The light was white.
Cold white. Ancient. It swallowed him whole.
A woman's voice screamed a name—not his. Hands reached for him. Missed. Then darkness. Long darkness. No dreams. No thoughts. No time.
When he woke, the world had changed.
Trees punched through skyscrapers. Roots thick as his body hugged concrete like old lovers. The air buzzed with things he couldn't see—watchers, waiters, judges. And in his pocket, something pulsed. Warm. Alive.
His name? Gone.
Why he ran? Gone.
Who chased him? Gone.
But they knew.
In the tallest tower, where white light never slept, an old man traced a red dot on a living map. He smiled—lips moving, eyes still—and touched the crystal in his palm.
"Still alive," he breathed. "Good. Bring him."
Deep underground, the pulse answered.
One day. Two. Three.
The city breathed around him. The hunters circled. And somewhere in that forest of crystal and bone, someone waited. Someone who knew his name.
Someone who knew what he'd done.
The flash drive pulsed.
He ran.
---
To be continue..