Elias's eyes shut, the pod's green sheets rustling, his shard's faint thump fading into the hum of recycled air. The clock's red glow—23:00—blurred, the metal cube in his hand slipping, rolling across the laminate floor. Sleep swallowed him, heavy and unyielding, the arena's shadow—94 users, seven gone—sinking into darkness.
Roachaline Vaslix jolted awake, her cot's springs creaking in the dim sleeping quarters, the air thick with oil and stale sweat. Dawn's gray light seeped through a cracked window, glinting off her scarred arms, Vardency's dusty winds rattling the rusted shutters. Her pale gray eyes snapped open, sharp cheekbones catching the glow, dark tangled hair spilling over her shoulders. A comm buzzed on a scavenged crate, screen flashing: "93 shard users remain, arena active."
