Hazel found me in the final holding area, sitting on a bench with other prisoners waiting for transport. Most looked shell-shocked or resigned. A few had the hard eyes of career criminals.

  "I won't lie to you, Fischer. It's bad."

  "Why bother telling me?" I asked, voice raspy from screaming. "Not like I have options."

  "Professional courtesy. You performed well in assessment. Better than expected for a freshy."

  "The Shattered Front is a dying dimension," she continued, voice low. "Reality is fragmenting. Physics changes every few meters. The fractures connect to beast dimensions. Your job is to hold the line, stop anything that comes through."

  "For how long?"

  "Until you die, most likely."

  "Fantastic."

  "The current Sergeant has been there two weeks. The previous record was three. If you're smart, you'll learn everything you can before they die."

  "Such optimism."

  Hazel's expression hardened. "This isn't a joke, Fischer. The Front is hell. The only people sent there are the ones SDC wants to disappear forever. You'll face hundreds of beasts daily."

  "Why tell me all this?"

  She hesitated. "I looked into what you said. About Mikkel."

  That got my full attention.

  "There are... inconsistencies in the records. Similar cases over the decades." She stood up. "I can't do anything official. But I wanted you to know—I believe something happened. Something the SDC is covering up."

  "Why would they cover for him?"

  "Politics. Power. The Houses have fingers in everything. If Mikkel is what you say, he's valuable to someone important." She checked her watch. "Transport's boarding. Good luck, Fischer."

  Guards began moving through the holding area, directing prisoners toward a heavy door at the far end. Beyond it, I could see a loading dock where a strange vessel waited. It had no obvious propulsion system, just a sleek, sealed hull made of some dark material.

  "That's a dimensional transport?" I asked.

  "Mark VII Reach Traversal Vehicle," Hazel confirmed. "Designed to survive passage through unstable dimensions. Probably the last comfortable ride you'll ever have."

  As I stood to join the line of prisoners, Hazel caught my arm.

  "One last thing," she said quietly. "The Front is a one-way trip for most. But there are stories. Sacred who survived long enough to become valuable. Who earned transfer to less lethal assignments."

  "How long is 'long enough'?"

  "Five years, minimum. No one's done it in decades."

  I nodded, understanding the message. If I wanted any chance at revenge against Mikkel, I had to survive the unsurvivable.

  "Thanks for the tip," I said.

  Hazel released my arm. "I never had this conversation with you."

  She walked away without looking back.

  The guards herded us onto the transport, securing us in seats designed to hold even the largest Sacred. The kill switch tingled in the back of my neck, ensuring I couldn't use my powers unless I wanted to die.

  As the transport's doors sealed with a hiss of pressurized air, I looked around at my fellow prisoners. Most avoided eye contact. A few sized each other up, already calculating alliances or threats. One man caught my attention—older, scarred, with the dead eyes of someone who'd seen too much. He nodded slightly when our gazes met.

  The transport hummed to life.

  Through small viewports, I watched the loading dock recede, replaced by swirling darkness as we entered the dimensional gateway.

  The Shattered Front awaited.

  I'd need to be more than lucky. I'd need to be ruthless.

  The transport gave a violent shudder as we punched through the dimensional boundary. My stomach lurched, and for a second I thought I'd puke. The guy across from me wasn't so lucky.

  He projectile vomited, but instead of splattering on the floor, the chunky mess just... hung there. Suspended in midair. A perfect globe of half-digested prison slop, floating like some disgusting art installation.

  "What the—" he started to say, right before gravity remembered its job.

  The vomit splashed back down, directly into his upturned face. Some dimensional karma at work, I guess.

  "First-timers," muttered the scarred man next to me. "Physics gets fucky in the boundary zones. You learn to keep your mouth shut during transitions."

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  I'd been on dimensional transports before—dock workers sometimes got assigned to offload Reach cargo—but never through unstable portals like this one. The sensation was like being turned inside out, run through a blender, then hastily reassembled by a drunk taxidermist.

  "Welcome to the Shattered Front," announced a mechanical voice over the speakers. "Prepare for landing."

  I peered through the small viewport.

  The ground below shifted between wasteland, densely packed forest and frozen tundra every. In the distance, jagged tears in reality pulsed with sickly light. From even this height, I could see dark shapes emerging from the largest ones.

  "Pretty, ain't it?" The scarred man chuckled at my expression. "Name's Decker."

  "Fischer," I replied automatically, still staring at the landscape.

  The transport rocked violently as it descended toward a massive black fortress. Around it, smaller structures formed concentric defensive rings, and beyond those, what looked like battlements manned by tiny figures.

  We touched down with a bone-jarring thud on a landing pad surrounded by armed guards. The doors hissed open, and the guards began barking orders, herding us out.

  "Move, prisoners! Single file! Keep your hands visible!"

  The air hit me like a slap—hot and dry. My lungs struggled to adapt. The worms beneath my skin writhed uncomfortably, as if sensing the dimensional instability.

  We were marched across the landing pad toward a processing facility—a squat, utilitarian building. Guards flanked us. These weren't SDC uniforms; these were Front personnel, hardened by years in this hellhole.

  Inside, we were separated into groups.

  I lost sight of Decker as he was shuffled into a different line. Eventually, my group was directed through a heavy metal door into what looked like an auditorium.

  "Orientation," muttered the guard. "Try not to piss yourself when the Warden speaks."

  The room filled quickly with prisoners from our transport and others.

  At least a hundred of us, all looking equally shell-shocked or resigned. A stage dominated the front, empty except for a podium.

  The lights dimmed, and a hush fell over the crowd. A side door opened, and a figure strode onto the stage with military precision.

  The Warden of the Shattered Front didn't look like I expected. No hulking brute or sadistic monster—just a lean, immaculately dressed man who moved with the casual confidence of someone who'd never doubted his authority.

  His black uniform bore no rank insignia, just a strange symbol. His face was aristocratic, with sharp features and cold eyes that surveyed us like a farmer might inspect livestock.

  "Ladies and gentlemen," he began, voice carrying effortlessly without being raised. "Welcome to the Front. My name is Adrius, I am the warden here and for however brief your remaining existence may be, I. own. you."

  He paced slowly across the stage, hands clasped behind his back.

  "You are not here for rehabilitation. You are not here to serve a sentence with the hope of release. You are here because your lives have been deemed less valuable than the functions you will serve."

  A holographic display activated behind him, showing the landscape I'd glimpsed from the transport, now in detailed relief.

  "The Shattered Front sits at the convergence of seven collapsing dimensions. Those tears you see—" he gestured to the pulsing rifts on the display "—are doorways to places that would make your nightmares shit themselves. The beasts that emerge would reach Earth eventually if left unchecked."

  A thin smile spread across his face. "That's where you come in. You will be assigned to units. Each unit is responsible for a specific tear. You will fight what comes through. You will collect the cores from the beasts you kill. And most of you will die doing so."

  The display shifted, showing different types of tears, each glowing with distinct colors.

  He stopped pacing, facing us directly.

  "These are the bridges. Each has a survival hierarchy. Bridge Sergeants command—they're the longest-surviving prisoners in each unit. Below them is the: Shield Wall, Hunters, Runners, and Auxiliaries. You'll start as Auxiliaries. Most of you will die there. A few might rise through the ranks, if you're exceptionally skilled or lucky."

  The display changed again, showing a collection of crystalline objects of various colors and sizes.

  "This is your currency, your value, your only purpose here. Soul Crystals—beast cores—harvested from the beasts you kill. Each bridge has a weekly quota. Meet it, your unit gets extra rations, maybe even basic comforts. Fail, and you all suffer."

  He leaned forward slightly, eyes sweeping the room.

  "Some of you were Sacred on Earth. Some awakened in prison. Your powers are the only reason you're here instead of rotting in a cell or executed. Use them well—they're the only advantage you have."

  Adrius straightened, adjusting his already-perfect cuffs.

  "Become valuable enough, and you might earn privileges. Live long enough—five years minimum—and exceptional performers might earn transfer to less lethal assignments."

  His voice dropped slightly, becoming almost intimate despite the size of the room.

  "But I do expect you to die and to die well. Die killing. Die making yourselves useful. Because the moment you cease being useful is the moment I stop wasting resources keeping you alive."

  He nodded to someone offstage, and the display changed to show unit assignments.

  "You've been sorted into units based on your abilities and our current needs. Report to your assigned sergeants immediately following dismissal. They'll explain the specific protocols for your tear."

  The Warden's eyes scanned the room one final time.

  "Welcome to hell, maggots. Try to survive your first day."

  With that, he turned and strode off stage, leaving the room in stunned silence.

  Guards began barking orders, directing us to different exits based on our assignments. I found my name on the display and headed to my bridge unit.

  I followed the indicated path, along with about twenty others.

  We emerged into a large chamber that looked like a combination of barracks, armory, and medical facility.

  A group of hard-eyed prisoners were waiting for us. They looked us over with expressions ranging from pity to amusement to outright contempt.

  A guard shoved me toward a tall, broad-shouldered man who stood apart from the others. His face was a battlefield map of scars—one particularly vicious slash ran from left temple to right jaw, bisecting his face. But it wasn't the scars that made me stare. It was his eyes—an unsettling shade of amber that seemed to glow from within.

  "Fresh meat for you." The guard smirked. "Try to keep this one alive past a week, Kaz."

  Kaz didn't acknowledge the guard. Those amber eyes locked onto mine, assessing, calculating. His head tilted slightly, like a predator deciding if I was worth the effort to kill.

  "Fischer," I offered.

  "Don't care about your name. Care about what you can do." He circled me, his gait revealing a slight limp. "Our unit loses three auxiliaries a day. You'll be dead by the end of the week unless you're useful."

  The worms beneath my skin stirred, sensing my unease.

  "I can fight," I said.

  Kaz barked a laugh that held no humor. "Everyone says that. Then they piss themselves the first time a Frost Wyrm crawls through the tear."

  He stopped in front of me, close enough that I could see the network of smaller scars crisscrossing his visible skin.

  His hand shot out, grabbing my wrist before I could react. He squeezed, hard enough that the bones ground together.

  I let the worms rise just beneath the surface of my forearm—not breaking through, just enough that the outline of their writhing forms was visible under my skin.

  Kaz's grip tightened momentarily, then released. A thin smile crossed his face.

  "Interesting. Maybe you'll last three minutes instead of two." He turned away. "Get your gear. We deploy in an hour."

  As he walked away, I heard him mutter, "Welcome to the unit, Worm Boy."