The wind swept along the trails cutting through the sun-scorched desert. Each gust carried pale yellow sand with it, fine grains lifting into the air before dissolving into the searing heat.
Above, the sky stretched high and wide, drenched in a blue so clear it felt almost suspicious. Large patches of white and gray clouds drifted lazily across the sky that day.
Looks like I'll have to endure this for a long while…
Jason Bragg thought as he sat in the back seat of a police car. On the side of the vehicle, the marking "TF – 2278" stood out against the white paint, the letters engraved in dark blue.
The newest-generation Dodge Diplomat of the state police rolled across the blistering asphalt. Its body was coated entirely in white, with the words "State Police All" printed boldly in yellow, edged in deep blue, enclosed within an inverted triangle of dark blue that gave off a rigid, old-fashioned feel. On the roof, a pair of bright red lights reflected the desert sun, glowing as if they were on fire.
"You're the fourth one we've brought here."
The police officer in the front seat spoke. His name was Athan Leorol. In his right hand was a strawberry donut from Mullo Rolla, while his left rested loosely on the steering wheel as he guided the car through the relentless heat.
"I know… I know what you're thinking," Jason Bragg said from the back seat. He was a white prisoner, his hands locked in cuffs. "But you understand that I really didn't want to kill him, right? Back then… I honestly couldn't hold on to a shred of my sanity."
The car continued speeding forward, leaving behind spiraling pillars of sand in the silent desert.
The car continued rolling along the asphalt road, its surface buried beneath a fine layer of pale yellow sand. The wind never let up—hot gusts blasted straight into the front of the vehicle, lashing across the desolate desert route.
"Because you couldn't keep your head back then, the court decided to reduce your sentence," Athan said, taking another bite of the donut in his hand. He steered with his left hand, driving through the vast, barren sea of sand. "If the law had been applied by the book, you'd have been executed a long time ago."
"Damn it!" Jason snarled from the back seat. "That bastard… Just thinking about him makes my blood boil."
He slammed his body against the car door. In his eyes—caught between rage and helplessness—the desert outside had become nothing more than an endless ocean of white and yellow sand.
"Honestly, if it were me," Athan said in a low voice, "I'd probably have killed that old man too—for everything he'd done."
The car slowed and turned into a side road, where a weathered sign hung from upright wooden posts, standing between two successive bends. The sign, painted a deep yellow and peeled by time and natural disasters, bore the following words:
"Go straight 100 km — Canadian Border."
"Turn right 10 km — M.K.S.L Corporation Factory Zone."
Below it, several crumpled notices were plastered over one another:
"Authorized Personnel Only!"
— Property of M.K.S.L Corporation.
Athan turned the wheel, guiding the car onto the road leading toward the factory complex.
Jason briefly glanced at the sign as it slid past the window. A hard-to-define heaviness flickered in his eyes.
The car came to a stop in an area fairly close to the factory complex. Before Jason, an old, weathered gas station appeared—isolated in the middle of the desert. Athan was the first to step out, stuffing the last bite of his half-eaten pastry into his mouth.
"Alright. Get out."
Athan walked around to the other side and opened the door for Jason. Jason rose slowly, stepping down onto the scorching ground, his eyes sweeping the surroundings as if carefully assessing every detail.
A small gas station stood desolate before him. Out front were two old fuel pumps with upright tanks, long since drained dry. On the rusted metal surfaces, the logo of M.K.S.L Corporation was still faintly visible—the same emblem Jason had seen repeatedly on roadside signs along the way.
Inside, the cashier counter was buried under layers of sand. The shelves were empty, cracked with age, and in a few damp corners, thin patches of moss clung stubbornly to the walls. To the right, pressed against the cashier room, was an empty storage room—its door ajar, its interior swallowed by darkness.
"I'm supposed to work here?"
Jason turned to look at Athan.
Athan didn't answer right away. He opened the trunk and took out a can of Jaliel Birth beer.
Hiss—!
The tab snapped open with a dry sound, the metal cap clattering onto the blistering pavement.
"Yeah," Athan said flatly, tipping his head back and taking a long drink under the merciless sun. "From now on, this place is your workplace—and your second home."
"This place is a ruin…" Jason frowned. "How am I supposed to get food and water out here?"
Jason glanced at Athan, who was drinking his beer while staring off into the distance, where thin columns of gray smoke silently rose from the M.K.S.L factory.
"Our job is to deliver supplies to you once every seven days," Athan replied. He set the beer can on the hood of the car and calmly pulled out a pack of Jiend cigarettes, flipping it open. "Your job…"
He took a cigarette, lit it, and drew in a deep breath.
"…is to bring this damn gas station back to life."
The smoke blended into the scorching air, mixing with the smell of sand and rusted metal—a place that barely resembled a home, yet from this moment on, Jason Bragg had no other choice.
The sound of the engine rumbled again—and the vehicle began to roll away from the place. Athan drove off with a cigarette still burning between his fingers, leaving Jason standing behind.
Jason remained where he was, one hand gripping a black backpack that held all his belongings: a black long-sleeve shirt, a pair of jeans, a pair of Bowl brand underwear, and the prison-issued jacket from The Helling Correctional Facility.
He slowly drew in a deep breath, as if bracing himself, steadying his nerves.
"Just one month," Jason muttered to himself. "Serve my time here. Restore the place. Get it running again… and I'll be free."
His grip tightened around the backpack straps.
Then, without looking back, Jason stepped forward and walked inside.