$61.28.
That was all Ragan Hart had in his account.
The phone screen glowed like a middle finger to his entire existence, cold and bright in the late afternoon. He stared at it for a few seconds longer than necessary, letting the number really sink in, before exhaling through his nose and letting his head fall back against the cracked drywall.
The apartment was worse today.
Cardboard boxes he never unpacked lined the corner. A pizza box with one crust sat beside his mattress, no table, no chair, not even a trash can anymore. He'd broken that last week in a half-drunken rage when he found out his application for debt relief had been rejected again.
Two months behind on rent. One missed payment away from getting his utilities shut off.
And his ribs still hurt from the last time they came knocking.
He slid the phone into his pocket and stood up, head swimming slightly from the sudden motion. He hadn't eaten since yesterday. Just a coffee and some instant noodles. Still, his shift started in ten minutes, and the gas station didn't care about hunger.
He opened the door, stepping out into the hallway with its peeling paint and piss-stained tiles. The elevator was busted, as usual, so he took the stairs down six flights in silence, his hand gripping the rusted railing like it owed him something.
Outside, the city coughed smoke into the air. Sirens in the distance. Dogs barking. Someone shouting. Nothing new.
His shift was eight hours of pretending not to hear slurs from tweakers and gang kids, standing behind the register like a scarecrow in a neon vest. But it was the walk home after midnight that he hated the most.
Because that's when they liked to find him.
It happened again that night.
He didn't even flinch when they stepped out of the alley across from his building.
Three of them this time. All familiar faces. The tall one with the gold chain. The short one who always smiled. And the bastard with the metal bat—he didn't even need to say anything anymore. Just stood there, arms crossed.
"Yo," Gold Chain said. "You got paid this week, didn't you?"
Ragan didn't answer. Just kept walking.
He heard the footsteps behind him. Fast. Echoing in the cold street.
A hand grabbed his shoulder, and he was slammed into the wall, hard. His head hit concrete. Stars blinked behind his eyes.
"You deaf, motherfucker?"
He didn't struggle.
He just breathed through his nose, eyes blinking slowly as he looked at the man holding him.
"Back off," Ragan said.
Gold Chain chuckled. "We're not playing tonight. We need the money."
"You'll get nothing," he said quietly.
Metal Bat stepped forward.
Ragan didn't move.
The bat cracked against his ribs, and pain exploded through his side.
He dropped to one knee, gasping. The world spun.
"Where's the fuckin' money, huh?" Gold Chain said, grabbing his collar and dragging him back to his feet.
Ragan's fingers twitched.
There was nothing left. He'd already paid them last week. Already drained the savings he didn't have. Already sold his watch, pawned his ex's necklace, even sold the shitty old TV he kept just to pretend things were normal.
And still they came.
Still, they wanted more.
He should have begged. Or bargained. Or broken down.
But he just looked at them.
He saw Gold Chain's teeth when he grinned. Saw the bat rising again. Saw the smile on Short Guy's face.
And something snapped.
It didn't happen in his body. It wasn't his spine or his ribs. It was something older. Something deeper.
It was the last fiber of hope, or patience, or fear. Whatever it was, it broke like dry bone—and he screamed.
He charged forward, headfirst.
Gold Chain's face slammed into the brick wall behind him.
Blood. Crack.
Ragan twisted and grabbed the bat, yanking it out of the other guy's hands and swinging it wide.
It hit someone—he didn't know who. He felt bone give. Someone howled.
Then fists.
Pain.
He was on the ground again. Kicked. Stomped. Punched in the side of the head.
But he didn't curl up this time.
He kept swinging.
Even as the world turned red.
Even as blood filled his mouth.
Even as he lost count of how many hits landed.
He screamed again.
Not for help.
Not in pain.
It was something else.
Something like defiance.
And then—
The world shook.
Literally.
A sound cracked through the city. A groan, deep and ancient. The concrete beneath him trembled. Dust fell from broken windows. Sirens blared across the blocks. The gang scattered, looking around in panic, shouting nonsense.
Then came the wind.
No, not wind—pressure.
Something descended.
And with it, something rose.
The street split open like a rib cage. Stone cracked. Steel screamed.
And from below, like it had been buried since the beginning of time, a massive obsidian sword erupted.
Not thrown.
Not summoned.
Unleashed.
It impaled the street just meters from him, the tip stabbing down like judgment.
The sword was unlike anything he'd ever seen, carved with deep script. Slick with something darker than oil. It pulsed like it was alive.
And it was pulling at him.
Not physically. Not at first.
But something inside his chest shifted, like a thread had been tied around his heart and yanked forward. He gasped, the air leaving his lungs like he'd been punched again, only this time there was no pain. Just… a pressure. A compulsion.
The others were gone. He hadn't seen when they ran. Maybe they vanished when the street cracked, maybe they dissolved the moment the sword rose—he didn't care.
The world was quiet now, like sound itself had taken a step back.
All he could hear was the low hum coming from the blade, a deep vibration that throbbed in his ears and bones. His legs moved on their own. Slow, shuffling steps at first, then faster. He stumbled forward, limping, blood dripping from his lip and down his chin.
And the closer he got, the stronger it felt.
Like gravity.
Like it had weight beyond metal—like it was dragging pieces of his soul toward it.
Ragan stopped a foot away from the blade. It stood taller than him, impaled deep into the street, the runes on its surface pulsing slowly like a heartbeat.
His heartbeat.
The hum in the air shifted into something else. A voice, but not a sound. A whisper that filled his head.
"You called. I answered."
He didn't know what it meant.
He didn't care.
His hand lifted.
It hovered inches above the hilt.
The moment his fingers brushed the surface, everything changed.
The pain vanished. The city vanished. The cold vanished.
And he was falling into a sky full of broken stars and silver fire, surrounded by swords.