Chapter One: Birthdays
The skies hadn't seen sunlight in years.
Thick, ash-colored clouds — impenetrable and unnatural — had swallowed the sky since the Falling.
Some said they were cosmic debris; others whispered they were a curse. But all agreed: when the Killing Stars first rained down from above, these clouds came with them… and never left.
Technology once bright and boundless was now muted. Satellites choked. Signal towers blinked into silence. Solar fields became graveyards.
Even on the clearest days, visibility rarely stretched beyond a block. The world was swallowed in a permanent dusk.
It began the day the Star Gazer Mission launched — a bold initiative by a desperate United Earth to reach Ganymede, Jupiter's moon.
They sent a ship through the clouds, streaking the sky with fire and hope. But something — someone — answered back.
The stars fell.
And they did not fall alone.
Now, years later, night had come again — not that it ever truly left.
In a makeshift office wedged behind the remnants of Radiology Room B, Dr. Hershoff sat in ritual silence. A warm hum from an old, cobbled-together CD player whispered out Chopin's Nocturne in E-flat Major.
The music scratched through broken speakers, but he didn't mind.
It was the little things.
He polished his glasses — left lens still cracked from a long-forgotten quake — sipped quietly from a chipped ceramic cup, and brushed back what little remained of his hair.
His white coat hung on a rusted hook behind him, washed so often it now carried the yellow hue of overuse.
Another day. Another breath. Another 24 hours Bright Hope Hospital had survived.
He rose slowly, his joints protesting, and stepped into the hallway with a sigh.
As always, he passed the framed, dust-covered glass outside Ward 3. Inside it sat a golden pass — one of the original Lower Sovereign Entry Tickets, untouched since the day he received it.
WE MAKE OUR CHOICES.
He'd made his. And he never once looked back.
Tonight, though… something was off.
The halls were quieter than usual. No walkie static. No hurried footfalls. No coughing.
No groans. No distant laughter from Gekiko's crew.
Even the emergency lighting flickered in rhythm, as if hesitating to stay awake.
He frowned.
"Geki?" he asked into his walkie, tapping it once.
Nothing.
He turned a corner toward the common hall—only to be slammed with a blast of light and sound.
"SURPRIIIIISE!!"
Hershoff blinked, eyes wide behind his glasses. His heart nearly leapt out of his chest as the room erupted in cheers, clapping, confetti made from shredded medical charts, and a rickety old speaker system blaring "Stand By Me" in static glory.
Paper streamers danced in the air, strings of mismatched bulbs blinked overhead, and dozens of Bright Hope's residents — patients, rebels, volunteers — stood smiling in the makeshift common room.
There, in the center of it all, was Gekiko. Grinning ear to ear, eyes shining, cheeks dusted with engine soot.
"Took us three weeks," she shouted through the noise, "but we did it! Happy Birthday, Doc!"
Behind her, Shoichi wrestled with a plate of food, already shoving a dumpling into his mouth.
His older brother, Shigeru — notorious KZD rebel leader — clapped him hard on the back.
"Oi, Shoichi! That plate's for the doctor, not your black hole of a stomach!"
Shoichi just shrugged, mouth full. "Shtamina's importan'!"
Takumi, standing near the lights, gave a faint smile and nod. He held no plate, no drink — just stood quietly, watching, pleased.
His hands were already fixing the speaker connection mid-song without being asked.
And Hershoff? He stood frozen, utterly overwhelmed.
"I… You all remembered?"
Nurse Yuki emerged from the crowd with a rare smile. "Well, we missed the last three. Thought we owed you this one, thanks to Geki and the community we were able to pull this one through."
Even the rogue factions — the same ones who had cursed Bright Hope's name weeks ago — stood respectfully by the walls.
No weapons. No threats. Just nods of thanks. Because everyone here, even the darkest, knew one truth:
Dr. Hershoff never turned anyone away.
Good, bad, sick, criminal, clean — if they walked through Bright Hope's shattered doors, he treated them. No questions. No judgment.
That night, under flickering lights and dim music, the hospital that had forgotten joy remembered it again.
A cake the size of a medkit sat on the table, half real flour, half synthetic starch — its frosting crooked, its candle bent. Gekiko placed it proudly in front of him.
"Don't blow too hard, old man," she teased. "We still need you for another year."
He looked around at all of them.
Shoichi, licking frosting from his fingers.
Takumi, fixing the lights.
Kazuhiko helping with some elderlies.
Gekiko, radiant with pride.
Shigeru, watching from the back, arms crossed but eyes soft.
Everyone.
"Thank you," Hershoff whispered. His voice nearly broke. "All of you."
In that moment, the hospital walls didn't feel so heavy.
The air didn't feel so cold.
And the stars, for once, didn't feel so close.