see the electric sparks of the forcefield. The Center was bordered by an additional, secure field built on technology harvested from the Rifts.

  It danced across his vision like starlight. An unknown canvas painted before him. In the distance, he heard the howls of beasts and screeches of monsters that roamed the gate's borders and further.

  He lingered by the small balcony, barely enough to hold him, and walked back inside. He flopped onto the ground like a dead fish. The frigid ground dug into his spine.

  Then, he closed his eyes and threw a heavy arm over his face.

  His eyelashes fluttered, as if trembling, but the gaze behind them remained fathomless and cold. Eventually, he fell asleep like that, a lone man in an empty room in a city he didn't know.

  His next two weeks continue in the same pattern.

  Time drifted like a never-ending stream. Steady, slow, and dull. The next three Rifts, accompanied by the troublesome duo who clung to him like seaweed, were expectedly simple. He'd met Paul once more, but not the young, quiet boy from the first Rift.

  In the second Rift, they all lost a sense.

  Sylvan's had been his eyesight, where he performed exceeding levels of PDA with William, to the point Ian disowned them, much to the two's protest.

  When he landed in the swamp with a black vision, he groped around and accidentally squeezed Ian's chest. He'd blinked, squeezed again, and said thoughtfully, "Hey, although you're a little slimmer, you've got some pretty nice pecs. But Will's chest is much softer."

  William had flushed, landing in a pool of water. He trudged out and grabbed Sylvan hurriedly. "Syl, there are things we don't need to share."

  "Why?" Sylvan turned towards the sound, patting the familiar arm. "I'm not ashamed of your chest. You shouldn't be either."

  William stared and sighed, shaking his head. He looked at Ian to apologize, only to see the older Guide staring intently at the area below his shoulders with a straight face. Their gear fitted them in a black shirt, strapped with a chest belt.

  William paused. "Ian?"

  Ian replied to his chest. "It's not bad," he confirmed.

  Sylvan hooted delightedly. "See! Babe, it's okay to show the world your assets!"

  William rubbed his head, staring at Ian in betrayal before flicking Sylvan's forehead. "I don't think even in the past, would that have been appreciated."

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  "I appreciate it. All the time."

  The flush had climbed to William's ears, turning the gentle but protective Esper into a raging tomato. Ian decided to stop teasing the other, although his compliment was sincere, and started their task.

  Later, in an attempt to both disturb Ian and fluster William, Sylvan continued to crank up his shamelessness until it grew too unbearable.

  But in the evening, without fail, Ian would lie on the cold wooden floors of his apartment. Cloaked in shadows. Silence.

  He'd tilt his head to the open balconies, reflecting crackling energy. Sparks entangling, almost magical if they didn't serve as a reminder of their imprisonment. Forces that granted them temporary safety.

  Until one inevitable day, everything crumbled.

  On the eleventh night alone, he couldn't bear it. He'd lived by somebody's side for so long, and Lucian had always been a chatterbox. An endless, but quiet stream of words, as if he were voicing all his random thoughts.

  Ian's fingers twitched, antsy. Lying there doing nothing.

  He hated doing nothing.

  He snatched his coat—the very same that Esper bought him—and left the isolated room.

  Few roamed the streets late at night, with crimes running rampant along the corners of the old, cramped buildings. Lights strung by balconies, a flicker of candles within windows, or the eye-straining white light from buildings.

  He breathed, a faint puff of mist blowing from the cold. He left the iron staircase, circling as he started towards the zone's center area. In the trenches of the darkness, a street was lit with lights, flashing and extravagant.

  If he remembered right, then that should be the red light district.

  He loomed beneathan overhand, steeping in the darkness. His thoughts slithered along the filthy hollows. Day by day, he'd adapted to a new routine. It was almost frightening how quickly humans adjusted to a new normal—then was anything ever normal?

  Or had they adapted to living in the abnormal?

  But at this rate, in this comfortable mundanity, he would never reach that Esper's guidelines.

  For a second, his eyelashes fluttered shut. Dirty but lively streets, freedom to stretch his arms against the cold breeze, unbound by four metal walls. He could live here until he died from infection, an invasion, or another reason.

  The thought merely fluttered before his vacant eyes opened again. He thought of that life and felt a strange stirring, an empty discomfort that carved his innards and left him hollow.

  Instead, he remembered his sister's face. Her fleeting memory that the facility had crushed.

  Rage boiled and twisted in his stomach, and his shoulders relaxed comfortably. Remember hatred, he told himself. For it was the fuel to his beating heart, and without, he would cease to be.

  "Young man," rasped a voice from the desolate shadows. "Come here."

  An old woman weakly clutched a metal cane, waving him over into an alley. A dark, gloomy alley, perfect for a murder. Perfectly safe. Ian looked over, then at the jostling street, and at the dark silhouette of his apartment.

  Like any sane person, he walked over.

  Immediately, she waved her cane wildly, screeching. "Fool! What man with a brain would come over so obediently! I could be a scammer masquerading as a senile old hag!"

  Ian leaped back to avoid the wild swinging. He paused. "You called me."

  "And? This is Zone 5, young fool," scoffed the hunched woman.

  "Wouldn't I be a bad person for ignoring an old, wrinkled woman?"

  She smacked the ground with her metal cane violently, dust scattering in the air. Ian looked down and thought he saw a little indent that wasn't there before. "Are you calling me old?!"

  "Didn't you call yourself senile?"

  "Self-depreciation, young man, is healthy! Insulting others is rude! Don't you know that?"

  Ian stared at her levelly and shook his head. He lifted his chin as the flickering lights outlined his angular face. "No. What would I have to dislike about myself?"

  The old woman squinted and harrumphed. "Hah. Well, I'll admit this old woman here called you over because you look like a healthy, nimble young man. Are you looking to earn some money? There's a lot of work tonight."

  Ian regarded her, cocking his head. "Now you're talking like a scammer."

  "Too late for regrets! Come along." She smacked her cane against the ground again, gesturing for him to follow as she wobbled into the alley.

  Ian thought that if he listened, he would have to admit to being a fool. On the other hand, his body itched for excitement, and he resisted the idea of returning to lie on the cold ground until he fused with it.

  Wordlessly, he slipped into the shadows behind her. She turned a sharp corner twice and carefully dragged them down a steep row of steps leading to a single door. Two rapid smacks, one pause, and another three hits.

  The sound came crisp in the silence. Then, the door swung open, spilling light into the streets. She hopped inside.

  "Come along, young man! We haven't got all day!"

  Ian followed obediently. An overpowering smell of soap and powder surged from the door. He scrunched his nose, entering, when something white soared and smacked into his face.

  He blinked. Once, then twice, and slowly pulled it away with two fingers. There, proud and large, hung a blinding pair of white briefs.

  The old woman cackled. "Don't worry, it's clean! For now!"

  Laughter rang out, echoing in the large space. Ian glanced over and was met by the glorious sight of hundreds of hanging ribbons of underwear draped across unfinished ceiling beams. Dozens more hung on boxes or inside wooden crates.

  Children dashed around the expansive space, giggling and slipping on stray briefs. Another six diligently scrubbed, sewed, or handled pieces of fabric.

  Ian turned skeptically to the woman. "I thought the base didn't allow using children for free labour."

  The old woman tried to smack him again, clicking her tongue when he dodged. "Listen, these are your senior underwear masters and make a pretty penny more than you. They need points and can't go out, so I pay them here. Business is always booming because the Base can't spare extra energy or resources for factories."

  Proudly, she swung her cane to point at his crotch. "Who do you think made that?"

  Ian looked down and calmly replied. "My mother."

  The old woman choked. "She made the candy, and I made the wrapping! Enough of your sarcasm and get to work, or I won't pay you!"

  She pivoted and started to chase after the rowdy children, waving her cane as they howled with laughter. Ian stared, dumbfounded, and glanced around the basement, lit by dimming candles and three old, white light bulbs.

  He walked over to a proficient-looking teenager with a stern look. Her hair was combed neatly into a wheat-coloured ponytail, not a single string out of place.

  She glanced up at him domineeringly. "Are you here to learn?"

  Ian nodded, and she pointed at the wooden crate beside her. "Then sit. I'm in charge of sewing the clean fabric. Watch carefully."

  The girl's nimble fingers glid across the fabric, twisting a slim needle back and forth as a white thread neatly fastened two pieces of cloth. She fell into the zone and rapidly finished a perfectly nice pair of briefs.

  A gleam twinkled in her eye as she raised the needlepoint. "Got it?"

  Her serious attitude amused Ian, and he shook his head. "It's a little fast. I don't think I could compare to your skills. Try showing it to me step by step?"

  Her nose had turned to the sky at the praise, and she sniffed. "Well, it can't be helped! If you really can't, I don't have time to babysit," she said arrogantly. "You'll be demoted to cutting or washing duty, okay?"

  He nodded and grabbed two pieces of cut fabric at her instruction. Thankfully, she demonstrated slowly as he struggled to tie a knot in the delicate string. Finally, he found a rhythm, and after an hour of training, his progress improved steadily.

  The stack of folded underwear soon became a glorious mountain. The girl glanced over and sighed wistfully.

  "You're not bad, but your fingers are so long, it gives you an unfair advantage. Do you really not want to stay and work longer? You could get promoted!"

  Ian had long given up questioning the events that led to the situation and raised an eyebrow. "What position would I have?"

  "Senior Underwear Master!"

  "....."

  "Don't look like that, here, let me tell you of the wonders of underwear-making..."

  It was a whole new world...

  After a long, detailed explanation with numbers that seemed suspiciously imaginary, Ian decided that if he failed at climbing the rankings, his prospects didn't look so bad.

  In a world of apocalypse, illness, and a lack of education, underwear would reign supreme.

  The man, in the rowdy basement of Zone-5, continued to mindlessly fasten pieces of fabric together with a newfound appreciation for undergarments.