The line leading up to the medic stations was excruciatingly long—long enough to shred what was left of his patience and absolutely too long for his anxiety. He kept his eyes on the people already being processed, watching how they gave their information, then their blood.
Perfect. Exactly what he didn’t want.
He didn’t know if everyone here was from Seattle, but one thing was certain: he wanted to avoid giving his name at all costs. His very well-known name. Because if he did? Well… he’d be starting life on a new planet with enemies before he ever saw his bed.
His father’s reputation preceded him everywhere—lies, manipulation, cheating, stealing, probably tax evasion, possibly murder, and God only knew what else. An evil man with a wallet deep enough and lawyers ruthless enough to walk free every time. Being his son didn’t mean he shared a drop of his darkness, but that didn’t matter. In their world, he’s just guilty by association.
So yeah—his stomach was currently doing Olympic-level backflips.
He wasn’t recognizable by face, thank God, but his surname? That was a brand, a stain, and a big a warning sign with flashing lights all around.
At least the endless wait in line gave him time to debate whether he should make up a new name or not—and weigh the consequences of either choice.
Because he did have family he cared about. Outside his father, the rest of them were good, loving, fiercely loyal people. Not that the public ever painted them that way. But they had each other.
And that was the thing—someone needed to be the beacon. Someone needed to leave a trail. If they were alive, if they were here, he knew they were thinking the same way: Find each other. Maybe for all of them this planet could be a fresh start. So why not take the bullet?Let him be the name on record. Let them hide while he kept the door open. He could handle the judgment—he’d been doing it his entire life.
By the time nearly an hour passed, he finally strolled up to the next available station. Well not really a stroll, it was more of a stressed shuffle that he forced into looking casual.
Then he saw the medic.
Gorgeous. They all were, let’s be honest, but this one? This one could have convinced a man to hand over his social security number without blinking.
He flashed her his world-famous smirk—the one that earned free drinks, backstage passes, and, apparently, still worked across star systems.
He could’ve sworn she blushed.
Well. Good to know his charm was still intergalactic.
The beautiful medic cleared her throat and blinked up at him with those unreal, dreamy blue eyes. “Name, age, location of origin.”
“Cillian Rourke, 35, Seattle, Washington.”
He said it evenly, but he felt the heads turn. Fabulous. Exactly what he didn’t want. Still, he kept his gaze straight ahead, face carved from confidence. Maybe if he pretended he wasn’t that Cillian Rourke, everyone else would pretend too. Or they’d assume it was just some other poor bastard with an unfortunate name coincidence. Yes. Let’s manifest that.
A quick prick of the needle and a slap on the wrist later, he was officially tagged. Coded. Cataloged. 1212, according to the holographic band that shimmered over his skin. He twisted his wrist back and forth, watching the light react, amused despite himself. Their tech was fascinating—smooth, precise, and fluid, moving with an elegance that made everything on Earth seem clunky by comparison. Back home he’d been waist-deep in computers and engineering, and he was dying—quietly and internally—to get his hands on whatever machinery these people built. Assuming, of course, they weren’t about to turn him into some kind of intergalactic manservant. That was the rumor spinning around anyway.
The transport ship that ferried them down to Pantor was almost even more beautiful than the last time he saw it. They all were, just like their people. As they slipped past the three moons and sliced through the lavender-tinted atmosphere, the planet opened beneath them—endless green, glittering rivers, neon blue oceans, strange clouds swirling like brushed paint. It hit him then, suddenly and sharply: I am landing on another planet. Something he never thought he’d experience. Something so unbelievable he’d never even bothered to put it on some sort of a list. Though his family had the funds to make a dream like that into reality if they actually ever did explore another planet, which clearly humans never quite made it there—not even the moon.
The aircraft hummed to a slow descent, the sound pulling him out of a fantasy he’d been creating—a life he could have made for himself on a planet he was building in his mind. His father had always called him a dreamer: his head was always in the sky, never on what mattered. Which, for his father, was money and power.
One by one, they shuffled off the aircraft, eyes squinting against the sun. On the ground, he was funneled into a division filled with strangers—Division Alpha One, to be exact. Not a single familiar face. He’d come alone, sure—but spending nearly twenty-four hours shoulder-to-shoulder with the same cluster of exhausted humans had forged a strange, temporary camaraderie. A survival bubble. Unfortunately, he hadn’t remembered a single one of their names. Hadn’t tried. And he definitely hadn’t offered his own.
A fresh new planet, fresh start, fresh anonymity. Unless his last name ruined that part.
The shock of the journey—and everything that led to it—was bad. But he knew it wasn’t as bad as what most people here had endured. He’d been lucky. Ridiculously lucky.
When everything went to hell, he’d been at his family’s estate in the woods, the fortress his father built under the guise of “privacy.” Bulletproof walls, steel doors, reinforced windows. The kind of place that looked like the owner was paranoid until the world actually ended. People had tried to pry their way in, desperate faces pressed against glass, fists hammering metal. He’d wanted to let them in—God, he’d wanted to—but he couldn’t trust anyone’s intentions. Were they starving humans seeking help? Or starving humans who would kill him for the food inside? Or just simply kill him for who he was because now they actually can?
He knew how it looked from the outside: entitled rich boy hiding behind his mansion while the world burned. As if he’d chosen it. As if he hadn’t already lived with a target on his back since his father’s first lawsuit. Being a Rourke came with wealth, yes, but also enemies—and danger lurking in every shadow.
Days passed with no communication, no rescue. Just silence and alien ships streaking across the sky like black harbingers. They terrified him in a way few things ever had; fear wasn’t a feeling he was familiar with. But this? This rattled him to the core. Because how do you protect yourself from something like that, something that is far more advanced than they ever would be. No money in the world would protect you.
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On what he truly believed were his last moments on Earth, a chrome ship landed in the clearing beyond the estate. He never saw a chrome aircraft—they were always black— and that piqued his interest. Something telling him, this was different. He went to investigate—because what else was left? He was stranded, alone, and the world was dead. The aliens spoke his language, shockingly enough, and the one who appeared to be in charge told him plainly: Earth was done for. Safety was on the Exodus. If he stayed, he would be shit out of luck.
So he joined. Not because he was brave. Not because he had a choice. But because it was either that or die alone in an empty estate built by a man he never wanted to become or really want anything to do with.
Given the circumstances, he’d been handling this far better than most humans. He didn’t mourn his life. In fact, he was almost thrilled that Earth was invaded—a fact he would never admit to anyone else. Yes, he hoped his mother and siblings had made it out, but it didn’t weigh on him the way it did others. If anything, he felt a sense of relief—relief to be somewhere else, to be someone else, with or without them.
Now, standing in the middle of the group, he was painfully aware of how untouched he looked. Mint clean condition like a collectable baseball card. While everyone around him bled, limped, or clung to life. Dirt, tears, soot, broken bodies—yet he stood among them like he’d stepped out of a catalog.
He felt a flush crawl up the back of his neck. For the first time in a long time, he was embarrassed.
“Rourke? Like Rourke Enterprises?” a skinny man to his left practically bellowed.Fantastic. Speak up, the people in the back didn’t quite catch that.
Cillian’s stomach dipped. He’d spent the entire time in line debating whether he should change his name—not rehearsing what to say if someone called him out. Deny it? Pretend ignorance? Technically, he had worked for his father. And not in the pampered-rich-boy sense people assumed. He’d earned a master’s, built systems from scratch, climbed through the tech division the hard way. But none of that mattered. Everyone loved the story where the villain’s son gets the same reputation, no questions asked.
He let out a long, exhausted sigh. “It would appear so.”
The man snorted. “Well, I guess they couldn’t get rid of all the trash from Earth. Hope your dad died a miserable death.”
Someone behind them muttered for the guy to shut up, but Cillian still heard the little chorus of giggles and whispers ripple through the line.
He turned just enough to meet the man’s eyes, voice low and almost bored.“You and me both.”
He knew one thing for certain now: there were plenty of people from Washington — hell, from all over the country… maybe even beyond — in this Division. And it didn’t matter where they came from. If you read the papers, you knew his father. Which meant there were plenty of people his father had probably screwed over. Perfect. Just perfect. He’d need to keep his guard up, keep his head down, and maybe pray no one else had excellent hearing.
Tavian Solvayne introduced himself and his partner, Persephone Meadowyn—who, in Cillian’s opinion, was almost ridiculously adorable. Not at all the type he’d assume to be intimidating. She was tiny, all bouncy blond hair and fierce, golden eyes. Oh—and wings. Actual wings.
Every time they fluttered even slightly, his brain short-circuited. How did that work? What was the physics? Aerodynamics? Bone density? Lift coefficient? It made no sense. Absolutely none. Was this what people writing the Bible thought they were seeing? Because if so fair enough. If he can see it with who both eyes, it must be true.
And it wasn’t just the humanoids-with-wings situation. Everything about this place was frying the circuits in his mind. There were people—beings—with pointed ears, others with skin in shades no human had ever naturally produced, some with horns, some with eyes like polished beetles, some with actual antennae that swayed when they moved. And then there were the ones who didn’t look human in the slightest. Some were animalistic, some looked as if they were made of light, and others were almost ethereal, like they were only partially tethered to this plane. Did that being have multiple arms and legs?
He had no mental file to put any of these creatures into. No labels, no context. Just awe—raw and overwhelming. This planet wasn’t just alien. It was impossible. And how do they all breath the same air? How would they be able to even eat the same things? And yet here he was, standing in the middle of it all, trying to pretend he belonged and that all this made perfect sense.
As for the planet’s landscape—Pantor was something out of a fantasy novel. An expansive ocean that stretched forever, dense jungle that looked untouched by anything resembling civilization, and mountains, though none tall enough to hold snow. Just ridges of deep green and slate, rolling endlessly across the horizon. There were cities, but they were almost ingrained into the surrounding habitat as if it were one with mother nature.
The vegetation alone was unlike anything he’d seen in the States. Vines with silver veins. Trees with leaves that shimmered when the light hit them just right. Blossoms in colors that had no name on Earth. If he squinted, he could almost pretend he was arriving at some tropical paradise. An exclusive resort with an oceanfront suite, complimentary drinks and maybe a massage.
Yeah. Sure. He was dreaming. He had to be right?
Maybe he was still face-down on the bar from the night before everything went to hell—too many shots, too much stress from his father, work, and that mess with the girl he absolutely should not have gotten involved with. Maybe his brain was punishing him with the most elaborate hallucination imaginable.
But nothing was blurry. Nothing was bending or melting or inconsistent.Every detail was painfully, sharply real. So unless this was the world’s longest hangover fantasy…This was his life now. And none of the things he once thought were life-ending—his father’s legacy, the job, the drama—mattered even remotely anymore.
Cillian heard the commotion of army personnel hustling and barking orders, but even through all that noise, the ocean dominated everything. It crashed against the jagged ridge just beyond their staging area. He turned to really look at it, letting himself take in the view for the first time instead of pretending he wasn’t impressed.
The water wasn’t just blue. It was electric, impossibly bright—the color you would maybe see under a black light. And the three moons hanging overhead? Completely surreal. Trippy. Like a sci-fi poster come to life. Unnatural, yet disturbingly beautiful.
The movement of bodies around him snapped him out of whatever daze he’d fallen into. Everyone was shuffling toward the cluster of white buildings to find their accommodations first, then a tour later. Everyone got gifted a roommate, which is one of those you pick or we choose situation.
Fantastic.
At this rate, he was just going to stand here and let fate decide. Whoever felt brave—or clueless—enough to approach him could be his roommate. Preferably someone who didn’t recognize his last name or want to strangle him in his sleep.
The building itself looked futuristic but in a weirdly familiar way. All white with that pseudo-minimalist aesthetic people pretended to like. Honestly, it gave him flashbacks to a college dorm. The only thing he prayed for—legitimately prayed—was no communal bathrooms. He had suffered enough character development in his youth and just wanted to put it all behind him.
Chaos erupted the moment they stepped into the long hallway lined with identical white doors. The walls were so bright it was almost blinding. People were milling around trying to form last-minute groups, whispering, debating, panicking, or pretending they weren’t panicking.
Cillian just stood off to the side, watching. Observing. Some faces were tight with discomfort. Others looked strangely at ease, like they’d mentally checked out. And then there were those wearing pure, unfiltered confusion.
Cillian stayed planted at the very back of the hallway, the safe distance where people were less likely to make eye contact—or worse, conversation. If they ended up assigning him a roommate, so be it. At this point, the universe could pick for him. It had already picked everything else lately.
From behind him, a voice drawled, “Something tells me no one’s going to want to share a room with you.”
Cillian let out a long, exhausted sigh. “I hate this more than you can imagine.”
“Figured. You could’ve changed your name.”
“Trust me,” he muttered, “that crossed my mind.”
He turned to face the guy. And wow—he was… a lot. Pretty much eye-level with Cillian at around 6'3", jet-black wavy hair, darker skin, shoulders that looked like they were carved out of stone. The kind of man who could absolutely destroy someone with one hand and not lose sleep over it.
The stranger flashed a ridiculously perfect smile. “You don’t strike me as the idiot who tosses out his real name for free.” He backhanded Gideon’s chest—more familiar than he had any right to be. “You’re smart.” Then he tapped his own chest with two fingers, slow and deliberate. “I’m strong. We team up with people on our tier… or people willing to rise to it. That’s how you survive.”
Oh. So they were… a team now? Just like that?
Cillian humored him. “You don’t trust these people?” He nodded toward Tavian and Persephone.
The guy laughed. “People? Get real. They’re not people. Half of them are manipulative snakes, and the other half… I don’t even know what species they are, but manipulative all the same. Sure, some of them may look like us, but they’re not. I’m here to survive. You should be too.” He snapped his fingers in a finger-gun gesture. “Also, I already did a recon. Don’t bother with anyone else—they’re useless. A waste of energy. I walked around listening to their conversations. Trust me.” He leaned closer, eyes scanning Cillian. “If we want to form alliances, it’ll have to be elsewhere. Not this Division.”
Cillian took a beat. Honestly? At this point, beggars couldn’t be choosers. And this guy—Goliath with a side of cynicism—might actually be right.
He extended his hand. “Cillian Rourke. Though I’m sure introductions aren’t necessary.”
The man’s smile sharpened. “Gideon Ward.”
They shook hands, almost like they were making a secret pact.
For the first time in a very long time, Cillian had the faint, cautious sense that maybe someone would actually have his back.
