Arke glanced at his watch.
4:00 PM.
"Crap, late again," he muttered.
Through the press of the plaza, he spotted her outside the coffee shop, her figure half-hidden by the tide of people. She sat quietly, scrolling through her phone. He pushed his way through the crowd, raised a hand. She looked up, shook her head, then gave him that small, forgiving smile.
The smile vanished when the sky turned red, like the sun's light had been swapped with the flick of a switch.
Both of them looked up. The sky burned crimson—then flickered. The ground shook as deafening explosions ripped through the surrounding buildings.
Everything in him shut down, then a high-pitched whine pulled him back as the screams dulled to distant echoes.
When he tried to move, pain erupted through his feet. He twisted around to find jagged metal pinning both legs to the pavement, burning hot and smoking at the edges.
Somewhere nearby, alarms wailed and screams rose, but Arke wasn't listening—he was searching for her. Then he found her, lying motionless on the ground, blood spreading from where she lay, and his scream tore through the chaos.
Then—darkness followed.
* * *
Arke's fingers flew over the game controller, his wheelchair angled toward the TV. He leaned forward, biting his lower lip in focus.
"Catch me if you can, Arthe!" he said, flashing a quick glance at his younger brother.
A triumphant chime rang from the game.
"Oops. Won again," Arke grinned.
Arthe groaned, tossed his controller onto the sofa, and stomped off.
"Hey, sore loser!" Arke called after him, laughing.
It had been six months since that dreadful day. Six months since the sky turned red and the world shattered. No one still knew what that anomaly was. Most people simply called it the Crimson Hour.
That day had torn Arke's dream apart. Back then, he was a school athlete—a runner. Now, with his legs paralyzed, he chased speed through video games, trying to relive fragments of the life he'd lost.
But the Crimson Hour hadn't just broken him physically. It had taken her, too.
Rizz.
"Arke, what was that about?" his mom called, glancing toward Arthe, who had stormed out, grabbed his school bag, and headed outside.
"Just lost a game," Arke said, setting the controller down.
"Enough playing," his mom said. "Get your things ready."
Arke let out a sigh, spun his wheelchair toward his room, and tossed a few books into his bag. Minutes later, the three of them were in the car—his mom at the wheel, Arthe glued to his phone in the back seat, and Arke staring out the window as the neighborhood rolled by.
A few minutes later they pulled up to the school gate, and Arthe was already out the door, jogging off without a glance back.
"Hey! Leave your brother again?" their mom called after him, leaning slightly over the steering wheel.
"Don't worry, Mom," Arke said, sliding his bag into place as he reached for the door handle. "I can manage."
He rolled down the ramp, the tires of his chair bumping lightly against the pavement, and started toward the entrance at his own steady pace.
Six months ago, he used to look forward to school. Now, every trip through those gates felt heavier—a museum of broken dreams.
The trophy case still displayed the school's track and field championship. Posters of the track team hung on the wall, his own smile frozen mid-stride. Out on the field, the track curved like a cruel reminder of the finish lines he'd never cross again.
And then there were the pieces of her. The library where Rizz used to tutor him through math he barely understood. The bench where they'd waste afternoons talking about everything and nothing. Each corner of the campus seemed determined to remind him of what the Crimson Hour had taken.
Arke wheeled into the classroom, the low murmur of chatter greeting him. Most of his classmates were already there—one girl by the window with her nose buried in a book, two boys near the back flicking rubber bands at each other, a couple of others trading answers over a half-finished worksheet.
He made his way down the aisle, the soft whir of his wheels cutting through the noise, and stopped at his desk. Sliding into place felt practiced now, almost automatic, though it still didn't feel natural.
As he settled at his desk, a voice drifted from a few seats over.
"You know, I think the Crimson Hour's really aliens trying to contact Earth," one of his nerdy classmates said, leaning in like he'd uncovered a great secret.
"Yesterday you said it was a terrorist weapon," his friend shot back. "Now it's aliens?"
"Could be both," the first one muttered, undeterred.
The door slid open. A student stepped in—hands in his pockets, expression unreadable—and crossed the room without a word. He dropped into his seat near the back.
Leev, one of Arke's classmates, had that effect on people. His presence never failed to unsettle the room. The two nerds instantly went silent, eyes snapping to their desks as if they'd never been talking at all.
The clock on the wall ticked its slow rhythm, though the rest of the period seemed to blur by. Before long, the bell rang, snapping the class to life as students stood, gathered their things, and filed out while the teacher called a few last instructions over the noise.
Arke rolled into the hall with the flow of bodies, angling toward the exit. Just as he reached the bend that opened toward the school's track, a sharp throb pulsed through his head.
"Crap… this again," he muttered, pressing his fingers to his temple.
His gaze drifted to the oval beyond the glass. The track used to feel like home. Now it looked foreign—like it belonged to someone else.
Something in him—resentment, curiosity, maybe both—tightened in his chest.
"Maybe I need to get over this," he said quietly. "I'll go check the practice."
He wheeled himself through the doors and onto the edge of the track, stopping near the starting line as the runners launched into their sprints. Their shoes pounded against the lanes, each stride a reminder of what he'd lost.
When the race ended, one of the boys spotted him and smirked.
"Guess the track team's got a new mascot. A guy in wheels."
Arke's jaw tensed, ready to shoot back, but a voice beside him cut through.
"Funny," the girl said without looking at either of them, "you talk big for someone who always finishes last."
The other runners broke into laughter. The boy's face flushed with annoyance, though he couldn't think of a comeback.
Arke blinked, realizing how many new faces there were. He didn't recognize most of them—and he definitely didn't know her. By the time he glanced toward her again, she was already at the far end of the track, stretching before diving into her drills.
Arke watched the practice from the sidelines, something in him easing as the minutes passed. A few trainers noticed him and called out:
"Good to see you here again, Arke!"
"Still hoping to watch you run on this track someday!"
For the first time in months, he found himself almost enjoying it—the rhythm of drills, the shouts of encouragement, the thud of shoes hitting the lanes.
When practice wrapped up and the runners dispersed, one trainer lingered. He walked over with an easy smile.
"Reminiscing?"
Arke just gave a small nod.
"Stay here," the coach said. "I want to catch up, but the principal just called me in. Five minutes."
"Sure," Arke said.
The coach jogged off, leaving the track eerily quiet.
That was when he heard it.
"Arke."
He spun his wheelchair around. The track was empty.
A chill pricked at his neck. The voice… it sounded like his own.
He wheeled onto the track, scanning the benches, the shadows, but found nothing. Then it came again—clearer this time.
"Arke."
His heart kicked faster. The sound was coming from the center of the track.
That's when he saw it: a faint red mist swirling low to the ground. As he rolled closer, the mist coalesced around something—a dagger, its blade half-buried in the asphalt. Ancient-looking, etched with markings he didn't recognize.
He angled his wheelchair beside it and leaned down, reaching out. His fingers hovered just above the hilt when—
"Hey, Arke! I'm back!"
He jerked around. The coach was jogging toward him.
Arke forced a grin and raised a hand. "Hey, Coach!"
The man frowned. "What are you doing in the middle of the track?"
"Do you… know whose dagger this is?" Arke asked, pointing back toward the center.
But the dagger was gone.
The coach squinted. "What dagger?"
Arke hesitated. "…Never mind. Probably just my headaches again."
"You want me to take you to the clinic?"
He shook his head. "I'm fine, Coach."
"You sure? You look a little pale."
"I'll head out," Arke said, turning his wheelchair toward the exit.
The coach gave his shoulder a firm pat. "You should visit here more often."
"Thanks, Coach."
As he rolled toward the doors, the whisper came again, softer but sharper.
"Arke."
He froze, then muttered under his breath, "I'm really starting to hallucinate."
One last glance toward the center of the track.
"I hope so," he said, and wheeled himself away.