The White Star Institute crouched at the edge of New Eridu's Brant Street, a stark contrast to the city's neon heart.
Unlike the holographic dazzle of Sixth Street or the corporate gleam of Lumina Square, this district was all function over flash: gray warehouses, humming data towers, and the faint buzz of Ether detectors scanning for Hollow rifts.
The institute's building was a Brutalist slab of concrete and glass, its facade etched with geometric patterns that faintly resembled a star.
A lone Bangboo, its paint chipped, patrolled the entrance, its LED eyes scanning passersby.
Michael stood at the base of the steps, adjusting his black tie. His usual outfit—crisp white shirt, dark slacks, and a slightly worn suit jacket—felt like armor, though he hoped it didn't betray his nerves.
"I hope I don't smell," he muttered, running a hand through his black hair, now neatly combed.
Last night, he'd tackled the chaos of his Seventh Street apartment, scrubbing dishes, tossing ramen packets, and even coaxing his busted Bangboo into a charging dock.
His clothes, freshly washed in a coin laundry down the street, carried the faint scent of synthetic lavender.
For the first time in weeks, he looked presentable, like someone who belonged in New Eridu's grind rather than its gutters.
He glanced at his phone, the cracked screen showing 8:55 a.m.
Five minutes until his interview.
The White Star Institute wasn't the Hollow Investigative Association, but it was a lifeline—a research outfit studying Hollow phenomena, with enough clout to keep his rent paid and his stomach full.
His decent college marks had gotten him this far, but he'd need more than grades to stand out in a city crawling with Ether-savvy Agents.
Michael climbed the steps, his loafers clicking against the concrete.
The Bangboo at the door chirped, scanning his ID chip before waving him through with a stubby arm.
Inside, the lobby was sterile, all white walls and humming terminals.
A holographic display in the corner cycled through images of Hollow Rifts, their swirling voids framed by data graphs.
A receptionist, her glasses reflecting the glow of her tablet, directed him to the third floor.
"Dr. Lin's waiting," she said, her voice as flat as a dead Ether reading.
The elevator ride was silent, save for the faint hum of its motors.
Michael's mind drifted to the tarot card he'd found last night—the silver snake coiled into a wheel, pulsing with an eerie light.
He'd left it on his bed, dismissing it as a curiosity, but its image lingered, tugging at memories he couldn't place.
Was it from his Earth life, tied to that Zenless Zone Zero wiki he'd skimmed? Or something else, something older?
The thought unnerved him, but he pushed it aside.
Hunger and rent were real; mysterious cards were not.
The elevator dinged, and Michael stepped into a hallway lined with frosted glass doors.
A plaque read, "Dr. Lin, Ether Dynamics Lead."
He knocked, and a voice called,
"Enter."
Dr. Lin was a wiry woman in her forties, her lab coat pristine and her black hair pulled into a tight bun.
She sat behind a desk cluttered with data slates and a model of a Hollow Rift, its miniature vortex glowing faintly.
Her eyes, sharp behind rimless glasses, sized Michael up as he took a seat.
"Mr. Varen," she began, tapping a tablet.
"Your application shows promise—solid marks in data analysis and ether theory, though your practical aptitude is… lacking."
Her tone was neutral, but the words stung, echoing the HIA's rejection.
Michael nodded, keeping his face steady.
"I've spent years crunching numbers for a firm. I'm good with patterns and systems. I can learn the practical side."
Dr. Lin raised an eyebrow.
"The White Star Institute isn't a training ground."
"We study Hollows—unstable, dangerous phenomena."
"Our researchers need to handle Ether fluctuations, not just theorize about them." She leaned forward.
"Why should we take a chance on someone with no field experience?"
Michael's throat tightened, but he met her gaze.
"Because I'm adaptable. New Eridu's thrown me into worse than a Hollow rift—corporate layoffs, criminal investigations, you name it."
"I don't have ether aptitude, but I've got grit. And I'm not here to waste your time."
She studied him, her fingers drumming on the desk.
"You're honest, at least. Most candidates oversell their skills." She glanced at her tablet, scrolling through his file.
"Your firm was tied to Null_Face, correct? Cleared of involvement, but that's a stain."
"It wasn't my operation," Michael said, his voice firm.
"As a general worker, I had no way of knowing what my former boss was in the middle of."
Dr. Lin nodded, her expression unreadable.
She asked about his coursework, his familiarity with Ether metrics, and his willingness to relocate if the institute needed fieldwork.
Michael answered as best he could, drawing on half-remembered college lectures and his knack for bullshitting through corporate meetings.
The questions were tough, but he kept his cool, even when she grilled him on Hollow stabilization protocols he'd only read about in passing.
Finally, she set the tablet down.
"Thank you, Mr. Varen. We'll review your application and contact you within the week. Our openings are limited, and we prioritize candidates with stronger Ether profiles."
Michael's heart sank, but he forced a nod.
"I understand. Thanks for the opportunity." He stood, adjusting his tie, and turned to leave, the weight of another rejection settling in.
His hand was on the doorknob when Dr. Lin's voice stopped him.
"One moment." She tapped her tablet, her brow furrowing as a notification pinged.
"This is… unexpected. It seems a spot has opened in our data analysis division. One of our researchers was just reassigned to a field op."
She looked up, her gaze appraising.
"It's entry-level, low Ether exposure, mostly crunching rift metrics. If you're still interested, the position's yours."
Michael's face broke into a grin, relief flooding him like a shot of New Eridu Soda.
"Yes, absolutely, I'm in!" The words tumbled out before he could stop them, his voice brighter than it had been in weeks.
Dr. Lin's lips twitched, almost a smile.
"Very well. Report tomorrow at 8:00 a.m. for onboarding. Don't be late." She handed him a data chip with the contract details.
"And Mr. Varen? This is a chance, not a guarantee. Prove you're worth it."
"I will," Michael said, pocketing the chip. He left the office, his steps lighter, the hum of the institute's terminals fading behind him.
As he rode the elevator down, his grin lingered. A job. A real job. Not with the HIA or the Cunning Hares, but it was something—enough to keep the landlord off his back and maybe, just maybe, start climbing out of New Eridu's gutters.
He didn't notice the faint warmth in his jacket pocket, where the tarot card—the silver snake coiled into a wheel—had somehow found its way from his bed.
It pulsed once, a ripple of unseen energy, as if the Wheel of Fortune had turned in his favor.
***
Michael's Seventh Street apartment was a rare haven tonight, its cramped walls bathed in the neon glow of New Eridu's skyline.
He lounged on his couch, beyond happy, a grin splitting his scruffy beard.
The White Star Institute's early paycheck had cleared, and he'd instantly paid his rent, the transfer ping on his phone sweeter than any soda.
No more dodging Mrs. Kwan's calls. Better yet, a delivery Bangboo had just dropped off a pizza—mushroom and synth-cheese, a luxury he hadn't tasted in months.
With no debts and no extra shifts to break his back, Michael felt like he'd finally caught a break in New Eridu's relentless grind.
He ate the pizza lazily, a string of cheese dangling from his chin, his black tie loosened and suit jacket slung over a chair.
The TV droned in the background, cycling through news: a Hollow breach near Scott Outpost, Belobog Heavy Industries' new Bangboo prototype, and whispers of the
Proxy Phaeton climbing the ranks.
Michael barely paid attention, savoring the greasy warmth of his meal.
Then, his eyes snagged on something odd. A card peeked out from his suit jacket, its edge catching the neon light from the window.
Frowning, he crawled across the floor—still littered with ramen wrappers despite his recent cleaning—and grabbed it.
It was the tarot card he'd found before, heavy and cold, but when he flipped it, the surface was blank, with no trace of the silver snake-wheel design.
"Huh," he muttered, scratching his beard.
A knockoff? A glitch from some arcade prize?
Shrugging, he tossed it onto the coffee table, where it landed among soda cans and crumbs, and returned to his pizza.
But the room grew strange.
A pale fog curled from the corners, shimmering like Hollow miasma but colder, softer, and alive.
Michael froze, a pizza crust halfway to his mouth.
The mist thickened, swallowing the neon glow, and the TV's sound warped, the anchor's voice stretching into a low hum before cutting out.
"What the hell?" He gasped, standing. The fog pressed against his skin, whispering in a tongue he couldn't parse.
He stumbled toward the door, but the apartment seemed to stretch, walls bending like a glitched TV Mode puzzle.
The world shifted. Michael found himself in a different space—a vast, gray void with no horizon, the ground like polished stone under his loafers.
The air hummed, electric and heavy, making his cybernetic earpiece spark painfully.
He spun, searching for an exit, but the expanse was endless, oppressive. Panic surged.
"This isn't real," he choked, clutching his dead phone, its cracked screen reflecting nothing.
Then, he saw it. A giant white snake loomed before him, its scales gleaming like molten silver, coiled into a massive wheel, head biting tail.
It was the tarot card's design, but alive, its presence crushing the air from his lungs. Its golden eyes pinned him, unblinking, ancient.
Michael's legs buckled, and he stumbled back, a scream tearing from his throat.
"Stay away!"
The snake didn't move, but its gaze held him, a weight beyond Ethereals or Hollows. His mind scrambled, grasping at fragments from his Earth life.
The card. The Wheel of Fortune. Not from Zenless Zone Zero, but Lord of the Mysteries—a system of tarot, pathways, and powers older than time.
The snake was no mere vision; it was a herald, tied to destinies he didn't understand.
He tried to run, his shoes slipping, but the void pulled him closer to the snake's coils.
Its scales shimmered, etched with pulsing symbols—cycles, fates, choices.
His earpiece sparked again, pain lancing through his skull, and he fell to his knees.
"What do you want?" he whispered.
The snake's hiss vibrated through his bones, not a sound but a force, and a word burned into his mind: Destiny.
Michael clutched his head, the word searing. Destiny?
For a nobody like him, rejected by the HIA, scraping by in New Eridu?
The snake's wheel turned, its coils grinding like cosmic gears.
The fog swirled, and he felt a tug, not physical but existential, drawing him toward the snake's center.
"I didn't ask for this!" he shouted, but the void swallowed his voice.
The snake's eyes flared, its symbols glowing, forming a pattern he couldn't read but felt—a path opening, a choice offered.
The air crackled, and the fog thinned.
With a jolt, Michael was back in his apartment, sprawled on the floor, the pizza box tipped over.
The TV hummed, the news anchor back to normal, as if nothing had happened. He gasped, heart pounding, and scrambled to the coffee table.
The tarot card was gone, vanished, not even a trace among the cans and wrappers.
"No way," he muttered, searching frantically, but it was nowhere.
Then, a sharp pain stung his eyes. He staggered to the bathroom, flicking on the light.
In the mirror, his dark eyes weren't his own.
The symbol of the Wheel of Fortune—a silver snake coiled into a wheel—glowed faintly in his irises, its scales shimmering like a hologram.
Michael's breath caught, shock rooting him in place. "What… what is this?" he whispered, leaning closer.
The symbol pulsed, alive, tying him to the snake's gaze in that otherworldly void.
He closed his eyes, heart racing, and opened them again.
The symbol was gone, his eyes just tired and bloodshot, reflecting a man in his twenties with a scruffy beard and a loosened tie.
He blinked, rubbing them, but saw nothing unusual.
"I'm losing it," he said, gripping the sink. Had it been a hallucination? A Hollow glitch? Or something tied to that card, that snake, that word—Destiny?
He stumbled back to the couch, the pizza cold and forgotten.
The TV droned on, but the neon glow outside felt dimmer, as if New Eridu itself was watching him.
The card had vanished, but its mark lingered, not on the table but in him.
Unbeknownst to Michael, the Wheel of Fortune had turned, and the path it opened was now his to walk.