The metallic clang of the vending machine echoed through the empty park as a can of coffee tumbled into the collection tray. Sixteen-year-old Nightborne retrieved it with trembling fingers, his skin so pale it seemed almost translucent against the dark aluminum. The caffeine was his lifeline these days—the only thing keeping him upright through the endless, exhausting hours.
He settled onto a bench, wincing as cold seeped through his worn jeans. The April air carried a bite that cut through his threadbare jacket, but he barely noticed anymore. Physical discomfort had become such a constant companion that acknowledging it seemed pointless.
Nightborne's reflection stared back at him from a puddle at his feet—raven-black hair falling in untamed waves over his forehead, shadows beneath his eyes so pronounced they looked like bruises against his alabaster skin. The name his parents had given him had always seemed strangely prophetic—as if they'd somehow known he would come to embody the darkness of night, haunting the fringes of society like a ghost.
"Happy birthday to me," he whispered, raising the can in a mock toast before taking a long swig of the bitter liquid.
Sixteen. A milestone that should have been celebrated with cake and presents and the warm embrace of family. Instead, he sat alone in a forgotten corner of the city, with nothing but the distant sound of traffic and the occasional flutter of pigeons fighting over discarded food.
*What's the point of living if I'll always be alone?* The thought slithered through his mind like a venomous snake, poisoning what little hope remained. It wasn't the kind of thought that belonged on a birthday, but then again, nothing about his life followed the expected script.
His parents had promised they would return before his birthday. "Just a quick business trip," his mother had said, brushing her lips against his forehead. "We'll be back before you know it, with presents." His father had squeezed his shoulder, that familiar half-smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Sixteen is special, son. We wouldn't miss it."
That was three months ago. Now they were just two more names on the ever-growing list of the vanished—those who stepped out one day and never returned, swallowed by the mysterious forces that governed their fractured reality.
The authorities had stopped looking after the first month. "Resources are limited," they'd explained, eyes averted. "With the increased frequency of warps, missing persons cases have become... complicated."
Complicated. As if that single word could encompass the gaping void their absence had torn in his life.
Nightborne crushed the empty can in his fist, the aluminum crumpling with a satisfying crackle. He tossed it into a nearby recycling bin and stood, digging into his pocket to count the meager bills and coins that constituted his birthday fund—saved penny by painful penny over months of skipped lunches and odd jobs.
It wasn't much, but it would buy him a few hours of pretending his life wasn't falling apart. Maybe a movie, or a proper meal in a restaurant where the servers would smile and treat him like he mattered. A temporary escape, but an escape nonetheless.
As he walked toward the commercial district, his gaze drifted to a massive digital billboard dominating the skyline. It displayed the gleaming image of a woman in sleek armor, her eyes aglow with unearthly power as she stood triumphant over the corpse of some grotesque creature. Above her, bold letters proclaimed: "SERVE THE ORIGIN. SURVIVE THE WARP. SAVE YOUR WORLD."
Nightborne's steps slowed as he absorbed the propaganda. It was impossible to escape the reality of what their world had become, even for a birthday.
---
The fabric of reality had torn open five years ago, revealing the horrifying truth that their universe was just one of countless others interconnected by invisible threads. Only a select few—those "blessed" by the enigmatic force known as the Origin—could travel between these worlds. In some of these parallel realities, nightmarish creatures ruled, committing atrocities beyond human comprehension.
Those chosen by the Origin were forced to enter these twisted worlds and fight for survival. The rules were brutally simple: survive, or doom your home world to destruction. When a chosen one fell, a gateway would tear open between worlds, unleashing waves of monsters that slaughtered indiscriminately until nothing remained.
The first mass selection had been chaos. Thousands vanished in an instant, snatched from streets and beds and classrooms. Sixty thousand returned from the initial wave—sixty thousand out of hundreds of thousands taken. The survivors came back changed, wielding powers that defied the laws of physics and carrying scars both visible and hidden.
Before that catastrophic event, there had been smaller, stranger occurrences. Individual selections, seemingly at random. Those chosen would disappear, and if they died in the other world, no gateway opened. Instead, another person would be sent in their place, creating a grim cycle of substitution that continued for three months until everyone trapped in these alternate realities was abruptly returned.
No one understood why it happened or how it began—questions that consumed philosophers, scientists, and theologians to this day. But understanding took a backseat to survival, and society quickly adapted to this new, terrifying reality.
Many survivors of those early warps struggled with profound psychological trauma. Some retreated from society entirely. Others channeled their experiences into helping the next generation, sharing what they had learned about survival in these otherworldly realms.
And then there were those who saw opportunity in catastrophe. Corporations and governments quickly recognized the potential of these interdimensional travelers—these "Divers," as they came to be called. A formal system emerged from the chaos: scouts identified promising candidates, who were then trained and equipped before being sent on their first warp.
Those with exceptional abilities received corporate sponsorship, which meant better equipment, better training, and a significantly higher chance of survival. This process repeated until they were recognized by the Origin as true Divers, granted the freedom to move between their assigned warp world and Earth at will.
For most, becoming a Diver was a death sentence. For the desperate and the destitute, it represented the only path to a better life.
---
Nightborne tore his gaze from the billboard and continued walking, hands shoved deep in his pockets. The weight of his circumstances pressed down on him with each step. Five years since the world changed. Three months since his parents disappeared. And now, at sixteen, he could barely keep a roof over his head or food in his stomach.
His apartment—if the decaying single room with faulty plumbing deserved such a dignified term—would be lost by the end of the month. The landlord had made that abundantly clear during their last encounter, his meaty hand gripping Nightborne's shoulder hard enough to bruise.
"I've been patient because of your situation, kid," he'd growled, breath hot and sour against Nightborne's face. "But charity's got limits. End of the month, you pay up or you're out."
The memory made Nightborne's throat constrict. He'd applied for survivor benefits after his parents' disappearance, but the system was overwhelmed, the bureaucracy impenetrable. His application remained "under review," a status that hadn't changed in weeks.
Becoming a Diver was starting to look like his only option—a desperate gamble with his life as the stake. It wasn't as if he had much to lose anymore.
What Nightborne didn't know as he wandered through the city streets on his sixteenth birthday, alone and afraid, was that his chance to warp would come sooner than expected. The Origin had already taken notice of him, its unfathomable attention fixing on his desperate soul like a searchlight penetrating darkness.
His life was about to change in ways he couldn't begin to imagine—and the universe would never be the same.