Snow fell in a slow, silent descent, mimicking the dying ashes of a forgotten fire. The city of Valdris lay beneath this white shroud a place where life persisted, but souls seemed extinguished. Flakes gathered on windowsills, bare branches, and the weary roofs of high-rises, painting a scene so still it felt ominous.
Everything was frozen that night. Even the wind held its breath.
Sector F's park was bathed in twilight. Streetlamps cast golden halos onto the snow, fragile circles that shivered in the biting cold. The air held a sharp tang of metal, frost, and weathered concrete. It tasted of the past of a world clinging to existence without knowing why.
A motionless figure sat on a frozen bench. Bundled in a dark coat with her hood up and head tilted, she looked like an abandoned statue.
But she was alive. Jinra Voss was seventeen years old, and her gaze was lost in a sky that promised nothing. Her blue eyes tracked the clouds, yet they reflected only a hollow void. Today was her birthday. Nothing had changed. The world kept turning, the Rifts continued to vomit relentless monsters, and she remained a prisoner of the same thoughts and invisible scars.
The cold didn't bother her. It felt familiar. It felt like home.
Her phone vibrated, the sharp noise cutting through the muffled silence. She hesitated before sliding a numb hand into her inner jacket pocket.
Unknown Number.
She answered without speaking.
"Hello... may I speak with Jinra Voss?"
The voice was female, composed, and professional, though it carried a slight tremor. Jinra waited a moment before responding. Her voice was raspy, worn down by the chill and the long silence.
"Speaking."
A brief pause followed. The echo of the wind seemed to fill the gap between them.
"We are calling regarding... your inheritance."
Jinra straightened slowly. She looked toward the central fountain, frozen solid mid-spray. The word felt foreign, almost surreal. An inheritance was something from stories
tales where heroes had origins and families. She had neither.
"An inheritance?" she repeated, her voice laced with irony. "For what? I don't have parents. I have nothing to inherit."
"It is a gift... from your late parents," the caller said, her voice shimmering with suppressed emotion.
Jinra felt a sharp pang in her chest. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, her tone turning clipped.
"I don't know them. I've never had parents."
The snow began to fall harder as if trying to bury her words. Flakes struck her hood and face, and a draft of ice-cold air brushed against her skin. She forced a smile. It was a sad, heatless expression.
"If this is a pity play, you're wasting your time."
The voice on the other end shifted, losing its administrative edge.
"I'm sorry," the woman said softly. "But your father specified this in his will. To be delivered on your seventeenth birthday."
A heavy silence settled over the line. Jinra looked back at the sky, watching the snow dance. Flakes landed on her eyelids, barely melting before they froze again.
"I forgot," she whispered.
The caller hesitated. "Did your friends not wish you a happy birthday this morning?"
A smile pulled at Jinra's lips. It was a striking, almost poetic look, but it held no joy.
"I don't have friends. And I don't care."
She heard a faint sigh from the other end of the line.
"Then... happy birthday, Jinra."
Jinra remained silent for a long moment. "Thanks."
The freezing air bit at her cheeks, but she didn't shiver. Pain had replaced the cold in her bones a long time ago. She asked, her voice devoid of emotion: "This inheritance... what is it exactly?"
"A USB drive."
Jinra laughed. It was a short, bitter sound that rang hollow in the frozen park.
"Are you serious? You couldn't just mail it?"
"We are legally required to hand it over in person," the voice replied.
"Do whatever you want."
She hung up.
Jinra held the phone for a few seconds before sliding it back into her pocket. She stood up, the bench creaking under her movement. Around her, the park seemed to breathe again, exhaling like a weary, dying animal.
She pulled her hood tighter. Her fitted black velvet jacket gave her a silhouette that was both fragile and determined. The wide, beige faux-fur collar framed her pale face, making her look like a traveler lost between two worlds.
Small white clouds of steam escaped her lips as she lowered her head and shoved her hands into her pockets.
"The sun is already setting..." she murmured.
The sky darkened, swallowed by snow and icy mists. Far off, looming behind the city skyline, the Rift pulsed. It was a jagged scar in the fabric of the world, born thirteen years ago on the day reality fractured. It remained an open wound in the sky, a source of strange creatures and whispers that no one could translate.