Ethan woke up in darkness.
Not the warm, familiar darkness of sleep—this was heavy, suffocating, as if the air itself had weight. His chest rose sharply, breath tearing out of his lungs.
Wood.
The smell came first. Old wood. Damp soil. Rusted iron.
He pushed against the walls and froze.
Too close.
There wasn't enough space to turn his body.
A coffin?
The thought hit him like a hammer, and panic surged. He slammed his fists against the lid above him. The sound was dull, swallowed quickly by the earth.
"Let me out!" His voice cracked, raw and useless.
Then—
Crack.
Light spilled in through a narrow line as the wood split. Cold air rushed in, filling his lungs and burning like fire. He shoved harder, desperation lending him strength he didn't know he had.
The lid broke.
Ethan clawed his way out of the grave, dirt collapsing around him as he dragged himself onto the ground. He lay there for a moment, gasping, staring at a sky dyed deep crimson by the setting sun.
This wasn't anywhere he recognized.
Jagged mountains loomed in the distance. Strange trees with silver leaves swayed in a wind that felt…alive. The silence was wrong—no engines, no distant city noise. Only the whisper of the forest.
His memory snapped back.
The accident.
The blinding light.
The feeling of falling.
"I'm… alive?" he whispered.
A sharp pain flared on his left forearm.
Ethan rolled up his sleeve—and his blood ran cold.
A black symbol was etched into his skin, sharp and intricate, like a brand burned into his flesh. It pulsed faintly, almost like a heartbeat.
The moment he stared at it—
A voice echoed in his mind.
[Mark of the Exiled activated.]
[Status: Incompatible Host — Error.]
[Recalibrating…]
"What the hell is this?" Ethan muttered.
The symbol burned hotter.
In the distance, something howled.
Low.
Hungry.
Getting closer.
Ethan forced himself to stand, heart pounding.
Whatever this world was, one thing was clear.
He had been buried for a reason.
And whatever marked him… wasn't meant to let him die.
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