Chapter 1: The Rip

  They called me Viper back in the ops days—sneaky, quiet, the guy who ended problems before anyone knew there was one. These days? Just Jax Harlen, captain of a rust-bucket cargo hauler slogging across the Pacific. Boring as hell.

  The bridge reeked of burnt coffee and old metal. Crew shuffled in, same gripe on loop. “Another boring day at work,” one muttered, slumping into a chair. I didn’t answer. Just stared out the windows at the cranes swinging containers like they had somewhere better to be.

  I was geared up like always: black tactical shirt, cargo pants, boots that’d seen worse than salt water, backpack stuffed with survival shit because calm seas lie. Knee still twinged from the old injury, but I ignored it. Habit.

  We cleared port and hit open water. Everything chill. Gray waves, gray sky, gray everything. Then the sky ripped.

  No warning. No thunder. Just a black tear across the horizon, indigo edges crackling with blue lightning. Wind screamed in from nowhere. Rain hammered the deck like buckshot. Waves reared up, slamming the hull, tossing crew like toys. Shouts turned to screams—men overboard, clawing at rails, yelling for help that wasn’t coming.

  I gripped the console, voice cutting through the roar. “Everyone! This ain’t a storm—hang tight!”

  I looked up. A forearm the size of a destroyer pushed through the rift. Indigo skin, blue cracks glowing like fractured veins. Fingers long, clawed, casual—like a bored kid reaching for a toy.

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  It closed around the ship. Metal groaned. Containers shifted. The world tilted, folded in on itself.

  Blackout.

  I came to face-down in wet sand, mouth full of salt and a copper tang that might’ve been my own blood—or someone else’s. Spat it out, pushed up on elbows that didn’t protest for once.

  Wait. No protest.

  I flexed my bad knee—the one that’d screamed every time I stood too long since that fucked-up op in ’18. Nothing. Smooth, strong, like it’d never been shattered. Ran a hand over my face: old shrapnel scar under the jaw? Gone. Forearm burn from the ’22 fire? Vanished. Brain fog that’d clung like smoke for years—cleared. Lungs pulled in deep, clean air without the wheeze. No stuffed nose, no lingering cough from too many smokes and bad air. Whatever viruses or bullshit I’d been carrying? Poof.

  I stood slowly, testing. Felt… new. Brand fucking new.

  Backpack still strapped tight—thank Christ for small mercies. Unclipped it, rifled through: MREs, tarps, knife, med kit, water tabs, flint. All there. No phone signal, obviously, but who needs that when reality yeeted you into some fantasy hell?

  “Whew,” I muttered, half-laughing. “That was a close one. Or the closest one ever.”

  The beach stretched out, jungle thick and green behind it. Half the ship canted in a cove like it’d been dropped from orbit—containers busted open, spilling crap across the sand. No voices. No groans. No one is calling my name.

  I moved anyway. Habit. Hit the nearest busted container first: canned goods, rope, tools, and a couple of tarps. Dragged it all back and rigged a lean-to against a rock outcrop—quick, sturdy, tucked just inside the treeline’s shadow. Flint sparked dry driftwood into a low fire. Set up a rain catch with a tarp funnel into an empty jerry can. Found a trickle coming down the cliffs—boiled it twice to be safe. Food for now: whatever protein bars survived the soak.

  Crew? I called out. Walked the beach line. Nothing but waves and wind. Either the crash took them on impact, or whatever dragged us here cleaned up the leftovers. Monsters. Didn’t seem picky about who lived.

  I sat by the fire as dusk crept in, knife in hand, staring into the darkening jungle. The heal settled in like armor I didn’t ask for. Good. Because whatever howled out there tonight? It was gonna meet a guy who just got a second body—and zero fucks left to give.

  (To be continued)