Kieran Vale woke with the taste of blood in his mouth and the echo of sirens clawing at the edge of dawn.
The sky was red again.
A sickly hue bleeding over the rusted rooftops and broken windows of the slums. He blinked twice, sitting up in the cot that moaned beneath his weight. The sheets were threadbare, and the room around him still smelled like mold and failure—same as last time.
Seven days.
That's all he had before the first Gate opened. Before the world broke, and monsters slipped through like whispers in the dark.
He scrubbed his hands across his face, trying to steady his breathing. The regression had worked. He was back in his sixteen-year-old body, before the chaos. Before the bloodshed. Before everything was stolen from him.
But this body… it was weak. Soft. The muscle memory of his old self screamed at the sluggish reflexes, the hollow limbs.
He pushed himself off the cot and staggered to the cracked mirror hanging crookedly above the sink. The face staring back was lean, pale, with hollow cheeks and haunted eyes. Not the hardened survivor he'd become. Just a boy—scarless, untested.
Not for long.
There was no time to mourn the past or dread the future. He knew exactly what was coming.
Kieran's eyes flicked to the wall calendar. Monday, March 13th.
The first Gate would open above Edenridge Mall in seven days. But the real countdown started now.
He turned on the faucet, letting the cold water splash over his hands. The pipes groaned like dying animals. He glanced at the flickering bulb above him, then opened the rusted drawer below the sink.
Inside was an old backpack.
It wasn't the same one he'd used in his first life—it was too clean, too whole. But it would do. He stuffed it with essentials: a flashlight, a half-used roll of gauze, matches, a can opener. Then he pulled out the last item: a worn deck of black cards, wrapped in frayed red twine.
The Cards of Binding.
They weren't active yet. Not until the first Gate opened and the world changed. But he'd hidden this deck last time, buried it in a gutter after watching it curse his friend to death.
This time, he would master it.
There was power in those cards—if you were ruthless enough to survive the cost.
A knock echoed through the paper-thin door.
Kieran froze.
He wasn't expecting anyone. He hadn't spoken to anyone yet.
The knock came again, followed by a voice.
"Kieran? You awake?"
He knew that voice.
Lena Cross.
She was one of the first to die last time. Mauled by a Gatespawn three days into the chaos. She had lived across the hall, another orphan tossed into the system and forgotten. She used to bring him stale bread and talk like the world wasn't rotting.
He hadn't thought about her in years.
Kieran opened the door.
Lena stood there, holding two bruised apples and wearing a lopsided smile. Her brown eyes were too kind for a place like this. She wore a hoodie two sizes too big and scuffed boots barely held together by glue and hope.
"You weren't at the center this morning. Thought you might've gotten jumped again."
"I'm fine," Kieran said flatly.
Lena blinked. "Right. I, uh… brought you breakfast."
He took the apple. It was soft. Overripe. It didn't matter.
"Thanks," he muttered.
She tilted her head. "You feeling okay? You look like you saw a ghost."
Kieran stared at her, heart tightening. She was alive. For now. And she didn't know how close the shadows were.
He wanted to warn her. To drag her away from Edenridge and lock her in a bunker. But he knew better. If he changed too much, he might break the flow of fate—and risk losing the only edge he had.
"I didn't sleep much," he said.
"Well… eat. And don't skip the center again, they'll dock your tokens."
She gave a small wave and turned to leave.
"Lena," he called after her.
She glanced over her shoulder.
"Don't go out late this week. I mean it. Stay inside after sundown."
Her brows furrowed. "What are you talking about?"
"Just—promise me."
A pause. Then she nodded, slowly. "Alright. If you're being weird, must be serious."
He watched her disappear down the stairs, her boots thumping softly against the concrete.
Kieran closed the door and leaned against it, exhaling.
He had one week to prepare. One week to rebuild what strength he could. Train. Gather supplies. And most importantly—decide how he would survive the Card Awakening.
Because when the first Gate opened, everyone would be forced to draw.
One card. One power. One curse.
And the wrong draw could mean death.
Kieran picked up the red-twined deck again, eyes narrowing.
Last time, he never got to draw his card.
This time, he would draw first.
And woe to the world if it was the same card he saw buried in that nightmare dreamscape—the one they whispered about in hushed tones during the survivor camps.
The Hollow King.
He slipped the cards into the backpack, zipped it shut, and slung it over his shoulder.
No one else knew what was coming.
But he did.
And he would be ready.