You wake with a jolt.

The floor beneath you is rumbling, metal grinding against metal as the small, square room you're in begins to rise. You're lying on cold steel, your head pounding, your breath shallow. The walls are solid, featureless, bathed in flickering red light that pulses like a heartbeat. You have no memory—no name, no reason why you're here. Just the hollow thud of panic in your chest. The box keeps climbing.

Up. Up. Up.

Then it stops—with a sudden, screeching halt that knocks the air from your lungs. A blaring siren echoes above you, mechanical and sharp, as if the world itself is warning of your arrival.

And then—light.

A blinding burst as the ceiling grinds open, revealing the sky. Real sky. Clouds. Sun. You squint against it, your eyes struggling to adjust as shadows begin to form—faces. Dozens of them. Around sixty teenagers stand in a wide clearing, staring down into the Box like you’re some kind of ghost.

Silence.

No one moves. No one speaks.

Until a boy jumps down.

He lands effortlessly, tall and confident, curly brown hair catching the light. His expression is somewhere between amused and annoyed, like he's seen this too many times already.

Matheo. You hear his name called. Familiar. He eyes you up and down, then speaks—his voice smooth, almost casual, but laced with something darker beneath the surface.

“A newbie? Already? It’s only been a day since George.”