She lay on her back, motionless, her body sprawled across the fractured concrete like a broken statue discarded by time. One arm was across her stomach and the other hung limp at her side. Her fingers were slightly curled, as if she were still reaching for something—or someone—already gone.
Her blood spread beneath her in a slow-blooming halo, dark and vibrant against the pale dust. It pooled in the cracks of the ground and seeped into every fracture as if trying to stitch the ruined earth back together with her life.
Her eyes were open and unblinking. They stared up at the colorless sky as ash drifted down in delicate spirals. It caught faintly in her lashes and clung to her skin like snow that had forgotten how to melt. Her pupils trembled—just slightly—as if her soul hadn't realized yet that her body was shutting down.
Her chest rose with shallow, trembling breaths. Each one slenderer than the previous one, each more challenging to draw than the one preceding it. Her lips parted slightly, blood staining the corner of her mouth, yet no words emerged. There was nothing left to say.
The stab wound was clean, deep. Her shirt was torn at the center, already soaked through. Crimson streaked across her ribs, down her side, disappearing beneath her coat. The warmth of it was fading.
Her dark hair fanned out around her like a shadow. Strands of it stuck to her face, damp with sweat and blood, but she made no effort to move them. The strength in her limbs had left her—not stolen, but surrendered.
And yet, no panic was shown in her expression. Just stillness. A quiet confusion. It was as if she was waiting to wake up from something that had already ended.
The sound of approaching monsters could be heard in the distance, but that was no longer important.
'How did I end here?' — She asked.
…
Early that day, in the base.
She stood alone in the back room of the base, strapping the last of her gear into place. The room was dimly lit by a jury-rigged bulb swaying slightly from the cracked ceiling. Dust particles hung in the air, catching the light in slow spirals as she moved.
She adjusted the strap of her reinforced coat with practiced fingers, then checked the blade holstered at her thigh. Everything was routine — methodical — like muscle memory carved from a decade of surviving. Yet beneath her control, tension coiled in her spine like a bowstring half-drawn.
Around her neck, tucked beneath her shirt and armor, something small and warm pressed lightly against her skin.
She pulled it out for just a moment — a pendant, glassy and faintly opalescent, shaped like a drop of frozen light. The chain was worn from years of wear; the metal had softened from her absentminded rubbing over and over.
In a dungeon that was once her grandmother's home, she discovered an heirloom. It was in a room reminiscent of a studio, with a photograph of her grandparents, and her grandmother wearing the heirloom.
She had never taken it off.
Her mother had died the day she was born. Her father, four years later. Her grandmother had been the only family she'd ever known — strict, kind, fierce as wildfire when needed. She taught her to read, to survive, to stand back up. She was the reason she had lasted this long — even now, years after that last goodbye.
She let the pendant drop back beneath her shirt, its weight grounding her.
She was tall for her age, with a lean, hardened physique earned through survival rather than training. Her features were sharp but unreadable — high cheekbones, a narrow jaw, lips set in a line that rarely moved. Her skin held the faint bronze tint of sun and ash, and her dark hair — long enough to tie back but not long enough to grab during a fight — was twisted into a low, utilitarian knot.
But it was her eyes that always drew attention, even though she hated it. They were pale violet — unusual and eerie in low light — like storm glass held up to a fire. They gave away nothing. And after all these years, that was the point.
Her name was Ametrine Ashryn.
She took one last breath and stepped into the main hall of the outpost.
The noise of the others hit her like static: gear being checked, quiet footsteps, and clipped instructions shared in tired voices. The scent of metal and old sweat clung to the walls like a memory.
Standing at the center and coordinating the team with quiet precision was Daelen.
He didn't bark orders. He didn't have to. His presence alone carried the weight of discipline.
Broad-shouldered and clean-cut, his posture was straight and his movements were sharp, despite the ruin around them. His face bore the calm of someone accustomed to being followed without question. He had closely cropped hair, sun-scarred skin, and a square jaw dusted with stubble. His muted steel-gray eyes scanned the room constantly, always calculating. He looked like someone who had carried others through fire and come back burned but not broken.
He turned slightly when she approached. A silent, habitual nod passed between them.
No words were needed.
This is what they were.
Survivors.
Leaders.
A blade and its sheath.
Amy joined the circle just as the last map was folded and put away. The team would be ready in minutes. The objective was simple: reach the target zone, secure supplies, and return before dark.
Just another run.
But her gut told her otherwise.
Something was wrong; she could feel it.
However, she could do nothing about it.
The supplies at the base were running low; they needed to replenish them quickly.
Ten members of the team left the base on the way to the target zone: six men and four women, including her and Daelen.
They were walking on the street, heading for the mall that was 10 km away near the industrial district, which was the nearest mall to the base that still had supplies.
That's why they were going to the mall, but the road was long, and they had to watch out for monsters along the way.
The street was silent; only the sounds of birds could be heard.
They were tense, surrounded by tall buildings and broken cars, but they moved with practiced ease, as if they had done this countless times: efficiently, quickly, and alert to any threat.
They moved as if this were just another mission.
Then, Daelen stopped the team.
"We'll rest here," he said, already checking his pack. He didn't look at her when he said it.
He used to.
Amy saw one of the men nod to him, low and casual — but too clean. As if rehearsed. As if permission was being granted.
She frowned. Maybe it was nothing.
It was time for a meal and some rest before continuing the journey.
Amy saw Daelen speaking with some members of the team in the distance as if they were finishing a plan.
She knew that only happened when he wanted to get rid of someone.
Amy started to feel suspicious when he noticed her and started to come over.
Daelen pulled out a couple of canteens, then sat down next to Amy.
During the break, he passed her a canteen.
"You alright?" he asked.
She nodded. "We've done worse."
"We have," he agreed, but his voice was distant; he was already thinking ahead.
He always thought ahead.
For a moment, she felt stupid for having second thoughts about him.
He'd never hurt her.
After resting, they continued their journey.
The street was quiet. Too quiet, perhaps. The wind didn't whistle; it waited. Shadows pooled in the corners of windows like old eyes watching them pass.
It was the kind of silence that made the sound of her boots feel too loud.
Amy walked near the front but not beside Daelen. She hadn't walked beside him in weeks.
Not since...
She shook her head. Nothing. She was just tired.
Time passed as they approached the mall.
The mall loomed just beyond the bend where the overpass had collapsed years ago. They'd have to go around through the industrial alleyways.
"Go faster this way," Daelen said.
No one questioned him.
The buildings grew taller and closer together as they approached the mall.
A few meters away from the mall, Amy noticed the atmosphere change subtly.
She also noticed some monster bones nearby, but she didn't think about them further at that time.
They needed to obtain supplies from the mall. Once they had the supplies, they would return to the base.
When they reached the mall, they separated to gather supplies.
Once they had gathered everything, they returned to the mall entrance to pack up and head back to the base.
On the way back, Amy started paying attention to her surroundings again.
There was no sound—no birds or animals—nothing but complete silence. Claw marks covered the walls of the building, the nearby cars, and even the ground. The air was stagnant with the smell of scorched fur and iron. That's when she saw it: a pile of charred bones neatly stacked nearby.
They were next to a den of those creatures, but it was too late, and she knew it.
"Run!" she screamed.
That's when they appeared:
They were wolves with wine-red and ash-colored fur that was slightly darker along the spine. Their eyes glowed with a faint orange heat that seemed to come from deep inside, like the coals of a fire building up. Their front claws were unnaturally hooked like scythes.
They were called Cinderhounds, and they were territorial and aggressive.
Amy took out her blade just in time to deflect an attack on one of her companions by one of the others.
"Start moving now!" she ordered.
Then Daelen said, "This way!" Her team started running after him while she fended them off.
She killed one and injured two more before sprinting toward her team.
Once she reached them, she started thinking about how they could escape the cinderhounds.
Then she remembered a nearby transit tunnel that had recently collapsed. They could mask their smell there and lose the cinderhounds by using the tunnels' sideways.
She knew it was risky since the cinderhounds were accustomed to that type of environment, but it was the only way.
She knew someone had to repel the cinderhounds one last time so the rest of the team could reach the sideways and escape. She was the strongest close-combat warrior in the group, so she took on that role.
"The transit tunnel! We can lose them there!" She said, looking back at her team.
Then she noticed some of the team members looking at Daelen as if seeking his approval. He only nodded and said, "Follow her!"
They sprinted across the debris-choked road. Amy led the way, her heart pounding and her blade slick in her hand. The howls of the Cinderhounds echoed behind them.
Amy held the rear, turning back every few seconds to slash at any creature that came too close. She screamed twice for the others to move faster. Twice she caught Daelen's eyes in the dark.
After running for a few minutes, Amy noticed the entrance of the tunnel, and she sped up—their escape was near.
The city's bones groaned beneath Amy's boots — ancient concrete and twisted metal half-swallowed by the ash-choked skyline. Amy ducked under a broken beam; her side was already bleeding. The pack had arrived sooner than anyone predicted.
They came for medicine. Food. Wires and batteries. Not this.
When they reached the tunnel entrance, Amy stood guard, fending off the last of the attackers. She could feel the burn in her limbs and the pain from her cut thigh, but the adrenaline kept her upright.
The others fled down the collapsed transit tunnel behind her. She had bought them seconds with blood and steel. Seconds were enough. That was always her role.
"Go!" she shouted one last time. "That's all of them. I'll catch up—"
Amy turned, ready to make a final stand.
Daelen was already there.
His blade was already drawn.
She never saw the blade.
It slid cleanly and silently between her ribs. A cold bloom spread across her stomach. Her breath hitched, not from pain but from confusion.
She turned slowly, trembling.
Daelen stood in front of her. The man who had once carried her from a burning zone. The one who led with quiet resolve. He had taught her how to steady her hands when fear made them shake.
Now, his eyes were like stone.
"Here is your end."
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't look away.
It wasn't rage.
It was judgment—like this had been decided long ago.
She staggered back, her legs giving out. Her hand clutched her stomach; warm blood coated her palm. Around her, ash fell silently. There were no footsteps. No one turned back.
They were already gone.
'I trusted you.'
The words never left her lips.
She collapsed beside a rusted stairwell, her cheek pressed against the cold earth. Her vision blurred. Then, she fell to the ground.
...
'So, it was planned from the start,' she realized. 'I became an obstacle for you, didn't I, Daelen?'.
In the haze, she reached for her pendant—the old heirloom from her grandmother that was still glowing faintly.
She started to remember her life with her grandmother.
'Sorry, Grandma. I didn't have a girlfriend to introduce you to,' she thought.
'If only I had the courage to confess to her, maybe things would be different.' She pressed her pendant hard, tears rolling down her cheeks. A crack appeared in the pendant, but she didn't notice. 'But that doesn't matter anymore because I'm dying.'
Then, the system flared.
[Anchor Point Detected.]
[Executing Temporal Reversal...]
[Title Preserved: The Silent Witness.]
'…What?'
Her heart slowed. Her thoughts fractured.
Then, the world unraveled—not with thunder, but with silence.