Arke shifted restlessly on his bed, searching for a position that might bring sleep. An hour had passed since he'd turned in, but his body refused to relax. His mind kept circling back to the voice on the track and the dagger he'd seen—or thought he'd seen. He told himself it was just his imagination, some trick his brain had cooked up to cope with everything he'd lost. But the memory felt too sharp to dismiss. The voice had been clear. The dagger had been real.
He kept brushing the thoughts away, over and over, until exhaustion finally crept in and pulled him under.
And then he was running. No wheelchair. Just the slap of his shoes against the lane and the roar of the wind tearing past him.
The air rushed over him, sharp and cool. His shoes struck the rubber surface in perfect rhythm, faster than most in his year.
Out here, his thoughts quieted—just the wind against his skin and the world narrowing to the curve of the track ahead.
He rounded the bend one last time, legs burning but heart steady. The finish line wasn't marked, but he knew exactly where it was. He crossed it, breathing hard, then slowed into a jog before coming to a full stop.
His hand went to the digital watch strapped to his wrist. He checked the time, blinked, then smiled.
"Beat it again," he muttered.
A record. Not official, but his.
Pulling out his phone, he saw a message blink on the lock screen—it was from his mom.
I'll be late. There's pizza in the fridge, just heat it in the microwave. For you and Arthe.
He made his way to the shower room, rinsed quickly under the hot stream, and changed into fresh clothes.
He checked his watch.
3:45 PM.
Then it hit him.
His chest tightened. "I totally forgot—Rizz must've been already there!"
Arke burst out of the building and sprinted toward the street. The flower shop came into view near the plaza's edge. He didn't even wait to catch his breath.
"Sunset Mix—the usual," he said, leaning slightly over the counter.
The florist, a kind-faced woman who already knew him by habit, nodded and wrapped the bouquet with practiced hands. As she handed it over, he pressed the bills into her palm.
"Keep the change."
Then he was off again, bouquet in hand, weaving through the afternoon crowd. The plaza was full—students, vendors, couples—and Arke kept checking his watch as he darted around them.
As soon as he broke free of the crowd, the coffee shop came into view. Bouquet still in hand, he scanned the tables for Rizz—but she wasn't there.
Instead, the dagger was. Half-buried in the ground, its blade bled a faint red mist that curled across the tiles.
Then the sky turned red, and he jolted awake.
"Arke! You're gonna be late!" his mom called from outside his room.
He turned to the window. Outside, the day was already awake. Another school morning routine.
An hour later, in their classroom before the first bell, his two nerdy classmates were at it again, arguing about the Crimson Hour.
Arke glanced at Leev's empty seat and sighed. For once, he actually wished the guy were here. Leev had a way of shutting them up without saying a word.
After class, the flow of students spilled toward the cafeteria. Arke followed at his own pace, weaving his chair between tables until he found a quieter corner.
That's when he saw her—the girl from the track—sitting near the window, picking at her lunch with one hand while scrolling her phone with the other. Nobody seemed to notice her much, though she had a presence that somehow stood apart from the noise of the room.
He hesitated, tray in hand, wondering if he should say something. Maybe a simple "thanks" for shutting that guy down yesterday. But before he could decide, she stood, tossed her empty carton, and walked out with the same quiet confidence she'd shown on the track.
The next day—Saturday, with no school—Arke sat at the dining table, laptop open.
"Hey, Arke, let's play!" Arthe's voice came from the living room, game controller in hand.
"Not in the mood," Arke said without looking up.
"Boring!" Arthe groaned, flopping onto the couch.
Arke ignored him, fingers tapping at the keys. He'd been searching for hours, scrolling through image after image of ceremonial blades, antique knives, and fantasy weapons, hoping to find something close to what he'd seen on the track. Nothing matched.
His gaze drifted for a moment. The dream replayed in his head—the run, the plaza, the sky turning red. But this time, it hadn't stopped there. It had ended with the dagger.
On impulse, he typed: Crimson Hour, Dagger.
Dozens of links popped up. Most were conspiracy blogs or half-baked theories, but one title caught his eye:
Crimson Hour: The Dagger Effect
He clicked.
The article wasn't long. A self-proclaimed physicist argued that the Crimson Hour had been a "dimensional slice," comparing it to running a knife through water. For a moment, the surface parts, creating a temporary opening before closing again. The writer suggested the same had happened to time and space—an invisible barrier briefly cut open, exposing Earth to something that was never meant to reach it.
At the bottom, a comment section stretched on.
This is garbage. Slicing space? What's next, stabbing time?
Not even science, dude. Go back to writing fanfic.
I think he's onto something. My cousin swore he saw a sword fall out of the sky that day.
Arke crossed his arms, staring at the screen. Something about all of it—the article, the dream—felt connected, like pieces of a puzzle he didn't yet understand. Curiosity burned in his chest, too strong for caution to stop it.
He wheeled toward the door. "Arthe! If Mom looks for me…" He hesitated, then called out, "Tell her I went to the convenience store. Need something for a project."
"Yeah, whatever," Arthe muttered, eyes still glued to his game.
Arke didn't wait for more. He pushed out onto the familiar sidewalk. The school wasn't far by car, but by wheelchair it was a grind. He didn't stop, didn't even pause to catch his breath, hands burning from the constant push against the wheels. Sweat prickled at his back, but he kept going.
By the time he reached the school gate, his arms felt like lead. The guard barely glanced at his ID, waving him through—hard to forget the only kid who rolled in on wheels every day.
He headed straight for the track.
The place was silent. No runners, no whistles, no drills—just the distant hum of traffic beyond the school walls. But the moment his wheels crossed onto the lane, something in him twisted. A sharp throb pierced his skull.
And then:
"Arke."
The voice was as clear as it had been that day.
Red mist began to coil at the center of the track, swirling tighter until it formed around the same dagger he had seen before—its blade half-buried in the asphalt.
This time, he didn't question it. Hallucination or not, he needed to know.
He drove his chair forward, faster than he ever had, the tires squealing faintly against the rubber.
"Arke," the voice said again, deeper now, resonating from the dagger itself.
He wheeled up beside it and reached down. His fingers closed around the hilt—and his world shattered.
A surge of energy ripped through him, flooding from his hand into his body. His muscles seized, his spine arched, and he convulsed as flashes tore through his mind—images too fast to grasp, sensations that didn't belong to him. The energy felt alive, like something trying to burrow into his very being.
The pressure mounted until it was unbearable. Arke screamed, his voice swallowed by the empty track—then everything went dark as he slumped forward, unconscious.
* * *
Light seeped in slowly, a dull brightness pressing against his eyelids. Arke stirred to the sound of a steady pulse—beep, pause, beep.
A curtain rustled faintly to his right. Somewhere nearby, wheels squeaked as a cart rolled past.
He opened his eyes. White ceiling. Pale walls. A monitor blinking softly beside the bed.
A hospital room.
"What… happened?" he muttered, voice rough. He pushed himself upright, the sheets rustling as he sat up on the bed.
Then it all came back—the track, the mist, the dagger, that surge of energy tearing through his body.
And just as the memory hit, the air in front of him shifted.
A ripple spread across the space barely an arm's length away, as if reality itself had warped. Red mist began to coil out of nothing, thickening and twisting until the dagger emerged—hovering in the air, its blade etched with the same strange markings, the mist swirling around it like a living thing.