The morning streets were busy. People moved in steady streams along the wide sidewalks, most of them staring at small glowing screens in their hands while automated vehicles slid past on the road, silent except for the soft hum of electric engines.
Holographic advertisements flickered above doorways, shifting between bright colors and clean white text, and the buildings rose high on both sides, glass and steel reflecting the pale morning light as drones zipped between the towers, carrying packages or simply hovering in place.
There were no street vendors, no carts, and no shouting merchants—nothing like the markets Orson remembered. In his old world a busy street meant noise and chaos and the smell of cooking oil, but here everything moved with quiet efficiency. People stepped around each other without speaking, and the only sound was the low drone of the city itself.
Orson walked behind the young man whose name he still did not know. He had decided to call him "man" in his head, since saying it out loud was not worth the trouble. Besides, names were the least of his problems. He had died, woken up in a stranger’s body, and found himself with a wife who was dying and a city full of questions he could not ask. Finding out this man’s name could wait.
They entered a tea and coffee shop.
The interior caught Orson off guard. The walls were painted in warm, muted tones, smooth wooden tables sat in careful rows, and the lighting was soft and low, glowing from fixtures built into the ceiling. There were no flashy decorations or excessive ornaments—everything had its place, and the simplicity made the place feel expensive in a way that had nothing to do with gold or silk.
A place like this existed in this strange world. Interesting.
The man found a table near the window and sat down. Orson took the seat across from him. The man picked up a thin glass panel from the table and started tapping it—a menu. Orson picked up his own. The food was displayed in pictures, so he tapped the first item he saw and the first drink. The man listed off a long order to the waiter who approached, numbers and more numbers.
So this world called their food by numbers. Strange name for a meal, but then again everything here was strange.
The waiter left. Orson looked around the shop. The other customers sat quietly, drinking from white cups and tapping at their screens, and no one looked at anyone else. The man set his menu down and leaned back.
"So, Orson. How are things going with your new wife?"
Orson looked at him and said nothing.
The man sighed. "Fine. If you don’t want to talk about it, don’t. You don’t have to give me the cold shoulder just because I asked."
Two waiters arrived and set plates on the table. One placed a cup of dark liquid in front of Orson while the other set down a sandwich that looked like two pieces of bread pressed together with something inside.
The first waiter spoke. "Here is your coffee and sandwich, sir."
Orson stared at the dark liquid. It looked like poison, yet the man across from him was drinking his own without hesitation, and the waiter had already walked away. If this was poison it was a strange way to kill someone. Then again, the moon was trying to kill everyone in this world and no one seemed to care, so maybe dying over breakfast was normal here.
He took a small sip.
The taste hit his tongue—dark and bitter, but there was something else underneath, a warmth that spread through his chest. It was surprisingly good.
He finished the cup without realizing it.
He was about to call for another when the man spoke.
"Wow. I thought you hate coffee."
Orson stopped. The warmth was still there, fading slowly, and he wanted more of it—that quiet feeling, that moment of something pleasant in a world that made no sense.
"Yeah. I mean, you said it was disgusting. Now you’re drinking it. You sure you’re alright?"
Orson smiled. "Of course I am."
The man did not look convinced.
They moved through the city after that. Orson stayed half a step behind, still bitter about the coffee. One good thing in this world and this man had ruined it. Maybe that was why his gut warned him.
They reached the railway station. The building was massive, with high ceilings and screens displaying departure times in glowing numbers. Orson followed the man through the gates and onto a platform where a long metal container waited, stretched out like a snake made of silver and glass.
A train. He knew the word from Orson’s memories, though the image did not match. This thing was smooth and sleek, nothing like the horse-drawn carts of his old world.
They boarded and found seats near a window. The man handed him a headset and a blindfold.
Orson looked at the items.
"Put them on when the light turns red," the man said. "Keep them on for ten minutes. Then you can take them off."
"Why?"
"Just do it. You’ll understand when we get there."
Orson said nothing. He set the items on his lap and looked out the window as the train began to move. The buildings outside blurred past faster and faster until they became streaks of color.
The man pulled out his phone and started tapping. Around them everyone else did the same—heads down, eyes on screens. No one looked out the window, and no one looked at each other.
Then the train’s interior lights turned red.
Orson put on the blindfold and headphones. The world went dark and silent. He could not see or hear anything, yet he could feel the train moving, the subtle vibration running through his body, and the energy in his surroundings shifting as they traveled.
He reached out with his senses.
Something pushed back.
His body went still as a warning flared in his chest—his own instincts telling him to stop, to pull back, to not look.
He listened.
The moment he released his senses he felt it.
It was the same killing intent as the moon, but different. The moon’s aura was unconscious, a passive pressure that hung over the world, while this one was active, deliberate, and focused.
The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.
What is going on?
The aura pressed against him for a heartbeat, then it was gone.
Orson sat still in the darkness. His heart was steady and his breathing even, yet his mind was racing. Something had passed near them—something alive.
A hand tapped his shoulder.
Orson pulled off the blindfold. His eyes were unfocused at first and the world blurred for a moment before snapping back into place. The man sat in front of him, watching with a raised eyebrow.
"See? Not so bad. You didn’t even flinch this time."
Orson looked past him and scanned the train car.
Five bodies lay on the floor.
Blood dripped from their eyes, noses, and mouths, and their faces were frozen in expressions of pure terror, as if they had seen something their minds could not understand and died for it.
No one else reacted. The other passengers continued tapping their phones. A woman stepped over one of the bodies without looking down while a man adjusted his bag and moved to another seat.
Orson stared.
Didn’t anyone feel that aura?
The answer was clear. They had not, or they had learned not to.
The train began to slow. The lights outside the window changed from bright city towers to something darker, and when the train came to a stop the doors slid open.
Orson and the man stepped out.
The air hit him first—thick and still. It filled his lungs and sat there, heavy and wrong. He could not yet read the energy, but it was polluting him with every breath.
The station was different from the one they had left. Cracks ran through the walls, the ceiling was stained, and the lights flickered.
They walked out to the street and Orson stopped.
Ruins stretched in every direction—collapsed buildings, crumbling walls, beggars sitting in the shadows of broken storefronts. The road was cracked and uneven. There were no glass towers here, no clean sidewalks, and no drones.
The man looked at him. "Well, this is District 12. I still prefer mining in District 7, but more money is more money."
Orson covered his mouth with his sleeve. "What’s the difference between the districts?"
The man glanced at him. "First, the air. Where we stay—District 2—it’s one of the inner districts. It has an air filter system. Every district has one."
"Then why doesn’t this place have one?"
"It does." The man smiled and pointed toward the horizon. "But because of that, the air in this district is like this."
Orson followed his gaze.
Something stood at the center of the district—a faint wound in the air, like a tear in reality itself. It reached from the ground to the clouds, stretching up into the sky, its edges shimmering and twisting. Even from this distance Orson could feel the wrongness bleeding off it.
The man spread his arms. "Welcome to District 12. Or as I like to call it—the Eternal Breach District."
Orson stared at the tear in the sky. His chest was tight and his mind was blank.
What the hell kind of world am I in?