Pain hauled me back to consciousness as though by a corroded hook through my flesh. The first true impression was the cold—clinical, uncaring, the sort that creeps into one’s bones. My eyes fluttered open, yet the world remained blurred in that diseased glow of greens and yellows. The walls around me curved in disquieting ways, half-organic and limned by flickering shadows. An acrid tang polluted the air, reminiscent of chemicals left to rot in glass crucibles.

  I felt as if someone had stuffed my head with wool. Any effort to sit up rewarded me with a spike of agony that tore a hiss from my throat. My hand found coarse bandages wrapped tightly about my ribs, and memory returned in fitful shards: the thug, the knife, the blood. The finer details dissolved into haze.

  I lay upon a metal slab as chill as the rest of this place, its surface smooth beneath my back. Overhead, a tangled nest of pipes fed into flickering panels and devices that spat steam in uneven intervals. Several glass tubes, brimming with a sinister green fluid, cast their phosphorescence upon the walls. Stranger still were the misbegotten machines—half steel and half quivering flesh in jars that pulsed like living hearts.

  Gritting my teeth, I swung my legs over the edge, stifling a groan as my wound tugged at me. The floor sent a jolt of icy numbness into my bare feet. I noticed a drip affixed to my arm, the metal stand rattling each time I moved. Each small tug of that needle felt like a reproach.

  A wave of panic cut through my confusion. My bag—my things! I forced myself upright, ignoring the dizziness that set the room swaying. Shelves cramped with mysterious vials, meticulously sorted tools, and precariously stacked books spread out before me. On a battered desk, half-zipped and spilling its contents, lay my backpack. Relief warred with suspicion. I lurched toward it, my legs threatening to buckle beneath me.

  Slumping into the rickety chair by the desk, I pawed through the bag: laptop and phone (useless though it was), pens and a crumpled notebook—but not everything. The textbooks—three in total—were missing. My grip tightened on the canvas. Someone had rummaged in my possessions.

  “Is it these you seek?”

  A voice, low and edged like a scalpel. Its suddenness frozen me. I turned too quickly, dizziness nearly toppling me. In the gloom by a cluttered shelf stood a tall, gaunt figure in a tattered, ash-streaked lab coat, its stains speaking of old failures. His eyes glowed softly with reflected green, half hidden by scars that warped his face from jaw to temple. He held one of my missing books open, its pages illuminated by the sickly luminescence of some apparatus nearby.

  I fought every instinct to bolt, forcing myself instead to remain still. My voice emerged hoarse and uncertain. “Who are you?”

  He turned another page as if I were an afterthought. “I might ask you the same. I found you collapsed in my workshop, draining your blood onto my floor. Rarely do I get such inconsiderate guests.”

  My gaze flicked to the table where I’d awakened, now stained with dried gore. I swallowed hard. “I… I didn’t mean to intrude—”

  “But here you are,” he said coolly. I tried to tamp down the trembling in my limbs, reminding myself that he had not yet moved to harm me. Still, the way he studied me—like a bug pinned to a board—kept my pulse hammering in my ears.

  I cleared my throat. “My name is Jaeyun—Jaeyun Han.” The apology that followed felt hollow on my tongue.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  He shut the book with a sound like a door slamming. “Jaeyun Han,” he repeated, tasting each syllable. “An Ionian name, by the shape of it. The Wuju, the monasteries—yes, Ionia. You are far from home indeed.”

  I blinked, uncertain. Ionia? The word lay dormant in my mind, conjuring no certain image. “I… don’t quite understand,” I managed.

  One scarred brow arched at my words. “Interesting. And so are your belongings.” He indicated the half-empty pack, and his voice took on a slight note of curiosity. “Strange books, unfamiliar writings…”

  A pit formed in my stomach but I ignored it. “Maybe that’s because I’m not from here,” I said curtly, a tad annoyed by the stated obvious. A moment later however, a sigh escaped me. “Still, thank you,” I said. ‘Without your aid, I would probably be dead by now.”

  The strange fellow dismissed that with a slight motion of his hand. “I do not act from kindness,” he said. “Only curiosity.”

  I leaned back slightly, keeping my grip on the bag. The man—if indeed he still counted as such—moved closer, the hissing devices bathing his ruined features in an eerie glow.

  “So,” he continued softly, “tell me. What are you? A common tinkerer? A scholar? An inventor?” His glance fell upon the diagrams peeking from my notebook. “These are not the scribblings of a layman.”

  I hesitated. The truth felt dangerous here—too much information could easily be twisted, used against me. I opted for a half-truth instead, testing the waters. “I’m… an engineer. The books are my study materials.”

  He studied me, much like one would examine a specimen under a microscope. “Engineer,” he repeated, savoring the term. “A builder. A maker. Some of these texts appear beyond basic crafts—you must be more than that to carry such advanced knowledge about causally in a rucksack.”

  I let the half-truth hang. “And you? Who are you?”

  He regarded me for several breaths. Then, without flourish, he answered, “You may call me Singed.”

  The name meant nothing to me, but the way he said it, it settled over me like an ill omen. His stance shifted, and the overhead piping gave a plaintive hiss.

  “Jaeyun Han,” he said again, drawing out my name like he was testing its weight. “You’ve stumbled into a city that devours the weak. Yet here you were, bleeding out on my table, with alien books and a mind that intrigues me. So, tell me…” His gaze narrowed. “What do you intend to do now?”

  I met his gaze and frowned. “I’m not sure yet,” I admitted. “But I know I need to find a way home. From what I’ve seen, this place isn’t exactly the safest in the world.”

  Singed’s mouth twisted, though I could not say whether it was in humor or disdain. “Indeed. Zaun is cruelty personified. So let us be frank. You may leave my workshop now, half-healed and unsteady, and we shall watch how long you last. That might be somewhat amusing to observe… Or you may remain under my roof—conditional upon your usefulness.” His scars pulled taut, and he paused for emphasis. “I have many endeavors in progress. A capable pair of hands would not go amiss. If you prove able, you may stay until you are fit to venture forth. Our arrangement will persist so long as it benefits us both.”

  “...What kind of work?” I asked after a moment, keeping my voice level.

  Singed gestured toward one of the machines, its gears turning sluggishly as a faint hiss of steam escaped a nearby pipe. “Repairs, calibrations, maintenance… errands,” he said. “Whatever I require. You seem capable enough.” He paused, tilting his head slightly. “Of course, I will assess your usefulness as we go. If you fail to prove yourself—well, we need not discuss that eventuality.”

  The unspoken threat roiled my stomach, yet refusal seemed suicidal. Still, for a moment, I weighed my options carefully. “All right,” I said in the end, not having much of a choice.

  Singed’s expression didn’t change. “Good. I suspect you’ll find the arrangement… mutually beneficial. For however long it lasts.”

  With that, he turned and departed, the thrum of devices swallowing the echoes of his uneven footsteps. I listened to the hiss and churn of the vile green concoctions, letting the numbness of pain and exhaustion wash over me. As I did this, one thought managed to persist, circling my mind like a vulture: Where the actual fuck am I?