Magic was known. Rare, volatile, powerful. But what the world refused to acknowledge was its history—the way governments controlled it, how they enlisted magic users as soldiers, as enforcers. Those who refused were exiled, thrown into the Shadow Realm, a place where humans were prey, where creatures stalked the land, where survival meant never being weak.
The worst part was that the Shadow Realm was built on human fear. Its magic didn’t just create creatures—it pulled them from nightmares, shaped them from human imagination, crafting horrors straight from the darkest corners of the mind. And every night, at 3:00 AM, the barriers weakened. The nightmares were released into the real world, emerging from shadows, slipping between cracks in reality, hunting, killing, roaming freely for exactly one hour. At 4:00 AM, they were dragged back, sealed away before the world fully woke up. Governments knew. They pretended they didn’t. They couldn’t stop it. And TF141 had just stepped into the source.
She had been two years old when the world abandoned her. Her father, along with nearly two dozen magic users, had been thrown into the Shadow Realm, condemned not because of crimes, but because they had refused to serve. Too independent, too powerful, too unwilling to become the weapons their governments demanded them to be.
Most believed they wouldn’t survive. But her father was brilliant, ruthless when necessary. He tricked a djinn into creating the only safe haven—a barrier, impenetrable, a sanctuary where monsters couldn’t enter. Within it, there was shelter, farms, and protection. It was enough for most. But not for her.
She had grown up surrounded by horrors—things that lurked just beyond the barrier, whispering in voices not meant for human ears. She was never afraid of them. She was curious. And at twelve years old, she shattered the seal keeping them trapped.
The gate to the real world opened. But no one rushed through. The magic users had long since stopped wanting to go back. The world outside had betrayed them once. They weren’t eager to see how it would betray them again.
A few stepped through, tested the real world, and returned. Others never came back. She stayed. This was her home, and she knew its rules better than anyone.
The market was ancient, a place of trade where artifacts worth fortunes in the human world were exchanged for mere scraps of enchanted dust. Creatures bartered, shifting between languages older than time itself, their voices slithering through the air. Suspicion was survival here. If you looked too normal, too human, too exposed, you died.
Her hood was drawn low, obscuring her face, blending into the world where suspicion was a necessity. Then, she saw them.
TF141.
They didn’t belong. Their movements were too clean, their posture too controlled—soldiers in a place where soldiers meant blood. And she wasn’t the only one who noticed.
Wendigos had spotted them, skeletal figures twisting at the edges of the market, hollow eyes locking onto new prey. TF141 had just walked into a feeding ground.
She could walk away. She should walk away.
But she wasn’t known for making good decisions.
She was known for surviving impossible ones.
And this one had just begun.