“Ten bucks says that coffee cart is out of blueberry muffins again.”

  Sean Delgado leaned against the marble pillar inside Chicago’s James R. Thompson Center, eyeing the line that coiled toward the kiosk. His words came half an octave lower than normal—an unconscious Marine habit whenever unfamiliar crowds made him hunker down.

  Across from him, Ruby “Stitch” Gaines snorted into her travel mug. “I’m a medic, Delgado, not a gambler. Also”—she raised two fingers—“one, you owe me forty from poker night, and two, nobody eats muffins with that much sugar before a PTSD seminar. We’ll be vibrating through the ceiling tiles.”

  “Fine,” Sean said, rolling his shoulders. “Still feels weird being here in civvies.”

  “You look normal enough.” Ruby flicked the sleeve of his forest-green flannel. “Like a lumberjack who left his axe in the woods.”

  “Park-ranger chic.” Sean’s lips twitched. “At least I don’t smell like antiseptic.”

  “That,” Ruby said, pointing with mock gravity, “is peppermint hand sanitizer—thank you very much.”

  A few feet away, Brandon Cho crouched beside an overloaded power strip, running a fingertip across the plastic casing as though reading braille. The Asian-American coder’s backpack sagged with loose cables and a dented thermos covered in sticker-bombed memes.

  “People,” Brandon announced, “this power outlet is broadcasting 60-hertz noise at, like, obscene levels. Whole building’s one giant EMI sponge.”

  Ruby blinked. “Translation?”

  “Translation,” said Tasha Reed, sidling beside him in a leather jacket so scuffed it might’ve survived three owners, “is that Cho here can’t resist flexing his hacker brain in public.”

  Brandon flashed her a grin. “Hey, one man’s flex is another man’s public-service announcement.”

  “You should print stickers,” Marcus “Brick” Alvarez rumbled as he joined them, arms full of two cardboard trays of coffee. The ex-linebacker towered over the group like a friendly SUV on legs. “Warning: system may be hacked for your convenience.”

  Sean accepted a cup. “Appreciate the supply run.”

  “No bad coffee on my watch,” Marcus said, handing the rest around. “Especially not before we go tell strangers how to breathe slow and think happy thoughts.”

  “Therapists prefer ‘mindful grounding,’” Ruby corrected. She twirled a strand of copper-brown hair, smirking when Marcus rolled his eyes.

  Tasha tipped her cup toward Sean. “So, Ranger-man, you planning to talk during this panel or just brood picturesquely?”

  “Brooding is 90 percent of my brand,” Sean deadpanned, then shrugged. “I’ll say what’s useful. Mostly came to hear how other vets transition.”

  Brandon widened his eyes dramatically. “From lovely Afghanistan to lovelier Illinois Department of Natural Resources? Teach me, sensei.”

  Ruby nudged him. “He means it. Sean actually likes trees more than people. They don’t ask personal questions.”

  “They also don’t ghost you on Tinder,” Tasha muttered, then offered a quick grin when Ruby raised an eyebrow. “What? I’m dating for both of us.”

  Marcus chuckled. “Girl, I’ve seen you date for an entire zip code.”

  Before Tasha could retort, loudspeakers crackled overhead. “Attention attendees: Welcome to the Cook-County Veterans Resilience Symposium—Session A begins in Conference Hall Two in fifteen minutes.”

  Sean exhaled. “That’s us.”

  He swept the atrium automatically—a habit born of patrols in Sangin Province—mapping exits, stairwells, sight-lines. Old instincts whispered: Clear. Secure. Move.

  What he didn’t see were three men in charcoal suits stepping from a service corridor, eyes scanning the crowd with the same hungry assessment. Nor did he notice the faint distortion above the domed skylight—airy ripples like summer heat waves. But Brandon, still squatting near the outlet, lifted his head.

  “You guys feel…static?”

  Tasha rubbed her forearms. “Thought that was the A/C cranked too high.”

  Sean’s phone vibrated against his hip.

  IDNR Early Warning app: Localized seismic event detected. Confirm position safe?

  He frowned. Chicago had tremors sometimes, but usually magnitude 1-point-nothing. He tapped Fine and pocketed the phone.

  The floor trembled.

  Conversation across the atrium stuttered. A plaster hairline crack snaked up a pillar. Someone’s latte sloshed over a lid.

  Marcus planted his feet. “That ain’t Lake Shore Drive traffic.”

  Then the skylight exploded.

  It didn’t shatter—it peeled, glass panes folding outward like petals around a mouth of swirling violet light. Wind roared downward, hot and ionized. The coffee cart toppled, pastries and cash register sailing.

  Sean’s world snapped into training mode. He grabbed Ruby’s elbow, dragging her behind a marble bench as shards rained. “Cover!”

  A barista screamed. The suits drew pistols—Why do they have guns?—and fired upward, though bullets vanished inside the violet vortex like stones into water.

  Sean’s ears rang. The vortex expanded into a funnel the width of a city bus. Figures emerged: jet-black silhouettes with elongated forearms and knifed tails. Two, four—half a dozen, dropping onto terrazzo tiles in predatory crouches.

  “Uh, Delgado?” Brandon croaked. “Please tell me those are Navy drones.”

  The creatures straightened—each taller than Marcus, carapace ridged, eyes pale gold. The nearest inhaled, throat sacs ballooning. It screamed. The sound hit like a pressure washer—furniture splintered, bones of unfortunates too slow to duck popped under the sonic hammer.

  “Cover ears!” Sean barked, but too late for a middle-aged visitor who collapsed clutching bloodied eardrums.

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  The three armed suits loosed more rounds. Bullets sparked off chitin or punched clean through with no visible effect. One beast pivoted, tail flicker-whipped. Steel met flesh; the gunman flew ten meters, torso bisected.

  Ruby’s eyes flashed battle red. “Marcus, rubble pile—go!”

  The big man snatched a cracked brass stanchion rod and sprinted. Brandon dove after him, clutching a laptop bag like an infant shield.

  Tasha rolled behind an overturned planter, eyes scanning for exits. “Sean, options?”

  “Hold them, buy civilians time,” he said, heartbeat wooden and steady. Assess. Act. Survive.

  He snatched a broken chair leg, felt its heft. Useless. He needed reach. Another gust of hot wind burst from the vortex, scattering glass dust like glittering confetti. A second wave of monsters lined the rim.

  Outnumbered.

  No weapons.

  Dominance by initiative.

  The mantra sparked memories of scrounging scrap metal in Helmand, building ad-hoc barricades.

  “Stitch,” he shouted, “ruptured vending machines—carbonated cans, high-pressure cylinders. Make me a frag.”

  Ruby’s medic gaze flicked to a half-toppled cola dispenser cracked open. “Got it.”

  Tasha stared. “You two are making bombs?”

  “Field improvs,” Sean replied. “Keep them busy.”

  “What the hell do I do?”

  “Lure one close,” he said, meeting her eyes. “You talk fast—use it.”

  Tasha swallowed, nodded.

  A creature leaped from the balcony, landing between food-court tables with a thunderous clang. It twisted toward a cowering teenager. Tasha popped up. “Hey! Lizard-Grimace!”

  Gold eyes locked on her. She back-pedaled, beckoning with jazz hands. “Yeah, come at me, Zerg Shark!” The beast bounded.

  Ruby yanked a soda can, shook hard, popped the seal. Hiss. She tossed it to Sean, then jammed a metal straw through another and crammed the packet into a duffel with jagged glass shards. She slapped tape from her med-kit over the mouth.

  Marcus roared past, stanchion rod batting a monster’s skull with a clang. The creature staggered; he smashed again—iron bending—but its mandibles snapped at his forearm, teeth carving sparks off steel as if it were tin. Marcus cursed, backpedaled.

  Sean focused on the charging beast chasing Tasha. Five meters. He flung the fizzing can. It struck the collarbone seam—crack—effervescent foam blasting chemical sugar into armor joints. The creature shrieked, blinded long enough for Tasha to pivot behind a kiosk.

  Sean lifted the glass-shard duffel, the improvised frag. “Brick! Hole in one!”

  Marcus tossed the bent stanchion like a javelin. Sean hooked the duffel onto the rod’s fork mid-air and together they speared it through a skylight support beam above three clustered monsters. The bag ruptured—glass razors and carbonated shrapnel showered down, tearing translucent wing-membranes Sean hadn’t even noticed. One creature dropped, legs sawn off by ceramic tile fragments.

  But the others adapted. They flowed sideways, encircling. Their tails began vibrating, a collective hum deep enough to churn stomach acid.

  Brandon scrambled to Sean’s side, slapping a phone against his palm. “EMP app. Max brightness. Maybe they hate strobe?”

  “Worth a shot.” Sean toggled flashlight, strobe setting.

  They advanced shoulder-to-shoulder, phones flashing seizure-grade pulses. The hum faltered; beasts recoiled, eyes narrowing. Behind Sean, Ruby skidded in carrying a cracked oxygen tank from an emergency medical station.

  “I found the grand finale,” she panted. “We need ignition.”

  Marcus hefted a shattered sconce wired with a still-live filament. “Spark’s ready.”

  “Get everyone prone!” Sean barked, waving Brandon away. The coder sprinted, yelling evac orders; survivors crawled behind kiosks.

  Sean dragged the steel tank across marble, hissing with escaping O-two. He timed the monsters’ closing circle—they sensed desperation. Marcus slammed the sconce onto the floor, wires spitting arcs. Sparks danced toward leaking gas.

  Sean and Ruby dove. FWOOOM!

  A white-blue fireball blossomed, sucking oxygen, then vomiting it back in a concussive roar. The shockwave punted creatures into glass walls; chitin cracked like ceramic. A pillar collapsed, burying two beasts under stone chunks.

  Silence descended, broken only by crackling flames licking toppled banners. The vortex above…shrunk. Its violet halo dimmed, folding inward until the skylight re-sealed like molten glass cooling. Sunlight poured through again.

  Sean lay on his back, ears ringing a steady E-flat. Ruby coughed beside him, face smeared with soot.

  “You alive?” he rasped.

  “Define alive.” Her grin showed intact teeth. “Nice boom.”

  Marcus limped over, arm around Brandon who sported a bloody eyebrow but wild grin. “Loop cleared?”

  Tasha emerged, shaking glass from her hair. “Creatures are toast. But, uh…guys?”

  They turned. Neon green text hovered in mid-air—floating, translucent, impossible.

  Dominus System Online

  Initializing Earth Fold: 00:04… 00:03…

  A collective hush rippled across the atrium. The remaining civilians—maybe forty out of hundreds—stared at the letters like worshippers at an angel.

  Sean pushed upright. “This part of anyone’s VR rig?”

  Brandon gulped. “I—I think we’re inside somebody’s patch notes.”

  00:02… 00:01… Welcome, new contenders.

  Class Assignment in progress.

  Emerald circuitry-lines unfurled across each survivor’s vision, coalescing into HUD boxes. Sean blinked, but the interface tracked with his eyeballs.

  Name: Delgado, Sean M.

  Species: Human (Earth, Rank G)

  Class Candidate: Beast Tamer (E-Tier)

  Would you like to accept Y/N?

  Ruby swore softly. “Either I inhaled C-4 fumes, or this is real.”

  Tasha waved a hand through her own projection, jaw slack. “I skipped at least three sci-fi movies and a cult to get here.”

  Marcus huffed. “Pick now, ask later?”

  Sean met his squad’s eyes—new squad, born in glass and fire—and nodded once. “Semper Fi.”

  He tapped Y.

  Class confirmed. Welcome, Beast Tamer.

  Tutorial begins in 03:00:00

  A smaller window unfurled, listing Skills unlocked at Level 1: Bond, Whisper-Sense.

  Numbers ticked beside Strength 12, Endurance 14, Willpower 15…all the metrics he never knew existed but suddenly felt—like discovering extra muscles behind his eyes.

  Sean exhaled, chest tight with something between terror and purpose. He rose amid drifting ash and holographic light, hands still trembling from adrenaline yet eerily steady around the new compass flashing above his HUD: Nearest Beast—48 m.

  “Okay,” he said, voice calm as distant thunder. “We’ve got three hours to learn how to break the rules before they break us. Everyone in?”

  Ruby cracked her neck. “Thought you’d never ask.”

  Brandon flexed bruised knuckles, grin caffeinated. “Let’s speedrun the tutorial.”

  Marcus rolled his shoulders despite a fresh tail-laceration on his bicep. “Time to block for the home team.”

  Tasha lifted a bent but functional chair leg like a fencing foil. “I call shotgun on the loot.”

  Sean allowed the smallest of smiles. Outside, sirens warbled across a city already mutating under violet auroras. Monsters prowled among mirrored skyscrapers; drones filmed carnage for cable news that would never air.

  But he and his impromptu fire-team were alive. They were competent. And somewhere out there were more beasts to bargain with—or slay. Brotherhood had always begun the same way: strangers under fire who chose to stand fast.

  “Let’s move,” Sean said, leading them toward the shattered revolving doors and the unknown beyond.

  Dominus waited.