The wind howled low across the ruin-strewn desert, pulling dust in thin, slithering trails like phantom fingers across the cracked stone. Seyfe trudged forward, boots heavy with heat and blood, cradling the baby against his chest with one arm while the other gripped a rusted pipe—his only remaining weapon.
The child had quieted, thankfully. Its small chest rose and fell in tiny, rhythmic puffs against Seyfe's ribs. Every so often, the baby would stir, its mouth opening in a tiny yawn or whimper. Each sound was like a tether, anchoring Seyfe to something softer—something worth staying alive for.
He kept to the shadows, weaving between the husks of half-collapsed towers and twisted walkways, always watching the skyline for movement. The rusted gears that had hovered above the sky had slowed now, grinding and groaning like they too were tired of this world.
As he walked, his mind drifted——to static crackling through an old radio,—to a voice that used to cut through the chaos like a lifeline.
"…If you are an unregistered civilian caught in a shift phase… do not attempt to traverse deeper into the broken layer. Stay within visible cover and mark your position with any reflective surface or high-heat signal if available. Veilers are being dispatched to your approximate location once dimensional triangulation is complete. Estimated retrieval: within 24 to 72 hours."
He remembered hearing that. Weeks ago, maybe. Back when his radio still worked. Before the wires shorted out and fused to his palm trying to catch a weak signal.
The government's Veilers…Tall, silent, cloaked in that skin-weave armor that pulsed like second flesh. Men—or machines—trained to survive in the worst of broken layer anomalies. Cold. Efficient. Controlled.
Seyfe never knew if they were really human anymore.
"I just need to hold out," he muttered to the baby, as much a reminder to himself. "We just need to stay alive long enough for them to find us."
The child stirred, letting out a soft mewl, and Seyfe shifted the bundle in his arms, adjusting the cloth to shield its eyes from the harsh, colorless sun above.
His throat ached with thirst. His legs screamed. And the meat he'd consumed earlier was starting to twist inside him—an oily weight he tried to ignore.
He stumbled upon a broken sign buried half in the sand. It was in another language—probably one of the older overlays—but he didn't care about what it said. What mattered was the high column it was attached to: steel, hollow, reflective.
A marker.
He dug into his pouch and pulled out a shard of a ruined radio from the crate that he found not to long ago: the polished backing. Not much, but enough to catch the sun. He climbed the structure, one hand gripping, one cradling the child until he reached halfway up, then wedged the shard against the metal where the light hit hardest.
Flash. A gleam, weak but steady.
A signal. A prayer.
Climbing down, he leaned against the post, legs trembling from the exertion. He looked at the baby again. Its tiny face was peaceful now, eyes half-lidded in post-meal slumber, unaware of the horrors surrounding them.
"You've got no idea what kind of place you were born into," Seyfe murmured. "But I swear on whatever's left of my soul—I'll get you out of it."
He looked out over the endless grey desert.
And waited.
He didn't want to do this. He didn't want to have to rely on the government. He'd never asked for their help. He'd never wanted it. They were the reason his life had turned into this—a series of survival tactics, endless hours of evading monsters, and knowing too well what it felt like to be forgotten by the world.
But as he glanced down at the baby, its small hand gripping the edge of his sleeve, he knew. He knew that this time, his ego had to take a backseat. This wasn't about him anymore.
He could hate the government all he wanted, but he wasn't going to let some child fall into the same hell he had.
The infant was innocent—nothing but a helpless little life tossed into a world it couldn't understand. And Seyfe? He had been that child once, desperate and scared, waiting for a hand that would never come.
And now, it was his turn to be that hand. No matter the cost.
With a sharp exhale, Seyfe adjusted the baby again, shifting the weight on his chest as he quickened his pace toward the incoming signal. His heart beat faster as he thought about the Veilers. His mind spiraled into distrust, picturing them as emotionless machines, cold to the suffering of people like him. But… this was different. The baby made it different.
He glanced back at the ruins behind him. They would not survive here forever, in this wasteland of broken cities. His food was running out. His strength was running thin. There was no choice.
He had to swallow the bitterness. He had to let go of the anger. For now.
And as the silhouette of the figure grew closer, the steady, pulsing hum of their approach grew louder in his ears. He steadied his breath, tightened his grip on the baby, and steeled himself for whatever was coming.
The government had done enough damage to him, to the world. But this child? This child would not suffer because of it.
He had to protect it, even if that meant walking straight into the arms of the very system that broke him.
As Seyfe trudged forward, the sound of the desert wind grew distant—replaced by the faint, mechanical hum of something far more unnerving. His steps faltered for just a moment, his instincts screaming at him to turn back, to vanish into the ruins like a shadow. But there was no time to run. He had to face it. He had to.
The figure appeared from the haze of dust and broken skyline, tall and silent. It was as if the very air had bent around it, a distortion of light and heat. The Veiler's armor was black as night, sleek and tight-fitting, reflecting a soft shimmer under the dying light of the sun. The face, or rather the helmet, was blank—no eyes, no mouth, just smooth, featureless metal that exuded nothing but authority and cold indifference.
The Veiler didn't speak at first. It didn't need to.
It observed Seyfe. Its gaze, if you could call it that, shifted slowly down his worn, bloodied form, lingering on the torn, sweat-streaked clothes that barely clung to his body, the dust and grime that had accumulated in the days since the shift. Then, its focus fell on the baby in Seyfe's arms—swaddled, small, vulnerable.
The air seemed to tighten, thickening with every passing second. The Veiler's steps were silent but deliberate as it moved closer, its presence almost suffocating.
Seyfe tensed. Every muscle in his body screamed to move, to react—but he stood his ground. He couldn't run now. The baby was already in danger, and he wouldn't let it face whatever horrors the Veiler might have planned.
The Veiler paused, just within reach. Its head tilted slightly, the smooth surface of the helmet catching the last rays of light. And then, it spoke. The voice was deep, resonating with a mechanical timbre, emotionless—sterile.
"Civilian. Unregistered. What is your purpose here?"
Seyfe swallowed, his throat dry. His grip on the baby tightened, but he tried to remain calm. This was the moment where every piece of his mistrust collided with what was necessary for survival.
"I'm not here for you," he muttered under his breath, eyes hardening. "I'm here for them," he added, glancing at the baby.
The Veiler's gaze flickered for just a second, as if processing something beyond its directives. It didn't acknowledge his words, though. Instead, it reached out, slow, deliberate—toward the child.
Seyfe's breath hitched, and without thinking, he took a step back, clutching the baby to his chest protectively. "Stay the hell away from it," he growled, his voice rising just a little despite the knot of fear that twisted in his gut.
The Veiler stopped, its gloved hand still suspended mid-air, inches from the child. It paused. For a long, torturous moment, there was silence—then, a voice crackled through a hidden speaker in its suit.
"Confirmed. Registration of child not yet processed." The mechanical tone didn't hold a hint of emotion. "You are to be relocated to designated shelter. Further questioning will occur."
Seyfe clenched his jaw, refusing to let the weight of his growing dread break him. "You're not taking them." His voice was low, fierce. "If you want me, you'll have to take me first."
The Veiler didn't move—just stood there, staring at him through its faceless helmet. And for a moment, time hung still.
Then, it spoke again, its voice as cold as ever. "You do not have the authority to deny assistance, civilian. Stand down."
Seyfe's heart pounded in his chest. He could feel the hot surge of panic creeping at the edges of his mind. The baby was still too small, too fragile to be in the hands of this machine. He could see the cold calculation in the Veiler's stance. It wasn't here to rescue him. Not truly. It was here to control.
"I'm not standing down," Seyfe spat, his grip on the baby tightening.
The tension stretched between them, thick and unbearable. The Veiler didn't flinch, didn't respond beyond its mechanical gaze. It could easily overpower him, force him into submission. It had the strength, the numbers, the resources.
But then—its posture shifted. The hand that had hovered over the baby lowered, almost gently.
"I see." The voice held a slight pause, something unreadable. "You have a choice, civilian. Return with us, or remain in this realm. You will not survive long without assistance."
Seyfe's mind raced. His eyes flickered between the Veiler and the broken landscape, his body on the edge of collapse, his heart heavy with the knowledge of what was at stake. He hated the system. He hated them for abandoning him, for abandoning everyone who had lived in the outskirts, discarded as easily as the trash they were.
But the baby…
He took a breath, slow and deep, swallowing the pride that burned in his chest. He didn't have the luxury of hatred right now. Not when the child's life was in the balance.
With one last defiant glance, he finally nodded. "Fine. Take me."