Chapter 1
She woke to blood on her hands and no name on her lips.
The ground beneath her was cracked and dry, as if the earth itself had given up. The air reeked of smoke and scorched metal. Somewhere in the distance, something burned.
Her head throbbed—sharp and rhythmic—pain blooming just above her temple. She sat up slowly, black uniform clinging to her skin, half-shredded, the fabric burned through in places. Her fingers trembled as she reached for the back of her skull.
Nothing.
No memory. No identity. No voice in her head to tell her who she was.
Only a hollow ache in her chest—like something vital had been ripped out and left behind.
Then—
Screaming.
She flinched. It came from beyond the ridge.
Dragging herself upright, she staggered toward the sound, boots crunching over broken glass and debris. Blackened ruins stretched before her—what might’ve once been a town, now reduced to ash and bone. Choked buildings. Crumbled roads. Silence where lives used to be.
Below, in a clearing, raiders circled a small cluster of survivors. A boy was on his knees, bleeding, begging. Another tried to shield a child. The raiders laughed. One of them raised a blade.
Another—
Turned.
Saw her.
Raised a gun.
“HEY!”
She ran.
No time. No thoughts. Just instinct.
Her legs pounded against dirt and rubble as gunfire cracked behind her. A shot grazed her arm—hot pain slicing through skin—but she didn’t stop.
She ran until her lungs tore. Until the world blurred. Until she collapsed behind a rusted vehicle, chest heaving, ears ringing.
Then—through the haze of panic and blood and smoke—she saw it.
A line.
Civilians. Survivors. A line of them queued outside a reinforced checkpoint.
A weathered sign loomed overhead:
RECRUITMENT — PROJECT VEIL MARINE CORPS
ID not required.
Her gaze dropped to the busted window of the vehicle beside her. In the spiderwebbed reflection, she saw herself:
Blood. Dirt. Hollow eyes.
Her hair—too long.
Her figure—too obvious.
Too feminine for survival.
Her hand found a shard of glass on the ground.
She cut her hair.
She bound her chest tight with torn cloth.
Then, to her left, she saw a dead guy; she stripped him of his boots and jacket.
And when the officers called for the next in line—
“Name?”
She didn’t hesitate.
She swallowed.
“…Mirov.”
