The warehouse reeked of sweat, blood, and desperation—a cavernous pit carved out of the city’s underbelly where the hopeless came to scream and the broken came to fight. Dim lights flickered overhead, casting jagged shadows across the concrete floor stained with years of spilled liquor and crimson regret. The crowd pressed against rusted metal barriers, a sea of ragged coats and hungry eyes, their roars blending into a deafening pulse that throbbed through Kairos’s skull. He stood in the center of the makeshift ring, fists wrapped in fraying tape, his breath steady despite the ache in his bones. At twenty-eight, he was lean but corded with muscle, scars crisscrossing his knuckles like a map of every fight he’d survived. His dark eyes burned with a quiet fury, fixed on the hulking figure across from him.

  His opponent was a beast of a man—six-foot-five, broad as a doorframe, with a face mangled by too many punches and not enough mercy. A jagged scar ran from his cheek to his jaw, and a faded tattoo of a coiled snake peeked from beneath his tattered shirt. Kairos knew that tattoo. Knew that scar. Two years ago, this bastard had been one of the five who’d left him bleeding in an alley, betrayed by the man he’d called mentor. Tonight wasn’t just a fight. It was a reckoning.

  “Kairos! You got this!” Lyra’s voice cut through the chaos, bright and unshaken. She stood just beyond the barrier, her wiry frame dwarfed by the crowd but her presence impossible to miss. At twenty-five, she was all sharp angles and boundless energy, her short blonde hair streaked with grease from her latest tinkering. Her green eyes sparkled with a stubborn optimism that Kairos both envied and clung to. She clutched a wrench in one hand—her constant companion—and flashed him a grin, oblivious to the bloodthirsty mob around her.

  He gave her a curt nod, then turned back to the brute. The referee—a wiry guy with a cigarette dangling from his lips—raised a hand, and the bell clanged, sharp and final.

  The brute charged like a bull, fists swinging wild and heavy. Kairos danced back, his boots scuffing the gritty floor, letting the man’s momentum carry him past. Speed was Kairos’s edge—speed and a mind honed by years of scrapping in places like this. He ducked a haymaker, feeling the air whoosh past his ear, and countered with a jab to the brute’s ribs. The crack of bone vibrated up his arm, and the man grunted, stumbling but not slowing.

  “Gonna crush you, runt,” the brute snarled, his voice a gravelly rasp.

  Kairos didn’t answer. Words were a waste of breath. He sidestepped another swing, then drove an uppercut into the man’s jaw. Teeth clacked together, and a spray of blood flecked the air, some of it spattering Kairos’s cheek. The crowd howled, a feral sound that fueled the fire in his gut.

  But then the brute landed a hit—a meaty fist slamming into Kairos’s jaw with the force of a sledgehammer. Pain exploded across his face, white-hot and blinding. He staggered, tasting copper as blood filled his mouth. His vision blurred, and for a split second, he wasn’t in the ring anymore.

  The alley was dark, the air thick with the stench of garbage and rain. Kairos was twenty-six, still green enough to trust, his fists bruised from a sparring session with Marcus. The old man had been a father to him—gruff, hard-edged, but steady. He’d taught Kairos how to throw a punch, how to take one, how to survive when the world wanted you dead.

  “You’re getting good, kid,” Marcus had said that night, clapping him on the shoulder. “Stick with me, and you’ll go far.”

  Kairos had believed him. Until he turned the corner and saw them—five shadows waiting in the gloom. Marcus stood among them, his weathered face twisted into a smirk.

  “Sorry, kid,” he’d said, lighting a cigarette as the first bat swung. “Business is business.”

  The ambush was brutal. A bat cracked against Kairos’s ribs, snapping bone. A knife flashed, slicing a gash across his forearm. He fought back—always did—but they were too many. Fists met flesh, boots stomped his legs, and blood pooled beneath him, slick and warm. He clawed his way out, dragging himself into the night, leaving behind the trust he’d carried like a shield.

  “Kairos!” Lyra’s shout snapped him back. The brute loomed over him, fist cocked for a finishing blow. Kairos rolled aside just as the punch slammed into the concrete, splitting the man’s knuckles with a wet crunch. Blood dripped from the wound, mingling with the filth on the floor.

  Kairos sprang up, ignoring the throb in his jaw. “You remember me, don’t you?” he growled, voice low and venomous. “From that night.”

  The brute’s eyes flickered—recognition, then defiance. “Yeah, I remember. Should’ve finished you off.”

  “Big mistake,” Kairos said, and lunged.

  The fight turned savage. Kairos drove a knee into the man’s gut, doubling him over, then slammed an elbow into his temple. The brute roared, grabbing Kairos by the shoulders and headbutting him. Blood burst from Kairos’s forehead, streaming into his eyes, but he blinked it away, feral now. He hooked a fist into the man’s nose—cartilage snapped, and a geyser of red sprayed across the ring. The crowd screamed louder, drunk on the carnage.

  The brute stumbled, swinging blindly. Kairos caught his arm, twisted it behind his back, and yanked until he felt the shoulder pop from its socket. The man bellowed, dropping to his knees, but Kairos wasn’t done. He grabbed the brute’s head and smashed it into the concrete—once, twice—until blood smeared the floor and the man went limp, his scarred face a ruined mess.

  Silence fell, then the crowd erupted, chanting Kairos’s name like a war cry. He stood there, chest heaving, every inch of him screaming in protest. Blood dripped from his split knuckles, his jaw, his brow, pooling at his feet. Lyra pushed through the barrier, her wrench clattering to the ground as she threw her arms around him.

  “You idiot,” she said, voice trembling but warm. “You didn’t have to go that hard.”

  He hugged her back, the ache in his ribs flaring. “It was him,” he muttered. “One of Marcus’s dogs.”

  She pulled away, her hands on his shoulders, searching his face. “I know. I saw it in your eyes.”

  He wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

  They slipped out of the warehouse, the cool night air hitting them like a balm. The city sprawled around them—towering buildings with cracked facades, neon signs buzzing faintly, streets alive with the hum of late-night wanderers. Kairos’s boots thudded against the pavement, each step a reminder of the bruises blooming across his body. Lyra walked beside him, her wrench tucked into her belt, her optimism unshaken even now.

  “You okay?” she asked, glancing at him.

  “Yeah,” he lied, his voice rough. “Just tired.”

  She frowned but didn’t press. That was Lyra—always knowing when to push and when to let him breathe. They’d met two years ago, after that alleyway nightmare. He’d been a wreck, bleeding out behind her workshop, too stubborn to ask for help. She’d dragged him inside, patched him up with those clever hands, and somehow stuck around ever since. She was his anchor, the one light in a world he’d stopped believing in.

  “Remember that night?” she said suddenly, a smile tugging at her lips. “You were such a mess.”

  He snorted. “I was outnumbered.”

  “Still too proud to say thanks,” she teased, nudging him. “I saved your life, you know.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled, but a faint grin broke through. “I’m glad it was you.”

  They walked in companionable silence, the city’s pulse fading into the background. Lyra’s presence steadied him, pulling him back from the edge he’d been teetering on since Marcus’s betrayal. She didn’t try to fix him—just stayed, and that was enough.

  Then the sky changed.

  Kairos stopped, his head tilting upward. The stars were moving, shifting into a pattern that didn’t belong—lines and curves glowing brighter, pulsing like a heartbeat. The air grew heavy, charged with something unnatural, making the hairs on his arms stand on end.

  “What the hell is that?” he muttered.

  Lyra grabbed his arm, her grip tight. “Kairos, something’s wrong.”

  Before he could answer, a beam of light tore through the night, brilliant and blinding. It struck them dead-on, enveloping them in a torrent of energy that seared through Kairos’s veins. He reached for Lyra, his fingers brushing hers, but she shimmered like a mirage, slipping away. “Lyra!” he shouted, his voice swallowed by the roar of the light.

  “Kairos!” Her cry echoed, faint and fading.

  The world dissolved—city, stars, everything—replaced by a void of searing white. Kairos’s body locked, every muscle burning, his mind reeling as the energy dragged him under. Then, blackness.

  When he came to, the ground beneath him was rough, jagged rock biting into his palms. He coughed, tasting dust instead of blood, and forced his eyes open. The sky above was a riot of colors—purples and reds swirling like a storm, stars replaced by twin moons casting an eerie glow. He wasn’t on Earth anymore.

  Beside him, Lyra groaned, pushing herself up. Her face was smudged with dirt, her wrench still miraculously at her side. “Where… where are we?” she rasped, her voice shaky but alive.

  Kairos sat up, every joint protesting, and scanned the alien landscape—craggy cliffs, glowing fissures, a horizon that promised nothing familiar. “I don’t know,” he said, his tone grim. “But we’re a long way from home.”