The first rift appeared sixty-two years ago, somewhere over eastern Africa. A glowing tear in the sky, hovering above the land like God forgot to a part of the world.
At first, the locals thought it was a trick of the light, something natural, just a storm trying to look supernatural.
Then came the red veil. A dome of energy so thick it painted the horizon in blood. It grew by the day. People started disappearing. Then dying. Then coming back... not as themselves.
The military tried. Planes, tanks, boots on the ground. They barely scratched the surface. The first variants — Echoes — were manageable. Mindless. Clumsy. But then the Aberrants showed up. Bigger. Smarter. Crueller. They spoke. They laughed. They hunted.
And by then, it was too late.
The barrier fell. The rift became a breach. And within weeks, more appeared across the globe, opening like wounds in the earth.
For two years, the world burned.
Forty-four percent of the global population, gone.
Cities erased. Borders forgotten. Nations swallowed by red.
Until they started showing up — the marked ones. The first Crest Bearers. Ordinary people warped by rift energy into something... more. They called them the Prime Topplers. Heroes. Monsters. Survivors. Depends who you ask.
They ended the war.
But by then, the world had already changed.
Arcana. Fortizo. Vitalis — the three new empires. One in the east, one in the west, and one in the middle, all desperately trying to hold what was left of civilization together.
The rifts never stopped. But the Arcana Order was born to contain them — an international watchdog for everything rift-related. And at the heart of Vitalis, standing like a monument to everything humanity had learned (and forgotten), there it was:
virelia.
The capital city. Home to the a number of the world's deadliest topplers. And inside that city? The Virelia Institute. The first and best — university in the world for crest-bearing students like me.
A place to become someone.
Or to disappear entirely.
That was the story. The one they pumped into your ears growing up, playing on every school projector and government flyer like gospel.
And I... I listened.
I knew the names. The dates. The wars. The factions. I could recite the timeline backwards in my sleep.
But today, on the walk back from my evening classes, that story felt less like history and more like a countdown.
A riddle, still missing its last answer.
"Yo."
A hand snapped in front of my face.
"You spacing out again?" Luan's voice cut through the static of my thoughts like she always did — quick, casual, and lightly annoyed.
I blinked and looked over at her. She adjusted the strap of her bag, her black pop socks peeking beneath a pleated skirt that danced with each step. Her signature twin buns were bouncing, just like her tone.
Willy was on the other side, chewing a piece of mint gum like it owed him money. The breeze caught the edge of his hoodie as he shot me a knowing glance with those small, always-squinting eyes.
"We've got a group session with Prof. Giacomo in twenty, remember?" Willy said. "You know, the assignment you said and I quote — 'I'll handle the heavy lifting.'"
"I am handling it," I replied flatly. "I'm carrying the mental burden."
"And we're carrying you physically," Luan added. "Come on, Professor's office is on the second floor of the departments East Wing. That building that smells like burnt curry and dead dreams."
She started walking faster.
Willy followed her, hands stuffed in his pockets. I trailed after them, brushing off the weight of a history I wasn't ready to let go of.
Rifts. Variants. The war. The rise of the topplers.
All of it was written. Explained. Accounted for.
Yet it felt like Something was missing.
Virelia's East Wing was old-school — not in the charming way, more like in the "why is there still carpet in the stairwell?" kind of way. It always smelled like something burnt, something leaking, and something alive that shouldn't be. Probably a rat. Probably named Greg.
We cut through the hallway toward the Logistics & Support department — you could tell it apart from the rest of the faculty buildings by the clunky posters about "efficient world-saving" and a dead hologram monitor flickering halfheartedly beside the staircase.
Willy elbowed me lightly, his voice dropping.
"You seriously not going to say anything about Lorenzo?"
"I told you," I muttered. "Tonight, After curfew If we must."
He narrowed his eyes. "You say that like we're gonna die in the process."
"Relax," I said. "Only one of us will."
"Bro."
Before I could enjoy the look on his face, a voice from behind chirped, "Are we investigating something?"
Luan. Still a few steps back, one earbud dangling, popping her bubblegum like the universe was on pause for her.
"Not your business," Willy shot back instantly.
"Correction," she said, stepping in line beside me. "It became my business the moment you two started whispering like uncles at a family meeting."
I sighed. "Luan, this is a low-key thing. Dangerous. Like actual consequences kind of dangerous."
Her tone changed. "I can handle dangerous."
"Look, I'm not tagging along for fun. I've got my own reasons. Personal."
We both looked at her. She didn't elaborate.
After a beat, Willy muttered, "So dramatic."
But neither of us said no.
We turned into the corridor where Professor Giacomo's office sat, tucked behind a cracked glass display of old toppler badges and a levitating globe that never spun. The door was already ajar, light pouring into the hallway.
Inside, it was chaos in red.
Jonas was half-sprawled on a chair, tie crooked and shirt half-untucked like a banker who'd just lost a bet. His hair was shaped to perfection though — gotta respect the barber's effort.
Next to him, Khadija sat upright with a bright blue notepad and a brighter smile, her hijab matching the lining of her Virelia-red blazer. Quiet, efficient. Probably deadly with a spreadsheet.
Milo — half-asleep in a corner, durag over his head, legs stretched across the rug — perked up only when Luan walked in.
And Marlo, Milo's twin and the law major I've got a little bit of history with, leaned against a cabinet, her hair coiled into a thick bun and a lollipop in her mouth like she was about to question someone into a confession.
Professor Giacomo looked like he belonged in a commercial for toothpaste — sharp suit, sharper jawline, and the unmistakable energy of someone who drank his coffee from a conical flask.
"Welcome," he said, hands folded behind his back like he'd been waiting all morning. "I see the final three have graced us with their presence."
"I blame Huey," Luan said quickly.
"I second that," Willy added.
I didn't bother defending myself.
Giacomo cleared his throat. "Today's assignment is a little more... hands-on. A category one rift appeared three days ago in the Goro Sector. It's been contained. Mostly. You'll be collecting post-containment data for analysis — variant decay readings, molecular signature logs, environmental absorption. That sort of thing."
Jonas raised a hand. "Are we gonna be wearing hazard suits? Because I have trauma. Long story.
"Not mandatory, but I doubt You'll be fine without one" Giacomo said smoothly.
"What kind of decay signatures?" Carla asked, pen already moving.
"The harmless kind," he replied. Then smiled like that meant something.
Milo groaned. "Bro. I was gonna nap."
Marlo rolled her eyes. "You nap during field work, Milo?"
"Best sleep is panic sleep," he replied, yawning.
Willy leaned toward me and whispered, "This your dream team?"
"No," I said. "This is group of mental patients."
Giacomo moved to the side, and we finally noticed someone else was in the room — standing quietly near the window.
Tall. Cloaked. regulation boots with just enough wear to show field time. She turned around, and I caught the emblem on her badge:
Divisione Arcanum.
The foremost Enforcers.
This wasn't a school project anymore.
"This," Giacomo said, "is Supervisor Riva. Newly transferred from central command. She'll be your escort today. Try not to die under her watch."
Riva looked about our age. Maybe a year or two older, Wifeable, Dark skin, no nonsense face, silver eyes — not glowing, but unsettling enough to look like they were thinking for her.
"Any questions?" she asked.
Nobody answered.
Even Luan kept quiet.
Riva nodded. "Good. Then get dressed. We leave in twenty."
The sound of my boots echoed against the marble tiles as I walked past the eastern quad alone, hazard helmet tucked under my arm. The suit clung to me like second skin, standard issue—sleek black, lightweight, crest-suppressed, and hotter than sin under the Virelia sun.
The walk to the pickup zone was long enough to get lost in thought, and I did. Virelia Institute, crown jewel of rift academia. They called it the cradle of tomorrow's topplers.
But when you really looked—really looked—what you saw wasn't just grandeur or prestige. You saw a city-state hiding rot behind red-brick walls and biometric gates. A safehouse for secrets, stitched together by cafeteria gossip and student loans.
Three students gone in the last month. One hospitalized. Zero answers.
But hey—go Hawks.
Just as I turned the corner, I heard the clicking of heels. That voice hit before the sight did.
"Well, well. Look who finally decided to breathe outside his cave."
Alexa.
She was dressed in the same heat-flirting red mini skirt and white blouse from the dorms, blazer slung lazily over her shoulder. The smirk was still there too—same one I saw last week, right before she climbed on Calvin like he was furniture.
Trailing behind her were two of her friends, all manicured nails, thick lashes, and bottle-brazen laughter. Their eyes swept over me like I was a late-night snack wrapped in mystery.
Alexa stepped close, lips glossed like sin. "Didn't see you at the party."
"Had other things to investigate," I said dryly.
One of her friends giggled behind her. "Is that what you call it now?"
"I don't party with people I'm still gathering data on."
That got a snort from the taller friend. "Wow. Bro really said I'm the assignment."
As they passed, the short one slipped me something folded in a tissue. Her fingers lingered a little too long on mine before she winked and disappeared with the others.
I looked down. Phone number and a lipstick mark. Predictable.
I felt something crawling up my throat, just waiting to explode.
"Achew" I covered my nose, not even sneeze could catch me lacking
I wiped my nose with the tissue and tossed it in the bin.
The landing carrier sat at the edge of the courtyard, humming low, sleek and matte black with silver wings. The door was open. I stepped in.
Inside, the rest of the group was getting into their gear—gloves half-on, boots still unzipped, the usual last-minute scramble. Supervisor Riva stood with arms folded, watching everyone like she was calculating insurance premiums.
"Cross," she said as I stepped in.
And there she was.
Hermoine Cross. Firstborn of the Cross family. Doctor of Rift Biology. Virelia's youngest science prodigy in the last two decades.
Her dark skin gleamed under the carrier lights. She wore glasses, sharp-rimmed, short hair perfectly parted. Lab coat clean, pressed. The energy of someone who could politely explain how you were about to die from radiation exposure.
Riva nodded to her. "Students, this is Dr. Cross. She'll be guiding your collection procedure."
I felt eyes on me but kept quiet. No need for unnecessary connections.
Jonas muttered under his breath. "Damn, that's the doc? I need to switch majors."
Milo leaned over to Willy. "Tell me I'm not the only one thinking 'hot professor'…"
Willy just raised a brow. "...She taught us Bio 101, you know."
Milo blinked. "Oh that was her?! I was too busy failing the labs to notice."
Hermoine pretended not to hear. Professional, to the bone.
She activated the holographic map in the center of the cabin. The rift zone lit up in red markers.
"You'll be heading to a formerly active zone just outside Dorsa Point," she said. "Category One. Already cleared by our clean-up crew. Your job is to extract molecular residue from within the variant drop points and bring them back for analysis. You'll each be given a collector node calibrated to your unique crest signature—"
"Question," Jonas raised a hand. "What if your crest isn't that 'signature'? You know what I'm sayin'."
Hermoine didn't even blink. "Then yours will be the control variable. Congratulations."
He slouched back, defeated.
She began handing out the compact chrome tools one by one—oval-shaped, warm to the touch, with a pulsing light in the center.
When she got to me, she paused slightly, eyes glinting behind her glasses.
"Yours," she said, then leaned in just a touch. "And if you sneak home for the weekend again without saying hi, I'll let Mom know about your browser history."
"Respectfully," I muttered, "I'd rather die in the rift."
She smiled. "Same."
We touched down in a cloud of steam and silence. The carrier doors hissed open. Outside, the world was still.
Ruined terrain stretched out like scorched paper. The sky above it looked... thin. Almost like if you blinked too hard, it would peel.
Riva adjusted her gloves.
Hermoine's voice was lower now. "Something's off."
Riva didn't flinch. "Off how?"
Hermoine frowned. "The residue. It's too… dense like there's been activity there only recently. Who even filed this assignment?"
"Internal requisition," Riva said. "And I'm here now. What better protection could they need?"
We stepped out.
The wind didn't blow.
The dirt didn't move.
The silence... was breathing.