ã€ŠHighest Societyã€‹


 Dr. Callan Valor

    For Ester Cornelia, who taught me to never give up.

    <hr>

    The operating room is still, save for the hum of machines and the steady beep of heart monitors. The team around me, handpicked and trained for months, are silent, waiting. I don¡¯t hear their nervous breaths or feel their anxiety. I have no space for it. I only hear the rhythm of the twin¡¯s lives in my hands. One wrong move and I condemn one of these girls¡ªor both.

    But that won¡¯t happen.

    I¡¯ve been in worse situations, though none as public as this. The UK Prime Minister¡¯s twin daughters, attached at the liver and lower chest, a vascular network more intricate than any I¡¯ve seen. They¡¯ve trusted me with their lives. Me. Not because of sentiment or hope but because I¡¯m the best. And that¡¯s all that matters.

    The lights above reflect sharply off the polished steel instruments. Scalpel first. My fingers steady, my heart beating at a calm 65 BPM. A team of thirty, and yet I am the only one who can make this cut. The precision here is absolute. It has to be. Sever the wrong vessel, and we lose control of the entire situation¡ªno room for error.

    The scalpel touches their fused skin. The girls are sedated, their tiny bodies barely moving, completely unaware of the gravity of this moment. In their position, maybe ignorance is a gift. The cut begins slowly, tracing the line where their bodies meet. The skin splits easily, and the assistive robot guides my hand, stabilizing the instrument for deeper precision.

    ¡°Prepare for the vascular dissection,¡± I say, the command short and clipped.

    A nurse echoes the order, her voice trembling. I hear the crack in it, but I don¡¯t react. I know they feel the pressure¡ªknowing that a single mistake will be splashed across every media outlet, dissected by every critic¡ªthe Prime Minister¡¯s daughters. Headlines are waiting to happen. But not because I fail. No. The headlines will talk about how I pulled off the impossible. That¡¯s the story they¡¯ll write.

    I move deeper, the scalpel slipping through soft tissue until we hit the liver¡ªthe real test.

    The liver. It¡¯s the most dangerous part of this separation. Their veins are intertwined like vines, connecting them at life¡¯s core. One slip, and they¡¯ll bleed out faster than we can react. But I¡¯ve studied their scans for weeks. I know this anatomy better than I know my own body. I¡¯ve prepared for every contingency, every possible complication. The difference between me and every other surgeon in the world is simple: I¡¯m never surprised.

    I glance at the clock. Forty minutes in, and we¡¯re right on schedule.

    I can feel the tension in the room. They¡¯re waiting for me to give them something¡ªassurance, comfort. I give them none. I am here to do a job, not to reassure nervous hands. I don¡¯t need to look up to know the Prime Minister is pacing in the observation deck, watching through the glass as his children¡¯s fate rests on the edge of this scalpel.

    They told me not to think about that, to distance myself from who they are. But I never needed the reminder. Their identities are irrelevant to me. Whether they¡¯re nobodies from a village in the middle of nowhere or the daughters of a world leader makes no difference to me. All that matters is the result. The outcome is what defines me.

    I clamp a vein, the assistive robot mimicking my exact movements. Every breath in the room holds, waiting for me to release pressure. I make the final incision to separate the livers, and immediately, blood pulses into the open cavity. Controlled. Expected. My team rushes to suction and control the flow, but it¡¯s nothing that wasn¡¯t accounted for. The bleeding is intense, but I¡¯ve handled worse.

    ¡°Suction,¡± I bark as the team works seamlessly around me. Hands pass instruments, and the robot assists with retractors, opening the wound as I move from the liver to the lower thoracic structures.

    One more critical phase, and we¡¯re done.

    But it¡¯s in these final moments that a surgeon¡¯s hand can falter. The moment you think it¡¯s over, that¡¯s when mistakes happen. I¡¯ve seen surgeons fall to that arrogance¡ªbelieving they¡¯ve beaten the odds just to lose everything. I don¡¯t make that mistake.

    ¡°Connect the bypass,¡± I command as the team works quickly to stabilize each twin¡¯s blood flow. Their hearts, independent for the first time in their lives, beat separate rhythms. A flutter on the monitor catches my eye, but the anesthesiologist is already on it. Minor arrhythmia. Not unexpected. I keep cutting.

    Minutes stretch into hours as the final layers of tissue are separated. The bodies now lie side by side, not as one, but as two distinct lives.

    I step back, finally. The final suture closes their newly independent bodies, and the tension leaves the room like a sudden vacuum.

    ¡°Operation complete,¡± I say, my voice flat, professional. No need for celebration. Not yet. I glance at the clock again¡ªfive hours and twelve minutes.

    We did it.

    And not because of luck, hope, or prayer. We did it because I¡¯m the best doctor in the world.

    ¡°Vitals stable,¡± the nurse calls out, her relief palpable.

    They¡¯ll call me a hero. The media will praise me. The Prime Minister will owe me everything. But it won¡¯t matter. It never does.

    I don¡¯t need their praise.

    I only care about the result.

    The moment I step back, the doors to the operating room fly open. The Prime Minister charges in, breaking every protocol, his face a cocktail of panic, fear, and the verge of tears. His polished exterior, the stoic leader of the United Kingdom, is gone. In its place, a father desperate to see if his daughters are still breathing.

    His eyes dart to the operating table. The girls, separated now, lay under careful watch, alive¡ªbecause of me. Relief floods his face, and he nearly stumbles toward them, barely keeping himself upright.

    I don¡¯t watch for long. I¡¯ve seen that expression countless times¡ªthe same blend of gratitude and disbelief, whether it¡¯s in the eyes of a factory worker or a billionaire. Their emotions hold no value to me.

    I step away, peeling off my gloves, watching the blood slide off with the latex. I wipe my hands clean, the sterilizer cold against my skin as it washes away every trace of the operation. Every drop of blood. Every reminder of what was at stake.

    For them, this is a moment of salvation. For me, it¡¯s just another day, another success, another result that reinforces why I¡¯m here.

    As I step into the hallway, I pull out my Nimbus¡ªa sleek, metallic device with no visible screen or buttons. With a flick of my wrist, the phone activates, and a holographic display materializes in the air before me. The translucent blue interface hovers just above my hand, glowing faintly. The screen is purely light¡ªno physical form¡ªyet its response is immediate, reacting to my every movement with precision.

    This is no ordinary device. It¡¯s the kind of technology reserved only for members of the Premier Society. A symbol of privilege, power, and untouchable status. It doesn¡¯t just communicate; it connects me to the only thing that truly matters in this world.

    I swipe across the holographic screen, the display shifting in front of me. A leaderboard materializes, filled with names¡ªhundreds of them¡ªscrolling in real time. Each name is followed by a set of points that shift constantly, updating by the second. The absolute best in the medical field¡ªsurgeons, specialists, innovators¡ªfight for the top, endlessly chasing results, procedures, and breakthroughs, vying for the chance to be recognized as the most important life-savers on the planet.

    But I only care about the name at the very top.

    Dr. Callan Valor.

    I lead by tens of thousands of points, far ahead of the closest names in the medical world. They try, year after year, surgery after surgery, hoping to close the gap. But the distance between me and them is an ocean they¡¯ll never cross. I¡¯m not just ahead¡ªI¡¯m untouchable. Even now, after hours in the operating room, the best doctors in the world scramble beneath me, their names flickering as their rankings shift, desperate to climb.

    But I¡¯m unmoved.

    If I wanted, I could step away for a year, maybe two¡ªtake my time, stroll along the beaches of Lombok, watch the sunsets without a care¡ªand no one would come close to catching me. Let them fight over second place. Let them compete for recognition that will never amount to mine. They¡¯re chasing shadows.

    A notification flashes on the Nimbus holographic display. A subtle chime accompanies the message: 50 billion credits just deposited into my account. I could buy an island or two with that. But it¡¯s not enough. Not nearly enough.

    My ambitions are far greater than just islands or estates. I want more. I want everything.

    I glance at the leaderboard again, moving into a different category. Until I see his name.

    Adrian Voss, the number one venture capitalist. He¡¯s the richest man on Earth, and he didn¡¯t get there by saving lives or innovating technology. He did it by knowing how to play the game¡ªmanipulating markets, seizing opportunities, making sure he always had control. Voss doesn¡¯t just sit on top of the financial world; he owns it.

    I¡¯m still far from him, from that pinnacle of wealth and power.

    Being the number one doctor in the world isn¡¯t enough. It never was. I want more than titles and praise. I want to be the richest, the most powerful. And no one¡ªnot even Adrian Voss¡ªis going to stop me from taking that title.

    To achieve that kind of wealth, I need to keep working. Ambition doesn¡¯t rest, and neither can I.

    I glance down at my Nimbus again. This time, a list of medical procedures scrolls in front of me, carefully curated by my assistant. Three operations. Three options. Each with its own price.

    The first on the list: Katherine Shaw, wife of General Marcus Steele, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff for the USA Army. Her condition is dire¡ªsevere degenerative spinal disorder. The disease is rapidly eroding her vertebrae, compressing her nerves, causing her excruciating pain and near-total immobility. I could fix it, repairing the damaged spinal tissue using a process called neuroregenerative grafting, which involves injecting synthetic stem cells directly into her spine to rebuild and regenerate the affected areas. It¡¯s complex. It¡¯s delicate. It¡¯s not a procedure that just anyone can perform. But I can.

    They¡¯ve offered me 10 billion credits for it.

    I¡¯ll keep it in mind.

    The second one barely gets a glance. Some kid with a tumor lodged in his brainstem. Complex, but the kind of thing I can do in my sleep. The pay? A million credits. Barely worth my time.

    My assistant keeps doing this¡ªhanding me a mix of high-profile and low-priority cases, all for the sake of accumulating more score points on the leaderboard. Points aren¡¯t what I care about, though. Let the other doctors climb their way up with procedures like these. I¡¯ve earned the right to be selective. I can¡¯t afford to waste hours on cases that won¡¯t bring me closer to my goal.

    The third case is the one I¡¯ll accept.

    Alexis Dreyer, a Hollywood actress whose face graces every screen from Los Angeles to Tokyo. A small cut. On any other person, it would be a non-issue. But on her, it¡¯s a crisis. Her publicist says it¡¯s urgent¡ªher career depends on her face being flawless, and the industry doesn¡¯t tolerate imperfections. I can make it perfect again. I always do.

    She¡¯s willing to pay me 20 billion credits for the privilege.

    I don¡¯t need to think twice. I take it.

    I walk toward the teleporter, its polished metallic frame gleaming under the sharp lights of the hospital hallway. This device, this marvel of instant travel, is one of the many privileges that come with being at the top. It wasn¡¯t Malleus who created it, though. No, the teleporter is the work of Milady Madelyn, the genius. She designed it to revolutionize global travel, tearing down borders, compressing time, and making the world a smaller, more accessible place.

    Back then, anyone could use it¡ªliterally anyone. That was her vision¡ªinstant travel for every human, from the lowest janitor to the highest surgeon. She built it with noble intentions, thinking it would unify the world. But Malleus had different plans.

    Malleus isn¡¯t just some AI. It¡¯s the central system that runs every aspect of the hierarchy of human society. The judge, the gatekeeper, the ultimate authority on who deserves what. Created to evaluate humanity based purely on results, it controls everything. Malleus doesn¡¯t ask why¡ªit only asks what. What have you done? What have you produced? What have you achieved? Anything less than perfection? You fall.

    To Malleus, there¡¯s no room for effort or untapped potential. You either deliver results, or you¡¯re irrelevant. It doesn¡¯t understand concepts like mercy or fairness¡ªonly pure efficiency. If you¡¯re a nobody drifting through life without adding measurable value, then you don¡¯t belong anywhere near the top. In Malleus¡¯ world, the weak and the unproductive are cast aside, left to scrape by in the lower ranks, barely surviving. To Malleus, survival itself is not a birthright; it¡¯s a reward. Only those who prove their worth through tangible achievements are deemed fit to thrive.

    It was Malleus that decided hierarchy should be determined by the importance of one¡¯s profession. It doesn¡¯t care about emotions, struggle, or effort¡ªonly what you bring to society. The higher your profession ranks in importance, the more privileged your life.

    For example, doctors¡ªlike me¡ªare ranked among the highest. In Malleus¡¯ system, a doctor¡¯s contribution to society is critical: saving lives, advancing medical science, and keeping humanity intact. I¡¯m at the pinnacle¡ªNumber One¡ªin a profession that ranks near the top of the hierarchy.

    Meanwhile, those who clean the floors or flip burgers? Janitors, fast food workers, manual laborers¡ªthey¡¯re at the bottom. Malleus sees them as replaceable. They¡¯re assigned the lowest numbers and the lowest privileges. To Malleus, their contribution to society is minimal, and their lives reflect that ranking. They live in overcrowded, decaying districts, barely surviving on scraps of opportunity. That¡¯s why they are called the lower-society.

    It¡¯s not personal. It¡¯s not emotional. It¡¯s just Malleus¡¯ cold logic.

    Malleus decided that the teleporter wasn¡¯t for everyone. Efficiency, it reasoned, was paramount. Giving everyone access slowed the system, made the world messy. So, with its cold logic, it rewrote the rules. Now, only the top ten in each field¡ªthose who contribute the most¡ªcan use it. Anyone else? They¡¯re locked out. Worse, they¡¯re erased. A single step inside this machine if you¡¯re unworthy, and Malleus will turn you into ashes before you can blink.

    Right now, I¡¯m standing in the best hospital in London, but in the next ten minutes, I need to be in Los Angeles. Alexis Dreyer¡¯s face won¡¯t fix itself. Being the number one doctor in the world grants me that kind of freedom. Instant movement. Effortless. One step, and I¡¯m across the globe, while the rest of them crawl through airports or sit in traffic, trapped by the limitations of ordinary life.

    They should know their place.

    The teleporter hums softly as it comes to life, scanning me, checking my credentials and rank. Malleus knows who I am. It acknowledges my place at the top, granting me access. I step forward, watching the London hospital dissolve into the bright skyline of Los Angeles¡ªall in seconds¡ªbecause that¡¯s the privilege of being the best.

    When I arrive, the luxury operating room unfolds before me in all its sterile perfection. The walls are smooth, curved, and white, like the inside of a polished shell. Soft ambient lighting casts a warm glow, creating a space that feels more like an exclusive hotel suite than a medical facility. State-of-the-art technology hums quietly in the background¡ªautomated robotic arms, precision laser scalpels, and touch-screen monitors built into the walls, each one linked to a vast network of data and tools. Every surface gleams, reflecting the enormous cost that only the wealthiest could afford.

    In the center of the room, Alexis Dreyer sits on a plush, reclined operating chair, its fabric a deep blue that contrasts against the sleek white surroundings. It¡¯s ergonomically designed, cradling her like a throne, a far cry from the standard hospital chairs most people are subjected to. Overhead, a large, circular holo-screen displays her vital signs in real-time, though she seems utterly unconcerned by it.

    Her attention is elsewhere.

    Alexis¡¯s eyes are glued to her luxury smartphone, the screen glowing as she scrolls through a series of video clips¡ªher latest promos. It¡¯s a montage of perfume ads and high-end fashion campaigns, all featuring her as the star. Her fingers move with a practiced flick, fast-forwarding any scene where she¡¯s not the focus. She only pauses when her own image appears on screen, watching intently as she smiles, poses, and effortlessly radiates perfection. The moment the spotlight shifts to someone else, she skips ahead, searching for the next moment when all eyes are on her.

    Despite the scar on her face, her image on the screen remains flawless.

    Judging by the absence of Nimbus on her hand. It seems she¡¯s not the best in her field after all. Someone else has taken that spot, it appears. I wouldn¡¯t know. I don¡¯t have time to watch the petty games they play for attention. All this celebrity nonsense¡ªit¡¯s just stupid shit to me. I¡¯m not here to entertain myself with their fleeting moments of fame.

    I¡¯m here for one thing: results.

    Alexis barely looks up as I approach, her eyes still glued to her phone.

    ¡°About time,¡± she says, her voice dripping with impatience.

    ¡°I¡¯ve been sitting here forever. Do you have any idea how important my schedule is?¡±

    I glance at the timer on the screen above her head. She¡¯s been in the room for all of three minutes.

    ¡°Three minutes,¡± I say flatly, pulling on my gloves.

    ¡°I¡¯ll try to make up for the inconvenience.¡±

    Her eyes narrow, but she doesn¡¯t bite.

    ¡°This is a complete disaster, you know that? My face¡ª¡± she gestures dramatically to the small cut along her cheek, ¡°¡ªis everything. And now, because of some idiot driver, I look like this.¡±

    She leans forward as if daring me to disagree.

    ¡°I need you to make it perfect again.¡±

    I examine the cut. It¡¯s shallow, barely visible now, but the vanity in her eyes tells me that this isn¡¯t just about the wound. This is about her image, her status.

    ¡°I can fix it,¡± I say, keeping my tone neutral.

    ¡°But it¡¯s not exactly life-threatening, Ms. Dreyer. It¡¯s a small cut. You¡¯ll survive.¡±

    She huffs, crossing her arms.

    ¡°Small? I can¡¯t ¡®survive¡¯ with a scar on my face. Do you know what this means for my career? For my brand?¡±

    She¡¯s practically shaking with indignation now, her words growing louder.

    ¡°Every camera in the world is pointed at me, and I can¡¯t afford to look less than perfect.¡±

    I meet her gaze without flinching.

    ¡°I¡¯ll make sure you¡¯re flawless again.¡± I glance back at my instruments, keeping my hands steady, my voice professional.

    ¡°But perfection takes time. And you¡¯ll need to be patient.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve been patient. Too patient. I don¡¯t have time for your slow process¡ªI need this done now. I can¡¯t have people thinking I¡¯ve gone into hiding.¡±

    I can feel the entitlement dripping from every word she says. I straighten, making sure she knows I¡¯m not someone to rush.

    ¡°Surgery isn¡¯t something you can rush, Ms. Dreyer. If you want perfection, you¡¯ll need to let me do what I do best. But if you¡¯re in that much of a hurry,¡±

    I look straight into her eyes.

    ¡°I¡¯m sure there¡¯s someone else who can give you a nice band-aid.¡±

    She scoffs, her mouth opening in a mix of indignation and disbelief.

    ¡°A band-aid? Are you kidding me? I came to the best¡ª¡±

    ¡°And you¡¯re getting the best,¡±

    ¡°But the best doesn¡¯t rush for anyone. Not even you.¡±

    Her eyes flicker with frustration, but I hold her gaze, unshaken. She sighs dramatically, throwing her head back against the chair.

    ¡°Fine. Just... do it quickly. I¡¯ve got an event in two days, and I can¡¯t have anyone seeing me like this.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll take care of it,¡± I say, stepping toward the instruments.

    ¡°You¡¯ll be camera-ready. But keep in mind, I decide when it¡¯s done. Not your event schedule.¡±

    Alexis says nothing, but I can feel her glaring at me as I prepare the tools.

    She finally mutters, ¡°You¡¯d think for 20 billion credits, you could hurry it up a little.¡±

    Without looking up, I allow myself a small, pointed reply.

    ¡°For 20 billion credits, you¡¯re getting a face that even you won¡¯t find a flaw in.¡±

    It took about five minutes to fix her face.

    The procedure itself was almost laughably simple, especially compared to the kind of work I normally do. The cut was shallow, the tissue damage was minimal. I worked with a precision laser scalpel, targeting the damaged skin at the microscopic level, stimulating the cells to regenerate and heal faster than any natural process could. The dermal nanobots I applied did the rest, weaving the skin back together seamlessly, erasing any trace of the scar that once marred her so-called perfect face.

    In such an easy task, I watched the result on my Nimbus: 20 billion credits added to my account in real-time.

    As I step back, Alexis grabs a small mirror and inspects her face with obsessive scrutiny. For a moment, the room is silent except for the faint hum of equipment. Then her expression lights up.

    ¡°Wow,¡± she says, her voice filled with awe. ¡°I knew you were the best, but this¡ª¡± She turns her head, studying every angle of her reflection.

    ¡°It¡¯s perfect. No, better than perfect.¡± She looks up at me, all traces of her earlier frustration gone.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    ¡°Thank you, Doctor Valor. Seriously. You have no idea how much this means to me.¡±

    I nod, slipping off my gloves and sanitizing my hands with practiced ease.

    ¡°Of course, it¡¯s perfect. It¡¯s my work.¡±

    ¡°You make it sound so easy, but I know this kind of thing takes skill. Real skill.¡±

    I shrug slightly, allowing myself a faint smile.

    ¡°It does. But to be fair, this wasn¡¯t exactly a challenge.¡±

    She blinks, clearly not expecting the blunt response.

    ¡°Not a challenge?¡±

    ¡°No,¡± I say, keeping my voice measured but letting my ego slip through.

    ¡°This kind of procedure? Five minutes of work for me. The scar was minor; honestly, any decent surgeon could handle it. The difference is that I don¡¯t leave a trace. When I fix something, it¡¯s like it was never damaged to begin with. That¡¯s why you came to me.¡±

    Her eyes widened, reflecting the admiration I¡¯d seen a thousand times.

    ¡°You¡¯re right,¡± she says, almost breathless.

    ¡°I didn¡¯t think anyone could make it look like this again.¡±

    ¡°I didn¡¯t just fix it, Ms. Dreyer. I made it better than it was before.¡±

    She smiles, almost reverently now.

    ¡°I guess that¡¯s why you¡¯re the number one doctor in the world.¡±

    She nods, her eyes shining with admiration as she rises from the chair. She is no doubt already planning her next appearance, her next moment in the spotlight.

    ¡°Well, thank you for this, Doctor,¡± she says, rising from the chair, her eyes still lingering on her reflection in the mirror.

    ¡°I¡¯ll come to you next time. I need the best.¡±

    ***

    I¡¯m now in my Aerocar, one of Milady Madelyn¡¯s earliest inventions. It floats effortlessly above the city streets, suspended by near-silent repulsor technology, gliding smoothly through the air as though gravity itself were a mere suggestion. The design is sleek and minimalist, the polished obsidian surface reflecting the glow of the city below, curving in all the right places, giving the car a seamless, almost organic look.

    The glass canopy wraps around the cockpit, giving me a panoramic view of Los Angeles beneath me. The engine hums so quietly that the only sound is the soft whisper of wind against the body. Inside, the black leather seats mold perfectly to my form, and the holo-panel is as intuitive as breathing.

    Only the number ones can use this technology. It¡¯s a privilege meant for the few. But unlike teleporting¡ªcold and instantaneous¡ªI sometimes prefer to take the long route. To glide above the city in my Aerocar, to feel the gentle passage of time, to see everything beneath me.

    Los Angeles sprawls beneath me, a dystopian jungle of neon and steel, its skyline dominated by towering megastructures and digital chaos. This city isn¡¯t just built on ambition and fame anymore; it¡¯s a neon beast, alive and pulsing with the hum of electric dreams and corporate greed. Skyscrapers stretch like jagged teeth, their surfaces covered in luminous panels that flash ads and propaganda on a constant loop. Faces, products, and slogans scroll endlessly across the shimmering facades, casting a kaleidoscope of colors onto the streets below.

    But as my gaze dips lower, the city changes. The streets below are a tangled mass of flickering lights and shadowed corners, where the neon glow can¡¯t quite pierce through the layers of smoke and grime. Down there, in the belly of Los Angeles, is where the real city lives¡ªa twisted maze of decaying architecture, tangled wires, and billowing steam rising from cracked asphalt. Crowded markets, shady alleys, and graffiti-splattered walls weave through the chaos like veins through a beast¡¯s heart.

    The ocean, once a symbol of California¡¯s freedom, is barely visible now¡ªswallowed by sprawling industrial docks and rusted platforms, a distant glint at the city¡¯s polluted edge. What was once a horizon has been overtaken by factories belching smoke into the night sky, the water¡¯s shimmer tainted by oil slicks and waste.

    And above it all¡ªme. Drifting through the night like a ghost, suspended in the glittering heights, far removed from the noise and desperation below. Up here, I¡¯m untouchable.

    I settle into the Aerocar¡¯s luxurious interior, setting the destination for home. San Francisco isn¡¯t far¡ª30 minutes from here, though it would take five hours for anyone on the ground. I lean back, letting the smooth glide of the Aerocar carry me while the dashboard hums as it brews a fresh cup of coffee. Just as I bring the cup to my lips, the dashboard flashes, the soft ring of an incoming call cutting through the quiet.

    I glance at the holo-screen: WHO Chief.

    I tap the screen, and the face of Dr. Richard Ames, head of the World Health Organization, appears. There¡¯s no small talk¡ªthere never is with him. His expression is serious, urgent.

    ¡°Dr. Valor,¡± Ames begins, his voice sharp. ¡°We¡¯ve got something big, and we need you. The project¡¯s nearly complete, but it¡¯s stuck¡ªnone of our top specialists can crack it.¡±

    I stay silent, letting him continue. He¡¯s desperate; I can see it in the lines on his face and the way his voice carries just a hint of tension.

    ¡°We¡¯ve developed what could be a cure-all, a polypill. It¡¯s designed to combine treatments for multiple diseases in one pill¡ªdiabetes, hypertension, viral infections, cardiovascular issues, even early-stage cancer. The science behind it is revolutionary, combining statins, ACE inhibitors, antiviral agents, and gene therapy compounds into one formula. The idea is that this single pill could manage¡ªand even cure¡ªmultiple chronic diseases at once.¡±

    He pauses, but I don¡¯t react. I¡¯ve heard pitches like this before¡ªbig promises, bigger failures.

    ¡°The problem is, we¡¯re at the final stage, and the solution¡­ well, it¡¯s beyond what anyone¡¯s been able to do,¡± Ames continues. ¡°The pill needs a final delivery system¡ªsomething that can safely cross the blood-brain barrier and simultaneously target multiple organ systems without triggering a catastrophic immune response. All of the top ten in their respective fields have already tried to solve it. And they¡¯ve all failed. Miserably.¡±

    I take a slow sip of my coffee, savoring the flavor as I process his words. Crossing the blood-brain barrier is one of the toughest challenges in medicine¡ªfew treatments can make it without causing serious complications. In addition, there is a need for a system that can target multiple organs at once, and it¡¯s clear why everyone else has failed.

    ¡°Let me guess,¡± I say finally, setting my cup down. ¡°You want me to do what none of them could.¡±

    Ames nods, the faintest hope in his eyes. ¡°We need you to finish this. If you can crack it, this pill could change everything¡ªmillions of lives saved. The global impact would be massive.¡±

    I let the silence hang in the air for a moment, knowing he¡¯s waiting for my response. He knows who I am. He knows what I care about.

    Ames takes a deep breath. ¡°We¡¯re offering you 100 billion credits upfront. Plus full royalties on the pill¡¯s global distribution.¡±

    I raise an eyebrow. 100 billion credits. The number lingers in the air between us. It¡¯s more than just a staggering figure¡ªit¡¯s enough to change everything.

    If I take this deal, I won¡¯t just be the best doctor in the world. I¡¯ll be the richest person on Earth. Richer than Voss.

    The thought flickers in my mind. Adrian Voss¡ªthe number one venture capitalist, the man who sits at the top of the global financial hierarchy. He¡¯s ruled that space for years, untouchable. But with 100 billion credits¡­

    I can take his place and finish my plan.

    ¡°Send me the full details,¡± I say finally, watching Ames¡¯s face relax with relief. ¡°I¡¯ll take a look.¡±

    He nods quickly. ¡°You¡¯ll have them within the hour.¡±

    I end the call and set the cup back on the dash, letting my thoughts settle. The polypill might cure millions, maybe even change the face of medicine forever.

    But for me? It¡¯s my ticket to the top.

    I don¡¯t care about their diseases. I care about what they¡¯ll pay me to cure them.

    I arrive at what some might consider a ¡°humble home,¡± though anyone with a hint of sense would call it what it is¡ªan architectural marvel of sleek luxury. The mansion sits proudly on top of a hill, a minimalist fortress of steel and glass that reflects the city lights of San Francisco like a prism. Its lines are clean, sharp, and geometric, giving it an air of understated dominance. A sprawling garden of engineered greenery surrounds the entrance, every plant genetically optimized for low maintenance and perfect symmetry, blending nature and technology seamlessly.

    The driveway is lined with a row of soft, automated lights that flicker to life as I approach. They guide the Aerocar to its charging bay, the sleek vehicle slotting itself into place with effortless precision. Its energy cells sync seamlessly with the charging points embedded in the ground. The whole process is smooth, like the mansion itself¡ªa place where efficiency and elegance are one and the same.

    Inside, the design is a masterclass in futuristic sophistication. Polished marble floors stretch out in every direction, their surfaces embedded with microfibers that adjust the color to match the time of day, shifting from a cool steel-gray in the evening to a warmer ivory during the day. The walls are lined with dynamic digital canvases that shift their displays based on the room¡¯s mood¡ªa blend of kinetic art and advanced algorithms creating a living gallery.

    A massive living area unfolds before me, its centerpiece a floor-to-ceiling glass wall framing a breathtaking view of the cityscape below. Smart windows automatically tint themselves to filter out the glare from the sunset, casting the room in a soft, ambient glow. The furniture is the epitome of modern elegance¡ªsleek, all clean lines and muted tones, designed not just for comfort but to make a statement about taste. Hidden panels in the ceiling diffuse light at angles that create the perfect ambiance, the kind that makes you feel like you¡¯ve stepped into a curated vision of the future.

    But as I move deeper into the living room, I notice something out of place. The edge of the Eames lounge chair, usually angled just so, has been nudged slightly out of alignment. The minimalist coffee table, a fusion of carbon fiber and glass, is an inch off its usual position. I pause, my eyes narrowing. Most wouldn¡¯t notice, but I know my space and every detail is precisely where it should be. Perhaps the cleaning robots were a bit too thorough today, or maybe they malfunctioned. I make a mental note to run a diagnostic later.

    As I take in the room, I¡¯m greeted by the polished, crisp voice of my AI assistant, Elys. Her tone is warm but professional, a blend of human-like inflections designed to be as seamless as the home itself.

    ¡°Welcome home, Dr. Valor,¡± she says, her tone warm but professional. ¡°Would you like me to warm up the shower and prepare your dinner?¡±

    This AI isn¡¯t like the basic ones you find in lower society homes. This is a top-tier assistant reserved for the top one percent. Her name is Elys, short for Elysium, and she¡¯s far more than just a voice. She manages everything. Temperature control, security systems, personalized lighting, media, and even more mundane things like cooking meals and preparing my clothes for the next day.

    She¡¯s always a step ahead.

    ¡°Shower at 38 degrees, and I¡¯ll take dinner in an hour,¡± I say, moving through the living room.

    ¡°Understood, Doctor. The shower will be ready in five minutes. I¡¯ve also prepared a prime cut of wagyu steak, seasoned and ready for you. Shall I pair it with the usual wine selection?¡±

    ¡°Make it something stronger,¡± I reply as I head toward my office.

    The lights in the hallway adjust to my presence as I walk. Doors slide open automatically, and as I pass by, I can feel the air temperature adjusting slightly, ensuring I¡¯m perfectly comfortable no matter where I stand.

    Elys speaks up again as I approach my study. ¡°I¡¯ve also updated your financial accounts. Your balance is steadily increasing from recent procedures, and I¡¯ve projected that with the polypill project, you¡¯ll surpass the net worth of Adrian Voss within months.¡±

    A faint smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. ¡°Good. Keep an eye on it.¡±

    My office is a fortress of productivity. The holo-desk glows softly, waiting for me to review the polypill project data that WHO will send soon. The AI assistant controls everything, and I hardly have to lift a finger. I sit in the ergonomic chair that adjusts itself perfectly to my posture, and as I lean back, the desk screen comes to life with charts, projections, and updates.

    Directly behind my chair is a massive, custom-designed wardrobe¡ªan imposing piece that seems out of place in a modern office but serves its purpose. Its polished oak doors gleam under the soft lighting, hiding within it a collection of tailored suits and jackets, each meticulously arranged according to color, style, and occasion. The top shelf holds an array of precision tools disguised as cufflinks, tie pins, and other accessories¡ªhidden gadgets for the rare occasions when a different kind of finesse is required.

    The walls of my office are adorned with a series of meticulously mounted taxidermies¡ªa nod to the creatures I have conquered, both metaphorically and literally. A black panther, its eyes fierce and unyielding, is positioned to the left of the room, a silent guardian watching over my every move. On the opposite wall, an eagle with wings outstretched mid-flight, its beak open in a triumphant cry, seems ready to launch itself from its perch. And beside my holo-desk, a silver fox stands alert, its cunning eyes almost too lifelike, as if plotting its next move. Each of these creatures is a testament to precision, strategy, and control¡ªthe very principles that guide my life.

    All the while, Elys continues to work in the background. The shower hums to life, reaching the perfect temperature. In the kitchen, automated systems begin preparing my meal with precision that would rival the finest chefs.

    This home¡ªit¡¯s more than just a place to live. It¡¯s an extension of my power. Every inch of it is designed to make my life more efficient, more seamless. A place where I don¡¯t have to think about the mundane.

    Because my time is too valuable for that.

    I sit in front of the desk screen for a while, skimming through my investment portfolios and emails, though there¡¯s no real urgency. I don¡¯t miss things. Everything¡¯s been handled, as usual, perfectly. Still, it¡¯s always good to stay ahead. I glance over stock movements, noting an encouraging rise in one of my biotech ventures, and dismiss a few unimportant messages with a flick of my hand.

    As I go through the clutter of corporate memos and routine updates, I pause on a notification from my personal assistant¡ªa two-week notice of resignation. She¡¯s stepping down¡ªmoving on to something else or perhaps just needing a break. I scan the details quickly, noting the polite but final tone of the message.

    I don¡¯t feel much about it, really. It¡¯s nothing I can¡¯t fix. Assistants come and go¡ªcompetent ones aren¡¯t exactly rare when you¡¯re at the top. I¡¯ll find another one in no time, someone just as efficient, someone who understands that I require excellence.

    Satisfied, I push back from the desk, the chair adjusting automatically to my movement. It¡¯s time for that shower.

    Like the rest of the house, the bathroom is a masterpiece of modern design. The shower walls are made of dark stone, and embedded tech monitors and adjusts water temperature in real time. Steam rises from the glass enclosure as I step inside, and the hot water hits my skin in a perfect cascade.

    As the warmth sinks in, Elys¡¯ voice hums through the shower¡¯s speakers.

    ¡°Dr. Valor, regarding the polypill, I¡¯ve been cross-referencing available data on advanced delivery systems that could potentially cross the blood-brain barrier while targeting multiple organ systems simultaneously.¡±

    I close my eyes, letting the heat relax me, though my mind stays sharp.

    ¡°And?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve accessed the latest medical research papers from all major databases,¡± Elys continues. ¡°There¡¯s some promising work involving lipid nanoparticles as carriers, along with advancements in CRISPR-based gene-editing technology. However, based on current data, none of the available methods provide the level of precision required for a broad-spectrum polypill.¡±

    I let her go on for a moment, though I already know where she¡¯s heading. CRISPR and lipid nanoparticles¡ªstandard fare. But this problem needs something beyond the ordinary.

    ¡°Lipid nanoparticles won¡¯t work,¡± I say, the water pounding against my back.

    ¡°They¡¯ll trigger an immune response too easily in some patients. The delivery system needs to be smaller and more efficient. Something that can slip through unnoticed.¡±

    Elys pauses, no doubt searching her databases for something better.

    ¡°There¡¯s research into quantum dots¡ªtiny enough to bypass most biological defenses and penetrate the blood-brain barrier. But the studies are still preliminary. No human trials yet.¡±

    ¡°Of course not. Because no one wants to take that risk. But I will.¡±

    ¡°Are you suggesting utilizing quantum dots for the polypill¡¯s delivery system, Doctor?¡± Elys asks.

    ¡°I¡¯m more than suggesting it,¡± I reply, reaching for the soap.

    ¡°It¡¯s the solution. Small enough to evade the immune system, programmable to target multiple areas of the body, and versatile enough to carry the necessary compounds. It¡¯s risky, but with the right application¡­ it¡¯ll work.¡±

    Elys processes for a moment.

    ¡°Quantum dots have shown promising results in animal models. Scaling this for human trials would be a significant leap. It would bypass the final barrier that has been preventing the pill¡¯s global rollout.¡±

    I nod, rinsing the soap off as the water temperature shifts a degree cooler, exactly how I like it.

    ¡°It¡¯s the only way forward. I¡¯ll outline the plan for WHO when the time comes.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll prepare the necessary documents and simulations based on the quantum dot model. Would you like me to contact your team to begin sourcing the materials?¡±

    ¡°Not yet,¡± I say, stepping out of the shower and into the perfectly warm air.

    ¡°Let them wait for me to present the solution. I want them to see exactly why they couldn¡¯t do it without me.¡±

    ¡°As you wish, Doctor.¡±

    On a sleek, automated valet stand beside the shower, a fresh set of silk pajamas is already laid out, waiting for me. The deep navy fabric glistens under the subtle lighting, every crease perfectly pressed, the material cool to the touch. It¡¯s as if they¡¯ve just been tailored moments ago, prepared by unseen hands anticipating my every need.

    I slip into the pajamas, the silk sliding effortlessly over my skin. The sensation is luxurious and familiar, the kind of comfort only possible when every detail is meticulously planned. Everything in this house operates with the same seamless efficiency¡ªmy life, choreographed to perfection.

    I sit back down at my holo-desk, the soft glow of the screen reflecting on the surface. In front of me, a perfectly cooked wagyu steak, its marbled fat glistening under the warm lights. The aroma alone is enough to make most people pause, but for me, it¡¯s routine. Elys, of course, prepared it with precision. Next to the plate sits a glass of Chateau Margaux, an obscenely expensive vintage. I take a sip, savoring the rich, earthy flavors, then turn my attention to the data packet Ames promised me.

    It¡¯s already here.

    I swipe a hand over the holo-desk, and the information bursts into life in front of me, a cascade of text, charts, and clinical reports. The polypill¡ªthe supposed medical breakthrough that will change everything.

    I scan through the details. The pill¡¯s development is already far along. Each layer of the polypill is meticulously designed to target specific systems in the body, each drug released in a controlled sequence.

    Core Composition: The pill contains statins, ACE inhibitors, antiviral agents, antiparasitics, and anti-inflammatory compounds. It¡¯s engineered to handle the most common chronic conditions¡ªdiabetes, hypertension, cardiovascular disease, and viral infections¡ªall in one shot. It can even target early-stage cancers by inhibiting abnormal cell growth.

    Delivery System: As I suspected, the current delivery mechanism isn¡¯t enough. It struggles with crossing the blood-brain barrier and can¡¯t efficiently reach multiple organ systems at once without triggering immune responses.

    Potential Impact: The reports show projections of what could happen if the polypill works. A universal treatment for many of the world¡¯s most pressing diseases, dramatically reducing healthcare costs and increasing life expectancy across the globe. Tens of millions of people with chronic conditions could switch from complex, multi-drug regimens to a single pill.

    The implications are staggering. Millions of lives saved. Diseases that have plagued humanity for centuries, eradicated in a matter of years. The polypill would be revolutionary¡ªif it works.

    Elys speaks as I scroll through the data. ¡°The scope of this project is remarkable, Doctor. According to WHO¡¯s models, the polypill could increase global life expectancy by at least ten years, reducing mortality rates for common diseases by over 50%. Its impact on healthcare systems would be enormous.¡±

    I nod, glancing at the figures. ¡°It would simplify everything. One pill for everything¡ªthe ultimate medical shortcut.¡±

    ¡°Its application in regions with underdeveloped healthcare infrastructure would be particularly significant. Populations that currently lack access to consistent medical care would benefit the most, assuming distribution is equitable.¡±

    ¡°Assuming,¡± I smirk. ¡°That¡¯s never how it works, though, is it? Even if WHO wants to distribute this globally, the top countries will hoard the supply. They always do.¡±

    ¡°A valid observation, Doctor. Wealthier nations would likely prioritize their populations first, leading to global discrepancies in access. However, the potential to eliminate some of the deadliest conditions is still unprecedented.¡±

    I take another sip of wine, mulling over the thought.

    ¡°Unprecedented, yes. But let¡¯s be honest, Elys. The true breakthrough isn¡¯t just curing diseases¡ªit¡¯s who controls the cure.¡±

    ¡°Control of the polypill would undoubtedly confer significant influence, Doctor. Whoever oversees its distribution would wield considerable economic and political power.¡±

    ¡°Exactly. And WHO knows that. That¡¯s why they need me to get this across the finish line. They know I don¡¯t fail. And when I succeed, I¡¯ll be the one holding the keys to it all.¡±

    ¡°Indeed. The success of this project could shift the balance of power in both medicine and global economics.¡±

    I take a bite of the steak, savoring the taste as I review the final challenge¡ªthe quantum dot delivery system I¡¯d already outlined in the shower. It¡¯s the missing piece. Once implemented, the polypill will have the precision needed to safely bypass all obstacles, targeting the brain, heart, liver, and lungs in one go.

    ¡°This pill could save the world,¡± I say, half to myself.

    ¡°And make you wealthier than anyone on it,¡± Elys adds, her voice smooth as ever.

    But then, a soft bell chimes through the house¡ªa sound that isn¡¯t connected to any of my usual notifications or alarms. I freeze for a moment, my eyes narrowing. No warning from Elys, no alert from the security system. Odd.

    Without me having to ask, a live-camera feed from the front entrance flickers onto my holo-desk. The display shows the front door of my mansion, wide-angle and crystal clear. But there¡¯s nothing there. No visitor, no delivery. Just an empty frame.

    ¡°Strange,¡± I mutter, my fingers tapping lightly on the desk.

    ¡°Doctor, you have no scheduled appointments today,¡± Elys chimes in, her tone carrying a trace of confusion that seems almost human. ¡°And according to my security protocols, there have been no breaches or unauthorized entries. The entire perimeter is marked as cleared. You are safe.¡±

    I glance at the screen, then back at the taxidermied eyes of the eagle across the room, its gaze somehow feeling more watchful than ever. ¡°Safe, you say,¡± I echo, more to myself than to her. It¡¯s unsettling¡ªElys is rarely, if ever, mistaken about anything.

    My home is more than just a fortress; it¡¯s practically a military installation. Outside these walls, a small army of security personnel patrols the grounds, armed with the latest in surveillance tech and weaponry. Each one is trained to handle any threat imaginable, and the house itself is rigged with sensors that could detect the slightest anomaly¡ªa twitch, a breath, a whisper of movement.

    Any gangster, mercenary, or would-be assassin would find breaching this place more difficult than breaking into a nuclear silo. I¡¯ve seen my fair share of attempts thwarted by this system. Each failure etched deeper into my confidence that nothing gets through here without me knowing about it first.

    And yet, there¡¯s this nagging sensation at the back of my mind, a subtle alarm that no amount of technology can silence. A sense that something¡¯s off, something just beyond the reach of logic. For all the assurances of safety, for all the layers of protection, a doubt lingers like a shadow that won¡¯t fade. Something doesn¡¯t feel right.

    My jaw clenches, and for a split second, I¡¯m on the verge of barking an order to Elys. But I catch myself. If there¡¯s even the slightest chance that the intruder has already slipped past my defenses, I can¡¯t afford to let them know my next move.

    I glance at the taxidermied black panther staring down at me with unblinking eyes, forcing my tone to steady itself. Calm. Controlled. I lean over my holo-desk, fingers moving swiftly over the glowing interface, typing commands instead of voicing them. I instruct my entire house system to switch into silent recording mode¡ªcameras, audio, motion sensors, the works. Every single inch of this place will document whatever happens next.

    ¡°Record all activities,¡± I type, each keystroke deliberate. ¡°Lock down escape routes, notify security.¡±

    My fingers dance across the screen again, sending a silent ping to the guards patrolling the perimeter. A message flashes back: Confirmed. Security en route. ETA: Two minutes.

    Two minutes. In that time, I¡¯ll know if this shadow lurking in my home is a mere nuisance or something more dangerous. Something that¡¯s slipped through my meticulously designed defenses like a ghost. I need to play this right; there should be no sudden movements or hasty actions that might tip off whoever¡¯s already inside.

    Because if they¡¯re already here, then they¡¯re listening. Watching. And I need to be one step ahead.

    I turn slowly toward the large wardrobe behind my desk, the one where I keep all my gadgets and tools¡ªmy insurance against situations exactly like this. My fingers twitch slightly, betraying the urgency I¡¯m fighting to suppress. I take a breath, steadying myself, and move quickly but quietly in front of the wardrobe.

    With a precise motion, I pull open the doors, expecting the familiar sight of my hidden arsenal, the cold gleam of my carefully curated instruments of defense. But the air seems to freeze in my lungs when I see what¡¯s actually there.

    Instead of my rack of gadgets, a figure stands in the shadows, dressed in all black. His posture is calm, unnervingly still. A balaclava covers his face, leaving only his eyes visible¡ªdark, unblinking, and fixed on me with a deadly focus.

    And in his gloved hand, he holds a gun, pointed unwaveringly at my chest. The muzzle of the weapon feels like a black hole, sucking the air out of the room, reducing everything I thought I controlled into nothing.

    All the high-tech defenses, cutting-edge security, and gadgets I rely on are useless. My sanctuary, my fortress, now a cage with this intruder standing at its heart.

    The shot rings out before I can process the threat, a deafening bang reverberating through the quiet hallway. The impact slams into my chest, and the world explodes in pain. My body jerks backward, hitting the floor hard. A searing agony radiates from my chest, sharp and relentless, sending shockwaves through my system.

    I¡¯ve been shot.

    The entry wound is high on my left side¡ªjust below the clavicle, dangerously close to the subclavian artery. If that artery¡¯s been nicked, I¡¯ve got maybe ninety seconds before I bleed out completely. My breath is already ragged, and I can feel my lung struggling to expand. Hemopneumothorax, no doubt. Air and blood rapidly fill my pleural cavity, compressing the lung itself. I can already feel the pressure suffocating me, each breath like trying to inhale through shattered glass.

    Tachycardia¡ªmy heart¡¯s hammering, trying to keep up, trying to compensate for the sudden drop in blood pressure. My skin¡¯s going cold, clammy¡ªa classic sign of shock. The adrenaline is kicking in, but it¡¯s only buying me a little time¡ªa few minutes, at best. I need to stabilize, stop the bleeding, or I¡¯m done for.

    My mind races through the possibilities. Pressure on the wound won¡¯t be enough if that artery¡¯s compromised. I need a thoracotomy to relieve the pressure and a way to clamp that vessel. Not exactly a procedure I can perform lying here on my own blood. The ETA for my security team is under sixty seconds¡ªtoo long if I don¡¯t take immediate action.

    And why the hell is Elys quiet? She should be flooding this room with emergency alerts, initiating defensive protocols, contacting backup. Her silence is a glaring anomaly, a betrayal from the one system I built to protect against exactly this.

    Someone¡¯s tampered with her. Cut me off from my own fortress. Whoever orchestrated this knew exactly how to neutralize my defenses. They¡¯ve stripped me of every advantage, leaving me bleeding out on the cold floor of my sanctuary.

    But I¡¯m not done yet. Not if I can help it.

    I force air into my lungs, each breath a battle, my vision blurring at the edges. Through gritted teeth, I manage to spit out a question. Not because I need to know who he is, but because I need to buy time¡ªseconds, milliseconds even¡ªfor my security to reach me.

    ¡°Who are you?¡± I rasp, my voice barely more than a whisper, tinged with pain and desperation.

    ¡°Your consequences,¡± comes the reply, the words twisted into something monstrous by a low, guttural growl. A voice distorted beyond recognition, almost mechanical¡ªa voice changer, perhaps. Cold, unfeeling, inhuman.

    My heart races faster as the barrel of the gun shifts, the muzzle aimed squarely at my head now. In the distance, I hear the pounding on the door¡ªmy security team is finally here¡ªmy lifeline, just a few feet away, separated by walls and seconds.

    But those seconds stretch into an eternity as the intruder¡¯s finger tightens on the trigger. A deafening crack fills the air, a thunderous roar that drowns out everything else. The last thing I feel is the shockwave of impact before the world goes black.

    <hr>

    To be continued...

 Tobias Kane

    The hum of the crowd filters in through the walls, a distant rumble that seems to pulse in rhythm with my heartbeat. I sit on the bench, hands wrapped, feeling the familiar weight of the gloves on my lap. My breathing is slow, steady, and controlled. I¡¯ve been here a thousand times before, but the energy is always the same. Focus. Calm. Precision.

    I¡¯m not here for the spectacle. I¡¯m not here to prove anything to the world. I¡¯ve never cared about the cameras, the lights, the noise. The ring, the fight¡ªthat¡¯s where I find my peace. Everything outside of it? It doesn¡¯t matter.

    I feel a hand on my shoulder¡ªold, steady, a hand that¡¯s been there since the beginning. I look up to see Gus, my trainer, pacing in front of me, as calm as ever. He¡¯s been with me through every step of this journey. From the early days, when no one knew my name, to now, when everyone does. I owe a lot to this man, more than just the fight.

    ¡°McKenzie¡¯s smart,¡± Gus says, stopping his pacing to face me. He crosses his arms, giving me that steady look.

    ¡°Real thinker in the ring. Doesn¡¯t just rely on his strength¡ªhe¡¯s always studying, watching for openings, looking to turn your moves against you.¡±

    I nod. I know McKenzie well enough. He¡¯s number two in the rankings for a reason. Not the strongest, but he fights with his head. Every punch is calculated, and every feint is designed to set up the next move. Brains over brawn. I respect that.

    ¡°He¡¯s quick,¡± Gus continues, his eyes narrowing like he¡¯s running through a mental checklist. ¡°Loves to work the body, wear you down. If you leave yourself open, he¡¯ll pick you apart. But you know how to handle that.¡±

    Of course, I do. We¡¯ve trained for this. I¡¯ve trained my entire month for this. In the ring, I don¡¯t think¡ªI just know. It¡¯s not about brute strength; it¡¯s about mastery. The mind guides the body. Control is everything.

    ¡°I¡¯ve seen him break down bigger guys than you,¡± Gus adds, leaning in slightly.

    ¡°But he¡¯s not like you. He doesn¡¯t have what you¡¯ve got.¡± His voice drops lower, just enough to cut through the noise seeping through the walls.

    ¡°Experience. Patience. Control. He¡¯s still chasing, trying to prove himself.¡±

    I take a deep breath, feeling the quiet power in my chest. I trust Gus with my life. I¡¯ve always trusted him. He¡¯s why I¡¯ve stayed on this path, even when everything outside the ring threatened to pull me away. He knows me better than anyone. When he speaks, I listen because he¡¯s never steered me wrong.

    My eyes close for a moment, the sounds of the crowd fading into the background. I center myself the way I always do before a fight. There¡¯s no room for ego here. Ego gets you hurt. Ego blinds you. It¡¯s not about proving I¡¯m the best. It¡¯s about the fight itself¡ªthe art, the discipline.

    ¡°I¡¯ve got this,¡± I say quietly, more to myself than to Gus.

    He pats my shoulder, a light touch, but it¡¯s enough.

    ¡°I know you do, kid.¡±

    I stand, the gloves heavy but familiar in my hands. My body feels light, fluid, ready. There¡¯s no rush of adrenaline, no anxiety. Only clarity. The world falls away when I step into the ring, and all that remains is the moment.

    ¡°Remember,¡± Gus says as we move toward the door, ¡°don¡¯t let him control the pace. Keep your distance and make him come to you. He¡¯s going to try to outthink you. Make him react to you instead.¡±

    I nod again. It¡¯s all second nature now. The fight isn¡¯t about strength or speed. It¡¯s about control. The more you control the rhythm, the more the fight belongs to you.

    Before I can open the door, it swings open. Jason Whitlock, my manager, steps in, his presence loud and forceful, as always. He¡¯s in a hurry, as usual, a ball of energy that seems to never stop moving. He claps a hand on my shoulder, but there¡¯s no calm in his touch. It¡¯s all force, like he¡¯s trying to transfer his overblown confidence into me.

    ¡°There¡¯s my champ!¡± Jason grins, his teeth gleaming, his voice booming through the room like he¡¯s already giving a victory speech.

    ¡°You¡¯re gonna destroy McKenzie tonight, you hear me? That guy doesn¡¯t stand a chance. Brains over brawn¡ªplease. He¡¯s going to overthink himself into the ground, and you¡¯ll be there to knock him out in the third, maybe even the second. Hell, why wait? First round, let¡¯s send a message, huh?¡±

    Jason¡¯s always been like this¡ªtalking big, hyping everything up like a circus. To him, the fight is the show, the drama, the spectacle. He thrives in it, lives for the headlines, the trash talk, the chaos. He¡¯s built an image around me¡ªTobias ¡°Stone¡± Kane, the bad guy, the cocky fighter who stirs the pot and knocks opponents out with a smirk. That¡¯s what the media eats up, and Jason feeds it to them.

    But he¡¯s never understood. I don¡¯t care about the image. I never have.

    I look up at him and nod, offering a small smile, but inside, I know I¡¯m not taking him seriously. McKenzie isn¡¯t someone to underestimate. Jason sees him as just another stepping stone, another guy to bulldoze on the way to a bigger paycheck. But I know better. McKenzie is careful and methodical. He¡¯s got his own game plan, and I respect that.

    Jason, on the other hand, sees McKenzie the same way he sees every opponent. Another underdog. Someone beneath us. ¡°That guy¡¯s a chump, man. All brain, no guts. You¡¯ll see it the moment he steps into the ring. He¡¯ll be so busy calculating his way through the first round, you¡¯ll drop him before he knows what hit him.¡±

    I stay quiet. Over the years I¡¯ve learned that it¡¯s easier to let Jason talk. It¡¯s what he¡¯s good at. And in some way, I¡¯m grateful for him, even if I don¡¯t always agree with his approach. Without Jason, I wouldn¡¯t be where I am today. He¡¯s been the one navigating the chaos of the media, the contracts, the constant pressure to be more than just a fighter. He¡¯s the reason I don¡¯t have to worry about any of that. Not only that, but he¡¯s also the reason I can fight the best fighter on the planet, I¡¯m very grateful for that.

    But the truth is, Jason¡¯s world¡ªthe cameras, the lights, the drama¡ªit¡¯s all a distraction to me. Yet, he thrives in it. Which is a good thing, I can focus on one thing that matters the most, the fight.

    ¡°Yeah, we¡¯ll see,¡± I say quietly, standing up and stretching, my gloves brushing lightly against my thighs. ¡°But I¡¯m not rushing anything. You know that.¡±

    Jason gives a half-smirk, shaking his head. ¡°That¡¯s why I¡¯m here, man. You think too much sometimes. Gotta remind you who¡¯s at the top.¡± He throws a look at Gus, almost as if to say he¡¯s the real brains behind the operation.

    I glance over at Gus, who remains calm, arms crossed, watching Jason with that same quiet patience he¡¯s always had. Gus has been the foundation, the rock, ever since the beginning. He¡¯s never needed the spotlight, never needed to be loud. And that¡¯s why I trust him.

    Jason? He¡¯s necessary in his own way. He¡¯s the reason I¡¯m here, with the contracts, the sponsorships, the high-profile fights. But Gus is the reason I¡¯m still grounded. They both serve their purpose, but I know who I lean on when the pressure¡¯s on.

    ¡°Alright, alright, just go out there and do what you do,¡± Jason says, waving his hand like he¡¯s brushing off the moment¡¯s seriousness. ¡°Just don¡¯t make it too boring, okay? We want people talking.¡±

    I give him another nod, but my mind¡¯s already shifted back to the fight. Jason¡¯s words roll off me. The ring is where I speak.

    He slaps my shoulder one last time and steps back toward the door. ¡°We¡¯re gonna own the night, baby! Let¡¯s give them something to talk about.¡± With that, Jason disappears through the door, already no doubt working the crowd, prepping the media for the show.

    I take a deep breath, my focus returning, centered.

    ¡°Ready?¡± Gus asks.

    I nod.

    ¡°Then let¡¯s go show them why you¡¯re still number one.¡±

    As we step out of the tunnel, the sheer size and energy of the crowd hits me like a wave. The Grand Coliseum¡ªthe largest arena in the world¡ªis alive with noise, a sea of faces and flashing lights filling the massive space. Fifty thousand people packed into every inch of the colossal dome, their voices blending into a deafening roar that vibrates through the air. The walls stretch high, curving into a transparent roof with a perfect view of the night sky above.

    This place wasn¡¯t just built for fights. It was built for spectacles¡ªwhere the greatest events in history unfold under the eyes of the world. Every seat is taken, every gaze locked on the ring that glows under the brilliant lights. A digital scoreboard above the ring flickers with the fighters¡¯ names, but I barely glance at it. For me, all that exists is the path to the ring.

    The announcer¡¯s voice booms through the arena, echoing over the crowd. His voice is slick, practiced, and made for this kind of showmanship.

    ¡°Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to the Grand Coliseum!¡± The crowd roars in response, a frenzy of excitement that grows louder as the announcer continues.

    ¡°Tonight¡¯s main event is a battle between two of the greatest boxer to ever grace this arena!¡±

    I walk with Gus beside me, Jason a step behind, always keeping an eye on the cameras, making sure the spotlight hits just right. But I¡¯m not thinking about the cameras. I¡¯m thinking about the ring.

    The announcer¡¯s voice rings out again, now shifting to my opponent.

    ¡°In the red corner, standing at 6¡¯1¡±, with a record of 25 wins and 1 losses¡ªhe is the brains in the ring, the strategist, the challenger! Give it up for¡­ Jacob McKenzie!¡±

    The crowd erupts again as McKenzie steps into view. I see him across the way, his sharp gaze scanning the crowd, his movements measured. McKenzie¡¯s no joke. His record speaks for itself¡ªhe¡¯s earned his place here. Known for picking apart his opponents, wearing them down mentally as much as physically.

    But even as the cheers rise for him, there¡¯s an unmistakable shift in the atmosphere as the announcer¡¯s voice rises to introduce me.

    ¡°And in the blue corner!¡±

    I keep walking, my steps slow, deliberate. The noise around me starts to fade, narrowing down into a single point of focus. The ring. The place where it all falls away.

    ¡°Standing at 6¡¯4¡±, with a record of 37 wins, 0 losses¡ªhe is the world champion in boxing, MMA, kickboxing, and wrestling, the greatest martial artist of our time. He is the immovable object, the unstoppable force¡ªthe champion¡­ Tobias ¡®Stone¡¯ Kane!¡±

    The explosion of sound is almost overwhelming. The ground seems to tremble beneath the weight of the crowd¡¯s roar. They know who I am. They¡¯ve seen what I can do. Undefeated. Untouchable. The number one fighter in the world, across every discipline.

    But as the arena vibrates with noise and thousands of eyes are locked on me, I don¡¯t care about any of them. Not the millions watching at home, not the cameras broadcasting my every move. I only care about two.

    I glance up toward the VIP section, where I know she is watching: my wife, Lisa.

    Her eyes are the only ones that matter. She¡¯s the one I fight for. The one who keeps me grounded when everything else tries to pull me away.

    I remember the first time we met¡ªyears ago, before the fame, before the titles. Back when I was just a hungry kid trying to make something of myself. She saw past all the noise, saw me for who I really was. Not the fighter, not the persona. Just me.

    In a world where everything feels like a spectacle, she¡¯s the one thing that¡¯s real.

    I know she¡¯s there now, watching me with the same quiet strength that¡¯s been with me through every battle, every fight, every victory. And even though thousands surround me, it¡¯s her gaze that keeps me calm, that keeps me centered.

    I love her more than I¡¯ve ever loved anything. More than the titles, the victories, the accolades. She is my anchor. And as I step into that ring, I know that no matter what happens, she¡¯s always there, waiting for me.

    As the cameras flash and the crowd surges with energy, I lock onto her gaze, and for a moment, the rest of the world disappears.

    But the peace only lasts for a second as the referee steps in, his presence cutting through the moment like a blade. He¡¯s got the air of authority, the kind that¡¯s earned from years of standing between titans like us. He gestures for McKenzie and me to step forward, and the noise of the crowd begins to soften, anticipation thick in the air.

    We stand face to face, the lights bearing down on us, every movement magnified in this charged silence. McKenzie¡¯s sharp eyes are already sizing me up, but I don¡¯t flinch. This is just part of the ritual.

    The referee looks between us, his voice loud and clear as it echoes through the arena.

    ¡°Alright, gentlemen, you know the drill,¡± he begins, his tone firm. ¡°This is a twelve-round bout for the world championship. No holding, no hitting below the belt. Keep your punches clean and listen to my commands at all times. Protect yourselves at all times. In the event of a knockdown, you go to a neutral corner until I give the signal to continue. Got it?¡±

    We both nod, the tension between us palpable, though my mind is as calm as still water.

    ¡°Touch gloves and let¡¯s have a good fight,¡± the referee says, stepping back slightly to let us engage in the last formal gesture before the real battle begins.

    McKenzie hesitates momentarily, then steps forward, his glove raised slightly. His eyes flicker with something¡ªa calculated move, as if he¡¯s testing my reaction, already beginning his mind games.

    ¡°Stone, huh?¡± McKenzie says, his voice low, a smirk playing on his lips. ¡°You¡¯re going to need more than that name to stop me tonight. You ready to be picked apart, piece by piece? This is my time.¡±

    He¡¯s trying to get under my skin, testing my mental walls. But I don¡¯t respond. I never do. I¡¯ve heard all of this before. Fighters trying to mess with my head, looking for cracks in my calm. There aren¡¯t any.

    I tap his glove lightly, keeping my gaze steady, unaffected. I¡¯ve already won that battle.

    McKenzie¡¯s smirk fades just slightly when he realizes it. Mind games don¡¯t work on me. There¡¯s no point in playing them with someone who doesn¡¯t care about the noise, who doesn¡¯t engage in the theatrics. The fight isn¡¯t about words, not for me.

    ¡°Alright, back to your corners!¡± the referee calls out, gesturing us away from each other.

    McKenzie holds my gaze for a second longer, then backs off, his smirk fading into focus. He knows now that he¡¯s not going to get inside my head. I walk back to my corner, every step deliberate, the crowd still roaring, but I¡¯m already tuned out. This is what I¡¯ve trained for. This is where I thrive.

    The bell rings, and everything sharpens. The crowd¡¯s roar fades into the background, and the world narrows to the space between McKenzie and me. He¡¯s already moving forward, light on his feet, his hands high, probing with quick jabs, looking for an early read. But I don¡¯t rush. I never do.

    Patience. Control.

    McKenzie¡¯s smart, and he¡¯s banking on that. He¡¯s testing my guard, trying to feel out the rhythm. His jabs snap out, fast and precise. I step just out of range, my gloves up, eyes locked on his movements, watching the way he shifts his weight. He¡¯s always thinking, calculating. His strength isn¡¯t in his power¡ªit¡¯s in how he reads the fight, anticipates what¡¯s coming next.

    But the problem with fighters who overthink is that they give themselves away. I can see it already¡ªhe¡¯s trying to set something up, feinting with his left hand, trying to pull my guard out of position. It¡¯s textbook, really. He¡¯s good, but I¡¯ve seen this move before.

    I flick out a quick jab, not to hit him but to measure the distance. He slips to the side, just like I expected, and fires a straight right to my body. I let him think he¡¯s got it, but at the last second, I twist, his glove grazing my ribs as I step back. Too slow.

    He follows up, pressing the attack, throwing a quick combination¡ªjab, hook, straight¡ªbut I slip each one, my feet light, my body moving just enough to avoid the impact. No wasted energy.

    I can see the frustration building in his eyes. He wants me to engage, to trade with him. That¡¯s how he breaks his opponents down, lures them into brawling, forces them to make mistakes. But I don¡¯t take the bait. I can feel his rhythm now, the way his body moves, how his mind works. He¡¯s good but trying too hard to force the opening.

    McKenzie comes forward again, this time with a more aggressive approach. He launches a series of quick jabs, snapping them toward my head. I block them, staying calm, focused. I know he¡¯s setting up the right hand, trying to push me into the ropes, making me uncomfortable.

    But the ring is my home. There¡¯s no such thing as uncomfortable here.

    I see his shoulders shift, the telltale sign of the right hand coming. I duck low, slipping to the outside, and in that brief moment, I see the opening I¡¯ve been waiting for. His ribs are exposed for just a second, and that¡¯s all I need.

    I fire off a sharp left hook to his body¡ªclean, precise. It lands with a thud, and I feel the impact ripple through his frame. McKenzie grunts, his guard dropping just slightly, his breath catching for a moment. He¡¯s tough, though. He backs off and resets, trying to shake it off, but I can already see the change.

    The first crack.

    He comes at me again, more cautious now, but his pride is starting to get in the way. He throws a jab at my face, quick and sharp, but I read it before it even leaves his glove. I parry it to the side and return a right cross that lands square on his jaw. His head snaps back, and the crowd roars, but I don¡¯t let it distract me. Stay calm. Stay in control.

    McKenzie steps back, blinking, shaking his head. He¡¯s still in it, but he knows now. He knows this isn¡¯t going to go his way. He keeps moving, circling, trying to regain his rhythm, but it¡¯s already slipping away from him.

    He feints with a jab, then tries to sneak in an uppercut, but I¡¯m already moving, twisting out of range. His glove sails through the air, missing its mark, and I counter with a quick one-two¡ªjab to the head, hook to the body. Both punches land clean, and I feel the thud of impact as my glove connects with his ribs again.

    He¡¯s slowing down.

    McKenzie knows he¡¯s losing control, and that¡¯s when fighters like him start to fall apart. He¡¯s thinking too much now, trying to outsmart me, but in the ring, overthinking is a weakness. I keep my breathing steady, my mind clear, dissecting every movement, every opening.

    He comes forward again, trying to land something big. His punches are faster now, more desperate. He throws a wild hook, aiming for my temple, but I slip inside, my body moving effortlessly past his punch. I¡¯m in range now.

    My right-hand fires¡ªa short, compact hook to his liver. It lands clean, and I feel the air rush out of him. McKenzie gasps, his face tightening in pain, his guard dropping for just a second.

    That¡¯s when I know I¡¯ve won the round.

    I press the attack, keeping my punches precise. A jab snaps his head back, followed by a sharp uppercut that splits his guard. McKenzie stumbles, his feet faltering, but the bell rings before I finish the job.

    We back away, and I return to my corner, my breathing steady, my mind calm. I don¡¯t need to look to know I¡¯ve won the first round. McKenzie walks to his corner, trying to hide the pain, but I can see it in his eyes.

    This fight is mine. It¡¯s only a matter of time.

    I sit on the stool. Gus is in front of me before I¡¯ve even settled in, his hands resting on my shoulders, his face calm but serious. He¡¯s always like this. No hype, no unnecessary words. Just the truth.

    ¡°You won that round,¡± Gus says, wiping sweat from my brow, ¡°but the fight¡¯s far from over.¡±

    I nod. I already know it. McKenzie is smart. He¡¯s not going to fold this early.

    Gus leans in, lowering his voice so only I can hear him over the crowd¡¯s roar. ¡°You¡¯re controlling the pace, but there¡¯s a hole in your defense when you pull back on those counters. You¡¯re slipping his punches clean, but every time you do, you¡¯re leaving your ribs exposed. McKenzie¡¯s too smart not to notice it. He¡¯s waiting for it, trying to time you.¡±

    I feel a flicker of annoyance, not at Gus but at myself. He¡¯s right, as always. I¡¯ve felt it too, the slight lag when I reset after dodging. McKenzie hasn¡¯t fully capitalized on it yet, but he will. Gus sees things I don¡¯t in the moment¡ªhe¡¯s always been able to.

    I trust him more than anyone. Even more than my wife.

    If Gus told me to fight blind, and he¡¯d direct me, I¡¯d do it without hesitation. And I¡¯d win.

    I take a sip of water, swishing it around before spitting it into the bucket. Gus steps back for a moment, letting me breathe, but his eyes are still locked on me, searching for any sign that I¡¯m not fully listening.

    ¡°He¡¯s going to bait you,¡± Gus continues. ¡°He¡¯ll let you slip a few more punches, make you think you¡¯ve got him. And the second you relax, he¡¯s going to try and take your ribs apart. You can¡¯t give him that opening, not even for a second.¡±

    ¡°Stay low,¡± Gus says, his voice cutting through the noise.

    ¡°Work the body more. Make him uncomfortable. He¡¯s too focused on out-thinking you, so take that away from him. Force him into a position where he can¡¯t think.¡±

    I let out a slow breath. Every fight, every round, Gus knows what to say, what to adjust. He¡¯s not just my trainer¡ªhe¡¯s my guide, my eyes in the ring.

    The bell rings for the next round. Gus slaps my back lightly.

    ¡°You got this, but don¡¯t get comfortable. The second you do, he¡¯ll be on you.¡±

    I stand, gloves tight, muscles ready, but my mind is still calm. McKenzie is smart, and he¡¯s waiting for me to make a mistake.

    But I¡¯m ready for him now.

    The bell rings, and I rise from the stool, stepping back into the center of the ring. McKenzie¡¯s eyes are sharp, calculating, but I can see it now. Everything Gus said is playing out exactly as he predicted. McKenzie¡¯s waiting, watching for me to slip up, to leave that small opening when I pull back. He¡¯s baiting me, trying to make me feel like I¡¯ve got the upper hand.

    I let him.

    He comes forward, his movements controlled, but there¡¯s a change now. He¡¯s not rushing, not desperate. He¡¯s trying to make me comfortable, luring me in. His jab comes out quickly, testing me, and I slip it, just as I did in the first round. His feet shift, and there it is¡ªa slight opening, just enough to make me want to counter.

    I can feel it¡ªthe trap. He¡¯s setting me up. Just like Gus said.

    I feint a punch, giving him what he¡¯s waiting for, pulling back slightly to make it look like I¡¯m leaving my ribs open. His eyes flicker, just for a second, and then he makes his move. He shifts his weight, going for the body, ready to capitalize on what he thinks is my mistake.

    But this time, I¡¯m ready.

    As his glove comes forward, aiming for my ribs, I twist, slipping his punch at the last possible second. He¡¯s overcommitted now, his balance just slightly off. And that¡¯s all I need.

    I step in, close and fast, and fire a sharp left hook to his body, the same spot I hit in the first round. It lands clean, and I feel the impact ripple through him, the air rushing out of his lungs. His guard drops, just for a fraction of a second, but that¡¯s enough.

    I follow up instantly with a right cross, catching him square on the jaw. His head snaps back, and I see it in his eyes¡ªthe fight leaving him, his legs buckling under the force of the punch.

    McKenzie stumbles, trying to regain his balance, but it¡¯s too late. I step forward, pressing the attack, another quick one-two combination¡ªjab to the head, hook to the body. He¡¯s reeling now, barely standing, his hands dropping as he tries to cover up.

    I pivot, and with one final shot, I send an uppercut crashing through his guard. It connects clean, and McKenzie¡¯s body goes limp, crumpling to the canvas with a thud.

    The crowd erupts, the sound crashing over me like a wave, but all I hear is the dull thud of my heartbeat. The ref steps in, counting, but I know it¡¯s over. McKenzie isn¡¯t getting back up.

    I stand over him momentarily, my breathing steady, my mind calm. The ref waves his hands over McKenzie, signaling the end of the fight.

    ¡°Knockout!¡± The announcer¡¯s voice booms through the arena. ¡°The winner, and still the world champion¡ªTobias ¡®Stone¡¯ Kane!¡±

    I raise my glove, acknowledging the victory, but inside, I feel the same as always¡ªcalm, focused. This isn¡¯t about glory. It¡¯s about the fight¡ªthe discipline.

    McKenzie lies on the mat, and I watch as the medical team rushes in to check on him. He fought well. He did everything right. But Gus was right¡ªhe gave me the opening, and I took it.

    I glance toward my corner, and there¡¯s Gus, arms crossed, a small nod of approval on his face. He knew. He always knows.

    The crowd¡¯s roar hasn¡¯t even died down when the announcer strides up to me, mic in hand, his face lit with excitement. The adrenaline of the win is still fresh in the air, the lights blinding and the cameras fixed on me. I know what¡¯s coming. It always does after a fight like this.

    He holds out the mic, his voice booming over the chaos of the arena. ¡°Tobias ¡®Stone¡¯ Kane! Another knockout, another win! What¡¯s next for the champ?¡±

    But before I can even open my mouth, Jason is rushing into the ring, cutting me off like he always does. His suit is sharp, the spotlight bouncing off his sunglasses, even though we¡¯re indoors. He pushes the announcer aside, grabbing the mic like it¡¯s his own.

    ¡°What¡¯s next? What¡¯s next?!¡± Jason yells, turning to face the crowd, his voice full of hype. ¡°I¡¯ll tell you what¡¯s next¡ªanother easy win for the Stone! That¡¯s what!¡±

    He¡¯s pacing now, arms gesturing wildly, as if he was the one who just knocked McKenzie out. ¡°You all saw it! McKenzie never stood a chance! This fight was over the second we stepped in here. Tobias ¡®Stone¡¯ Kane¡ªthe best boxer in the world, the best fighter in the world!¡±

    I stand there, gloves still on, sweat cooling my skin, and I say nothing. I don¡¯t need to. I know Jason¡¯s routine by heart. Trash talk. Hype. Noise. It¡¯s all part of his show. I glance over at Gus, standing by the ropes, his arms crossed, expression unreadable. He knows, too. We¡¯ve been here before, more times than I can count. We don¡¯t care about Jason¡¯s antics.

    The crowd eats it up, though, and Jason keeps going, his voice rising with every word. ¡°But it doesn¡¯t stop here, folks! Oh no, it doesn¡¯t stop. Because tomorrow night, Tobias Kane is back in the cage! That¡¯s right¡ªMMA!¡±

    The crowd roars even louder, the excitement building as Jason hypes them up even more. ¡°Tomorrow, right here in this arena, Tobias ¡®Stone¡¯ Kane will be defending his MMA world title against the number two ranked fighter in the world¡ªRenato ¡®The Boa¡¯ Souza!¡±

    The name causes a stir in the crowd. Renato Souza. Brazilian. Deadly on the ground and vicious on his feet. He¡¯s known for his grappling and submissions¡ªone of the most dangerous fighters in the MMA world.

    But Jason, of course, doesn¡¯t let the tension last long. He¡¯s already grinning, strutting around the ring. ¡°But let¡¯s be real, folks¡ªit¡¯s gonna be easy. We all know what¡¯s going to happen! Renato¡¯s got no chance. Tobias is the STONE, baby! He doesn¡¯t break! He doesn¡¯t lose!¡±

    Jason keeps rambling on, feeding the crowd, basking in the spotlight as if he¡¯s the one taking the punches. I just stand there, letting him talk, letting him do what he does best. The cameras pan between us, but my face stays calm. I don¡¯t care about the words. Tomorrow, I¡¯ll step into that cage, and like tonight, it won¡¯t be about the noise.

    It¡¯ll be about the fight.

    ***

    I¡¯m lying in bed next to Lisa, my arm draped over her as we both watch the holoscreen that takes up nearly the entire wall of our bedroom. The room itself is everything you¡¯d expect from a place designed for someone with my status. Minimalist, sleek, and filled with things that scream luxury, though none of it is really for me.

    The floor-to-ceiling windows show the city skyline, and while most would be awed by the view, to me, it¡¯s just a reminder of how far removed I¡¯ve become from the real world¡ªthe one I grew up in, the one that shaped me. The smart glass automatically adjusts to keep the lighting perfect, blocking out the city¡¯s neon lights below. I barely notice it anymore.

    The bed we¡¯re lying in is massive, custom-made from some expensive material Jason insisted on. The sheets? Some kind of rare cotton blend, soft as air, imported from a country I can¡¯t even remember. Everything in here, from the furniture to the tech, was arranged by Jason. He tells me it¡¯s what¡¯s expected when you¡¯re the number one fighter in the world. But I didn¡¯t ask for any of this.

    It¡¯s a far cry from the life I knew before all this. But I don¡¯t complain. I don¡¯t need the luxury. I don¡¯t want it. The truth is, Jason loves this world more than I ever could. The penthouse, the cars, the expensive wine on the nightstand that costs more than some people make in a year¡ªit¡¯s all for show. For him. For the people watching me.

    But Lisa... she seems to enjoy it. And for her sake, I try. She deserves this. She¡¯s always wanted the finer things, and after everything she¡¯s stood by me through, I¡¯m happy to give it to her, even if it doesn¡¯t mean much to me. So, I go along with it. I don¡¯t love the wine or the extravagant meals or the lifestyle that comes with being on top, but seeing her smile makes it all worth it.

    She shifts slightly, resting her head on my chest, her skin soft against mine, her silk robe brushing lightly as we watch the screen. Jason is front and center in the broadcast, soaking up the spotlight like he was born for it. He¡¯s always had a way with the crowd. He thrives on the attention, on the spectacle of it all. In his sharp suit, sunglasses on, leaning into the microphone, he¡¯s the showman. He knows how to sell a fight, how to build a brand.

    ¡°Tomorrow night, the champ steps into the cage again!¡± Jason¡¯s voice booms through the speakers, his grin wide, eyes hidden behind those sunglasses. ¡°And let me tell you¡ªthis fight? It¡¯s gonna be easy.¡±

    Jason arranged the press conference in one of those luxury hotels downtown. The kind of place where everything is polished and pristine, logos of sponsors everywhere. It¡¯s his world, not mine. I can¡¯t help but feel like a spectator sometimes, even though my name is what¡¯s being thrown around.

    ¡°Renato Souza? The Boa? Come on,¡± Jason says, his grin wide as he shakes his head, full of arrogance.

    ¡°Let¡¯s get real. Renato¡¯s from the streets of Brazil. He¡¯s not in the same league as Tobias. Hell, he¡¯s not even on the same planet. Tobias ¡®Stone¡¯ Kane is number one for a reason¡ªhe¡¯s the best fighter in the world. And everyone else? They¡¯re beneath him. Trash.¡±

    I stay quiet as Jason continues his rant, the familiar routine playing out. He¡¯s pacing across the stage, gesturing wildly, feeding off the crowd¡¯s energy like fuel.

    ¡°Look, I get it. Renato¡¯s a tough guy in his little corner of the world, but we¡¯re talking about a global champion here. Tobias is untouchable¡ªhe¡¯s the champ in boxing, MMA, everything. There¡¯s no comparison.¡± Jason leans into the mic, his voice dropping just enough to sound menacing.

    ¡°Renato and his people, they think they¡¯re tough because they¡¯ve survived the streets? Well, tomorrow, they¡¯re going to learn something real quick¡ªsurviving the streets and surviving Tobias Kane are two very different things.¡±

    Jason¡¯s words hit hard, not just at Renato but at everything around him¡ªhis background, his people, his entire world. It¡¯s the kind of talk Jason thrives on, making it sound like everyone who faces me is unworthy, beneath me.

    Lisa shifts next to me, her fingers tapping lightly on my chest. She¡¯s not happy. I can feel it. She hates this part¡ªthe public trash-talking, the way Jason paints me as some kind of arrogant, untouchable figure. I don¡¯t have to look at her to know what she¡¯s thinking.

    ¡°I really don¡¯t like him,¡± she says quietly, her voice soft but carrying the weight of her frustration.

    ¡°He doesn¡¯t represent you at all.¡±

    I keep my eyes on the screen, watching Jason continue.

    ¡°I know,¡± I say, calm as always. ¡°He¡¯s not me. He never was.¡±

    Lisa lets out a sigh, shifting slightly as Jason keeps going.

    ¡°You¡¯ve got people like Renato, who come from nothing, and they think they can make it by facing someone like Tobias? No chance. This isn¡¯t just about a fight. This is about showing the world why Tobias is on top and everyone else is beneath him.¡±

    She turns to me, her eyes full of frustration.

    ¡°You don¡¯t talk like that. You¡¯re not like that. The way he makes it sound like everyone else is garbage compared to you... I hate it.¡±Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!

    I glance at her, then back at the TV. Jason¡¯s still there, leaning into the mic, working the crowd with his usual bravado. The words don¡¯t bother me. They never do. Jason¡¯s doing what Jason does best.

    ¡°I get it,¡± I say, my voice steady.

    ¡°But I wouldn¡¯t be here without him. He handles the noise, the trash talk. That¡¯s his job. He lets me focus on what matters.¡±

    Lisa sighs, her fingers tracing patterns on my chest.

    ¡°But does he have to talk about Renato¡¯s people like that? Like they¡¯re beneath you? It just... it doesn¡¯t sit right.¡±

    I run a hand through her hair, calming her down.

    ¡°Jason says what people want to hear. They don¡¯t care about the fight, not really. They care about the story, the hype. That¡¯s what he¡¯s selling.¡±

    She shakes her head, her voice quiet but firm.

    ¡°I just wish people saw you for who you really are. Not this version of you he¡¯s created.¡±

    I nod slowly, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

    ¡°In the ring, that¡¯s where they see me. That¡¯s all that matters.¡±

    The room falls into silence again, Jason¡¯s voice filling the space as he wraps up his speech, boasting about how tomorrow¡¯s fight is going to be another easy win. Renato Souza, he says, is just another name on the list of people who thought they could take on Tobias Kane.

    But I don¡¯t care about the words. I never have. Tomorrow, it¡¯ll just be me and Renato, and all the noise will disappear.

    The TV scene suddenly shifts, cutting away from the press conference. The bright lights and noise are replaced with a stark ¡°Breaking News¡± banner flashing across the screen. I can feel Lisa tense next to me, her body shifting as she sits up slightly, her eyes fixed on the screen.

    The broadcaster¡¯s voice is steady, but there¡¯s a seriousness that cuts through the usual chatter.

    ¡°Breaking news tonight¡ªworld-renowned surgeon and Premier Society member, Dr. Callan Valor, has been assassinated in his home. Early reports indicate that Dr. Valor was shot and killed earlier this evening. Authorities are currently investigating the motive and suspects, but this marks the end of the life of the best doctor in modern medicine.¡±

    Lisa sits up further, her voice quiet but sharp.

    ¡°Wait... what?¡±

    On the screen, they show an image of Dr. Valor, his cold, sharp face staring out, now framed by the heavy weight of those words¡ªassassinated. I stare at the TV, the news settling in, but something about it doesn¡¯t quite click in my mind yet.

    ¡°Tobias? Didn¡¯t you... didn¡¯t you go to him once?¡±

    I nod slowly, still watching the screen.

    ¡°Yeah, a few years ago. I tore up my shoulder badly in a fight. He fixed it. Barely even talked to me. Just... got the job done.¡± I remember sitting in his clinic, watching his hands move with precision. Like I was just another body, another problem for him to solve.

    Lisa shakes her head, her brow furrowing.

    ¡°And now he¡¯s... dead? Murdered?¡±

    I can¡¯t pull my eyes away from the screen.

    ¡°Yeah. Assassinated.¡± The word feels heavy. I knew he had enemies, like most at the top do, but still, this? It doesn¡¯t sit right. Valor was a man who seemed untouchable, invincible in his own way. And now he¡¯s gone.

    The broadcaster continues, filling in more of the grim details. ¡°Authorities have not yet released any further information about the suspects or motives behind Dr. Valor¡¯s assassination. Dr. Valor was known for his cold, results-driven approach to medicine and was a key figure in the Premier Society, holding the number one position in the medical field. His assassination raises questions about the security and safety of those in the highest echelons of society.¡±

    ¡°I can¡¯t believe it. You went to him, and now he¡¯s... I mean, who would do something like this?¡± Lisa looks at me, her face filled with shock and concern.

    I shrug, though my thoughts are spinning. ¡°I don¡¯t know. Valor wasn¡¯t exactly... loved. He was cold. Distant. All business.¡± I pause, thinking back to the day I met him. ¡°But he was the best. No one could touch him in the medical world. But I guess...¡±

    ¡°... someone did.¡± Lisa finishes my thought.

    I nod, still watching as the images flash on the screen¡ªValor¡¯s home, swarmed by police.

    ¡°It¡¯s strange. I mean, I wasn¡¯t close to him, but... I don¡¯t know. Something about it feels wrong. This is big.¡±

    ¡°Do you think it¡¯s something to do with the Premier Society? I mean, could this be part of something... bigger?¡± Lisa squeezes my hand, her voice soft but laced with worry.

    I let out a slow breath, my mind still processing.

    ¡°Maybe. Someone wanted him gone. And whoever it was... they didn¡¯t care that he was the best.¡±

    The broadcaster¡¯s voice cuts through again, drawing my attention back to the screen.

    ¡°Dr. Valor¡¯s death has sent shockwaves through the medical and global elite. Many are now questioning the stability and safety of the Premier Society, which has long been regarded as untouchable.¡±

    Lisa¡¯s voice pulls me back from my thoughts.

    ¡°It¡¯s just... so hard to believe. Someone at the top of the world, just... gone.¡±

    I nod slowly, the weight of it sinking in. Valor wasn¡¯t just another person. He was the best in the world, and now he¡¯s gone. Assassinated. And whoever did it¡ªthey knew exactly what they were doing.

    I lie back, my mind still racing. The world is shifting, and even the ones at the top... aren¡¯t safe anymore.

    Lisa sits up further, turning to me with a serious look in her eyes.

    ¡°Tobias, you¡¯re part of the Premier Society too. Do you think you could find out more? Maybe something the public doesn¡¯t know?¡±

    I hesitate for a moment, glancing down at the Nimbus resting on the nightstand. I¡¯ve never liked using it. To me, it¡¯s just a cold device, a holographic gadget that measures people¡¯s worth in numbers¡ªsomething I¡¯ve always avoided. I¡¯m not a numbers guy. My worth isn¡¯t something I need to look at on a screen.

    But Lisa¡¯s right. There¡¯s something off about all of this.

    I pick up the Nimbus, the sleek device lighting up instantly in my hand, its smooth surface glowing before the screen projects a soft, bluish hologram in front of me. I tap the screen a few times, navigating through the menu until I reach the option to connect to the one authority that runs this world¡¯s hierarchy¡ªMalleus.

    The moment I connect, the screen shifts, and I¡¯m greeted by Malleus¡¯s faceless voice. He is the AI that controls the entire Premier Society. His tone is neutral, detached, and cold.

    ¡°Tobias Kane. This is the first time you have contacted me directly. How may I assist you?¡±

    I pause for a moment. It feels strange to be speaking to the entity that controls so much of my life, yet I¡¯ve never bothered to engage with it until now.

    ¡°I wanted to ask about Dr. Valor.¡±

    Malleus responds without hesitation, his voice devoid of any emotion. Exactly like Dr. Valor.

    ¡°The assassination of Dr. Callan Valor is a tragedy, but it will pass. The position of Number One Doctor in the Premier Society will soon be filled by the second best. The system must continue. The loss of one individual is not critical.¡±

    The cold, clinical response doesn¡¯t sit right with me. I know Valor wasn¡¯t the warmest person, but to hear Malleus dismiss his death like a minor inconvenience... I expected nothing less, but still, it hits differently.

    Lisa leans in, looking over at the hologram. She raises her voice slightly, trying to ask a question.

    ¡°Does this mean the Premier Society is at risk? Could this happen to others?¡±

    But Malleus doesn¡¯t even acknowledge her. The voice continues speaking directly to me, as if she doesn¡¯t exist.

    ¡°The system is designed to adapt. Dr. Valor¡¯s death does not compromise the integrity of the Premier Society. The Number Two will soon take his place, and the results will continue to be produced.¡±

    Lisa frowns, glancing at me, clearly frustrated by how Malleus completely ignores her. I don¡¯t blame her. As a Baker, she isn¡¯t considered high enough in the social hierarchy to warrant Malleus¡¯s attention. That¡¯s how he works¡ªthe higher your rank, the more you matter. And to Malleus, she¡¯s not worth the time.

    I take a mental note of it, not that I needed the reminder. The system doesn¡¯t care about people¡ªjust results. Lisa, despite being the most important person in my life, barely exists in the eyes of this machine.

    I turn my attention back to Malleus.

    ¡°What about the investigation? Is anything being done to find who did this?¡±

    Malleus responds in the same flat tone.

    ¡°The investigation is ongoing. However, the focus of the Premier Society is on ensuring continued progress. The removal of Dr. Valor, while significant, does not hinder the society¡¯s purpose. The results will be maintained.¡±

    I nod slowly, feeling the cold detachment in every word. Results. That¡¯s all it cares about. Not the people, not the lives. Just the function of the system.

    I disconnect the call, the hologram flickering out of existence as the room goes quiet again. Lisa shakes her head, her voice soft.

    ¡°I hate that thing.¡±

    I set the Nimbus back down, feeling a weight settle in my chest.

    ¡°Me too.¡±

    Lisa looks at me, her eyes searching mine deeper than usual. There¡¯s a softness there, but also something more¡ªconcern. She leans in close, her breath warm against my ear as she whispers,

    ¡°You better be careful, my love.¡±

    I smile, trying to keep the mood light despite everything. I reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, my voice calm, playful even.

    ¡°No need to worry,¡± I say, my smile widening,

    ¡°I¡¯m the number one fighter in the world, remember?¡±

    She lets out a soft laugh, shaking her head, but I see the tension ease in her face. I laugh, too, pulling her closer. The weight of the world outside, the news of Valor, Malleus¡ªit all fades for a moment, replaced by the warmth between us.

    For now, this is all that matters.

    ***

    But the peace between us doesn¡¯t last long. Now, I¡¯m standing in the center of the pentagon-shaped cage, the floor beneath me hard and cold, a stark contrast to the warmth of home. The lights above are harsh, bright, illuminating the arena with an almost blinding intensity. The cage is taller than the one used in boxing¡ªthick black steel fencing rising around me, trapping me inside. No ropes to lean on, no way out but through the man standing across from me.

    The crowd around the cage is massive, thousands packed into the stands, their voices a thunderous roar that fills every inch of the space. They¡¯re chanting my name, a rhythmic pulse that seems to vibrate through the very floor. But the noise fades as my focus narrows in on the man in front of me¡ªRenato Souza, the number two MMA fighter in the world.

    He¡¯s a beast, and right now, he¡¯s standing in his corner, his body coiled like a predator about to strike. His eyes are locked on mine, but his ears are turned to his trainer, soaking in every word. Anger burns behind those eyes, a fire I¡¯ve seen countless times before in every fighter who thought they could beat me. It¡¯s not fear¡ªit¡¯s something deeper. Determination. He¡¯s come here to win, to take everything, and he believes he can.

    But I won¡¯t let it happen.

    Beside me, Gus steps up, his voice low and calm, cutting through the noise. His hand rests on my shoulder briefly before he starts to speak.

    ¡°Renato likes to close the distance fast,¡± Gus begins, his tone steady, never rushed.

    ¡°He¡¯s going to try and take you down. Ground and pound is his game, but if he doesn¡¯t get you there, he¡¯s gonna look for a submission¡ªprobably a rear-naked choke. His wrestling¡¯s solid, but it¡¯s the jiu-jitsu you need to watch out for.¡±

    I nod, already knowing what Gus is telling me, but his words anchor me, keep me grounded. Renato¡¯s not here to box. He¡¯s here to drag me into the dirt, to grind me down until there¡¯s nothing left but the pain of submission. It¡¯s his way¡ªwear you out, suffocate you, then choke the fight out of you.

    Gus leans in, his voice dropping lower, his hand still on my shoulder.

    ¡°You know what to do. Keep your distance, work him with strikes. Don¡¯t let him tie you up. The moment he shoots for the takedown, sprawl and keep moving. He¡¯s not going to stop until he¡¯s on top, so don¡¯t give him that chance.¡±

    I take a deep breath, feeling the air fill my lungs, steady and calm. Renato still stands across from me, his chest rising and falling as his trainer¡¯s voice drifts into his ear. But his eyes¡ªthey haven¡¯t left me. He¡¯s trying to size me up, trying to find something, anything, that says I¡¯m vulnerable.

    But I¡¯m not. Not here. Not in this cage.

    Gus steps back, his last words hanging in the air. ¡°Stay calm, control the pace. This fight is yours if you don¡¯t let him dictate it.¡±

    I glance back at Gus, giving him a short nod. His words aren¡¯t just advice¡ªthey¡¯re the plan. Renato is a beast, but beasts are predictable. They react to fear, to pain. They rely on instincts. But me? I¡¯m not here to react.

    I¡¯m here to control.

    The crowd is electric, and the noise rises to a fever pitch as the announcer¡¯s voice booms through the speakers and echoes across the arena.

    ¡°Ladies and gentlemen, it¡¯s time!¡± he roars, drawing out the anticipation. The lights dim slightly, leaving just the fighters and the cage bathed in a harsh spotlight. The crowd is chanting, a mixture of names and cheers filling the air.

    ¡°In the blue corner!¡± The announcer¡¯s voice takes on a dramatic tone. ¡°Standing at 6¡ä4¡±, weighing in at 230 pounds, with a record of 45 wins, 0 losses¡ªthe number one fighter in the world across multiple disciplines. Undefeated in boxing, MMA, kickboxing, and wrestling! The reigning, defending MMA champion of the world¡ªTOBIAS ¡®STONE¡¯ KANE!¡±

    The crowd erupts, the arena shaking with the force of the applause and cheers. My name echoes off every wall, my record flashing across the holoscreens around the stadium¡ª45-0, no defeats, no one able to stop me. But I don¡¯t focus on the noise. My mind¡¯s already in the cage.

    ¡°And in the red corner!¡± The announcer¡¯s voice continues, his tone no less dramatic. ¡°Standing at 6¡ä4¡±, weighing in at 230 pounds, with a flawless record of 20 wins, 0 losses, the dangerous, undefeated submission specialist¡ªone of the most feared fighters in the world. A man who has finished 90% of his opponents by submission¡ªRENATO ¡®THE BOA¡¯ SOUZA!¡±

    Renato¡¯s name is met with almost equal applause. The crowd respects him and knows he¡¯s not just another challenger. His record is no less impressive¡ª20-0¡ªand the way he¡¯s ended most of his fights? Terrifying. He doesn¡¯t just beat people. He finishes them.

    We stand there, locked in the center of the cage, the lights harsh on our faces, while the noise swirls around us like a storm. This is it¡ªtwo of the best fighters on the planet, both undefeated, both with everything to lose.

    The announcer¡¯s voice fades, the bell rings, and everything narrows down to him and me. The moment the fight starts, Renato moves fast. Too fast for someone my size. He¡¯s light on his feet, bouncing just out of range, his eyes sharp, locked onto mine. Every movement is calculated, each twitch of muscle purposeful.

    He throws the first strike¡ªa lightning-quick inside leg kick, aimed low to test my base. I check it, bringing my shin up to block, the familiar clash of bone on bone sending a jolt through my leg. I know what he¡¯s doing. He¡¯s trying to break down my legs early, slow me down.

    I answer with a jab, a feint to draw out his reaction. Renato slips to the side, barely missing the strike, and fires back with a blistering right hook that I barely block. He¡¯s faster than I expected. His footwork is tight, precise¡ªalmost perfect. But I¡¯m used to that. I¡¯ve fought fast fighters before. It¡¯s not just about speed.

    He tries to close the distance, and I quickly shoot a low kick of my own, snapping it against his thigh. He grunts but doesn¡¯t back off. Renato is all about pressure, and he¡¯s coming forward again, looking for the clinch.

    But I know what he wants. He wants to take this to the ground, where he can use his jiu-jitsu, grind me down with his grappling. I¡¯m not going to let him.

    I keep moving, keeping the fight at range. I fire off a quick one-two combo, straight punches aimed at his head. Renato slips under the first, then deflects the second with his forearm, coming up with a counter-left hook. I step back just in time, his punch missing my chin by inches.

    His footwork is flawless, and for a second, I realize that in terms of pure ability, he might be better than me. He¡¯s faster, sharper, and his reactions are dialed in. But this fight isn¡¯t about who¡¯s the most gifted. It¡¯s about strategy.

    Renato shoots for the takedown, and I sprawl, dropping my hips low and driving his head down to stop him from getting any leverage. The crowd roars as I defend the takedown, but Renato doesn¡¯t stop. He switches tactics, pulling back and throwing a sharp elbow as we disengage. I duck just in time, his elbow whistling past my ear.

    We separate, both of us breathing a little heavier now, but neither of us willing to give ground. The tension is thick, and I can tell Renato is starting to respect my game. He¡¯s seen how I¡¯ve countered everything he¡¯s thrown so far. But I¡¯ve also seen the same in him.

    We trade again, this time with a series of low kicks and punches, each of us testing the other¡¯s defense. Every move has a counter¡ªwhen I throw a punch, Renato slips and answers with a kick. When he shoots for another takedown, I sprawl and pivot out of the way. We¡¯re both in sync as if we¡¯re playing out the same fight in our heads. It¡¯s a chess match, and neither of us is willing to make the first mistake.

    Renato throws another high kick, but I catch it on my forearm, blocking it clean. I counter with a straight right hand, but he¡¯s already moving, circling out of range, his agility on full display. He¡¯s fast¡ªfaster than I¡¯ve faced in a while¡ªbut I¡¯m reading him now. He likes to move in angles, never coming straight at me, always looking to catch me off-balance.

    We engage in the center again, and he tries to clinch. This time, I let him get in close, feeling his arms wrap around my body. I know what¡¯s coming¡ªhe¡¯s going to try and drag me down, use his wrestling to force me to the mat. But I twist at the last second, breaking free and landing a sharp knee to his ribs. It lands clean, and I feel the impact, but Renato doesn¡¯t back off. He¡¯s relentless.

    He fires back with a rapid-fire combination of punches, and for a moment, I¡¯m forced to defend, my arms blocking the barrage as he presses forward. His speed is impressive¡ªhis punches coming from all angles¡ªbut I stay calm, absorbing the strikes, waiting for my moment.

    Then I see it. He leaves himself open¡ªjust for a second.

    I throw a quick hook to his body, landing it under his guard. Renato grunts, but responds with a vicious elbow, which I barely block with my forearm. The force of it rocks me back, but I recover, stepping out of range.

    The round is ticking away, and neither of us has gained the upper hand. It¡¯s a back-and-forth exchange, both of us testing the other and adapting with every second.

    The bell rings, signaling the end of the first round.

    We stand there, both of us breathing heavily, both covered in a sheen of sweat. The crowd is on their feet, the noise deafening. But in the cage? It¡¯s quiet. The first round was a draw, a battle of skill and tactics with no clear winner. Renato and I both know this fight is far from over.

    He shoots me a look as we walk back to our corners, and I catch it¡ªthose eyes, locked on me, burning with something fierce. But it¡¯s not what I thought. It¡¯s not the determination I¡¯m used to seeing in fighters like him, those who want to prove they belong at the top.

    No, this is something else.

    It¡¯s hate.

    It¡¯s deeper, darker. I¡¯ve seen that look before¡ªfighters who don¡¯t just want to win. They want to hurt you. They want to tear you down, break you apart, and leave nothing behind. This isn¡¯t about the sport for him anymore. It¡¯s personal.

    I feel its weight as I make my way back to my corner. The fight isn¡¯t just a test of skill anymore. It¡¯s war for him.

    I walk back to my corner, the noise of the crowd fading into a distant hum as I focus on Gus. He¡¯s waiting for me, his arms crossed, eyes locked on mine. Gus can read me better than anyone¡ªhe doesn¡¯t need to say much. His gaze says it all.

    ¡°Now you know?¡± His voice is calm, but there¡¯s an edge to it. He¡¯s already figured out what¡¯s going on inside my head.

    I nod, wiping the sweat from my brow.

    ¡°He hates me. I can see it in his eyes.¡±

    But Gus doesn¡¯t nod. Instead, he gives me a look that says I¡¯ve missed something. Something important.

    ¡°No,¡± Gus says, shaking his head slightly.

    ¡°That¡¯s not it. You¡¯re not in control.¡±

    I blink, surprised.

    ¡°What do you mean?¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re out there fighting but not controlling the fight. You¡¯ve been reacting to him the whole time. That¡¯s not you. That¡¯s not the Tobias I¡¯ve trained.¡± Gus leans in closer, his voice low but firm, cutting through the noise like a blade.

    His words hit harder than any punch Renato could land. He¡¯s right. I¡¯ve been moving, countering, trading blows¡ªbut I haven¡¯t been leading the fight. I¡¯ve been letting Renato dictate the pace.

    Gus doesn¡¯t stop. He sees through the cracks.

    ¡°Listen, you¡¯ve trained your whole life for this. You¡¯ve worked harder than anyone I¡¯ve ever known. But you¡¯re still fighting like you have something to prove. Like you¡¯re trying to show that you belong at the top. That¡¯s not where your focus should be.¡±

    I feel the weight of his words settling in, sinking deep.

    ¡°You¡¯re not fighting him. You¡¯re fighting yourself out there. Trying to prove that you¡¯re the best but forgetting that the best is never enough.¡± Gus¡¯s eyes narrow.

    ¡°You worked for this moment to stand toe-to-toe with one of the greatest fighters in the world. This isn¡¯t about beating him. It¡¯s about showing yourself that there¡¯s more to learn, that you can still get better. Every fight is a lesson.¡±

    I take a deep breath, the tension easing slightly as his words sink in.

    ¡°Your skills got you here,¡± Gus continues, his voice steady. ¡°But your wisdom will get you through. You think this is about Renato? It¡¯s not. He¡¯s just another step. The goal isn¡¯t to win this fight. The goal is to keep growing. To always be better.¡±

    I nod again, more slowly this time, feeling the clarity return. I¡¯ve trained for this, not just to win, but to face the greatest challenge. To push myself beyond what I thought I was capable of.

    Gus steps back, his eyes still locked on mine.

    ¡°Remember why you are here. Now get out there and take control of this fight. Be wise. Be patient.¡±

    I exhale, feeling my mind settle. This fight isn¡¯t just a battle. It¡¯s a test. Not of my skills, but of my ability to learn, adapt, and improve. Gus knows it. And now, so do I.

    The bell rang, and the second round begins. Renato doesn¡¯t waste a second. Before I can even settle into my stance, he¡¯s already coming at me, moving faster than before. His footwork is aggressive, his eyes locked onto mine. The moment I blink, he lunges forward with terrifying speed, driving his shoulder into my midsection with a tightly gripped double-leg takedown.

    I hit the mat hard, the cold canvas slamming against my back, and the breath shoots from my lungs. Before I can react, Renato¡¯s all over me, his bodyweight pressing down, his grip like iron around my waist. This is where he¡¯s dangerous¡ªthe ground game. He¡¯s a master down here, and I know it. This is his world, and right now, he¡¯s in control.

    His positioning is flawless, already working to pass my guard, his hands pushing on my hips, his legs shifting to find an opening. I struggle to regain control, but he¡¯s faster, more technical than most fighters I¡¯ve faced on the ground. This is what he does. He takes fighters down and makes them suffer.

    For a second, doubt flashes through my mind. Is this it? Will I finally lose?

    But then, in the coldest part of my mind, a simple answer rises up, steady and clear.

    Nah.

    I¡¯ve been here before. I¡¯ve trained for this. I¡¯m not out yet.

    I feel Renato trying to pass into side control, his weight shifting to my left, and I seize the moment. He¡¯s overcommitted¡ªtoo eager to dominate me on the ground. I dig my feet into the mat, bridging up hard, using his momentum against him. In one swift motion, I trap his arm, shift my hips, and pull him into a sweep.

    It happens in a split second. One move that turns everything around. I roll him over, and suddenly I¡¯m on top, reversing the position, catching him off guard.

    Now I¡¯m in his guard, but the tables have turned.

    I don¡¯t give him time to react. I rain down punches¡ªsharp, brutal strikes that crack against his face and body. This is supposed to be his world¡ªthe ground game, the thing he¡¯s best at. But right now, I¡¯m beating him at his own game. My fists hammer down, and I can feel the force of every impact as I press him deeper into the canvas.

    Renato tries to defend, blocking and rolling, but the punches keep coming. Blood starts to flow from his nose, his face already swollen from the strikes. The ground and pound is relentless, and for all his skill, he¡¯s trapped. But through the haze of blood and sweat, I see his eyes.

    He¡¯s still fighting.

    Even as I hammer him, even as his body breaks under the assault, he refuses to give up. His eyes are locked onto mine, filled with fury and determination. He¡¯s beaten, and he knows it, but there¡¯s no surrender in him. No fear. Just rage. He¡¯s bleeding, his face swollen beyond recognition, but he won¡¯t stop.

    Any second now, the referee is going to step in and stop the fight. I can feel it. I can hear the crowd, their roars growing louder with every punch I land. They know it¡¯s over. Everyone does.

    Everyone but Renato.

    I keep punching, but his eyes never change. He¡¯s still there, still fighting, refusing to let go. His body may be giving up, but his spirit is unbroken. He won¡¯t quit. And for a moment, I wonder what it must feel like to have that kind of hate¡ªso deep it pushes you beyond your limits.

    The referee finally steps in, pulling me off Renato and waving his arms to signal the end. The crowd explodes, the sound like a tidal wave crashing down around us. It¡¯s done. I¡¯ve won.

    I stand up, still catching my breath, my lungs heaving as I try to steady myself. My body feels the weight of every second of that fight, every hit, every takedown, but my mind is already clear. I look down at Renato, who¡¯s still lying on the mat, his face swollen and bloodied, but somehow his eyes¡ªthose enraged eyes¡ªare still locked on me. There¡¯s no surrender in them, even now.

    I stare at him for a moment, and I feel something I haven¡¯t felt in a long time¡ªrespect. This man pushed me, made me dig deeper than I thought I needed to. He didn¡¯t just fight me; he challenged me. He¡¯s the reason I train as hard as I do, the reason I push myself beyond the limits, to face fighters like him. He¡¯s one of the best and beating him means something.

    I take a deep breath, then do something I haven¡¯t done in years. I bow. Low. Right there, in the center of the cage.

    For a moment, through the anger in his eyes, I see confusion flash across Renato¡¯s face. He wasn¡¯t expecting that. No one was. I haven¡¯t bowed to another fighter in... I don¡¯t even know how long. But he deserves it. He earned it.

    Before either of us can say anything, the referee grabs my wrist and lifts it into the air, declaring me the victor. The crowd erupts again, their chants and cheers filling the arena, their energy surging through the space like a storm. Cameras flash, and the announcer¡¯s voice echoes around us, barely audible over the noise.

    From the corner of my eye, I see Gus making his way into the ring, his face calm but proud. Renato¡¯s coach rushes in too, leaning over his fighter, checking on him. There¡¯s chaos around us now, but I¡¯m still focused on Renato, the silent understanding between us.

    Then, before I can gather my thoughts, I hear Jason¡¯s voice. He¡¯s already running toward me, a broad grin on his face, the spotlight chasing him. He¡¯s basking in the moment, and as soon as he reaches me, he plants himself by my side, wrapping an arm around my shoulder, his energy in stark contrast to my own.

    ¡°That¡¯s my champ!¡± Jason yells, loud enough to compete with the crowd. He¡¯s smiling, waving to the cameras, already positioning himself for the interviews and the headlines.

    ¡°AND STILL, THE WORLD CHAMPION, TOBIAS ¡®STONE¡¯ KANE!¡± The announcer¡¯s voice booms through the speakers, the crowd erupts in a frenzy, chanting my name so loud it shakes the cage. The flashes of cameras light up the arena as the announcer steps forward, holding out the microphone, a broad smile on his face. He looks at me, but before I can even reach for the mic, Jason grabs it, his hand already poised to take over, like clockwork.

    Jason lifts the mic to his mouth, his voice cutting through the cheers like a knife.

    ¡°THAT¡¯S RIGHT! The champ is STILL on top!¡± he shouts, pacing back and forth, playing to the crowd like it¡¯s his own personal stage.

    ¡°And let¡¯s get one thing straight¡ªeveryone else is beneath Tobias! They¡¯re not the best because they¡¯re not good enough! They think they can beat him? They¡¯re dreaming! Nobody can touch Tobias ¡®Stone¡¯ Kane because they will NEVER be on his level!¡±

    The crowd roars in approval, eating up every word, and Jason, always the showman, keeps pouring it on.

    ¡°Who¡¯s next, huh? Who dares to even think they can stand in this cage with the champ? They¡¯re all chasing him, but they¡¯re never gonna catch him! Because they¡¯re not worthy! They can try all they want, but only the best stays at the top, and right now, there¡¯s only ONE who¡¯s the best, and that¡¯s TOBIAS ¡®STONE¡¯ KANE!¡±

    While Jason keeps bantering, feeding off the crowd, Gus steps up next to me. I glance at him, and he meets my eyes with that quiet, knowing look. Without saying a word, we both feel the absurdity of the moment.

    ¡°How long do you think he¡¯s gonna keep going?¡± I mutter, smirking slightly.

    Gus lets out a low chuckle, his arms crossed as he watches Jason prance around.

    ¡°As long as there¡¯s a crowd. You know how he is.¡±

    I shake my head, glancing back at Jason, who¡¯s now talking about how the next contender had better think twice before stepping into the cage with me.

    ¡°He could make beating anyone sound like winning a world war.¡±

    Gus raises an eyebrow, his voice quiet and calm.

    ¡°To him, it is.¡±

    We share a knowing look before the topic shifts.

    ¡°Renato gave me hell out there,¡± I say, my voice low, out of earshot from Jason¡¯s over-the-top banter.

    ¡°The guy¡¯s got heart, skill... he didn¡¯t quit, even when he was done.¡±

    Gus nods slowly, his expression serious for a moment.

    ¡°He pushed you. Hard. And you respected him for it. That¡¯s what matters.¡± He pauses, his eyes glancing over at Renato¡¯s corner where the medical team is still checking him.

    ¡°He¡¯s one of the toughest I¡¯ve seen in a long time. But the fight¡¯s over. You won because you stayed smart. You controlled it in the end.¡±

    I nod in agreement, feeling the weight of the fight still lingering in my muscles, but also a deep respect for Renato.

    ¡°He¡¯s got a future ahead of him. That kind of determination... it¡¯s rare. He¡¯s not like Jason says.¡±

    Gus smirks, glancing at Jason again, who¡¯s now waving at the crowd and boasting about how the next contender is going to be a breeze.

    ¡°Yeah, well, Jason¡¯s got a talent for... stretching the truth.¡±

    We share a brief laugh, letting the noise and chaos swirl around us while Jason continues his performance. Through all of it, Gus and I remain grounded in the moment, knowing the real battle was in the cage, not on the mic. The respect was earned between fighters, not through the words spilling from Jason¡¯s mouth.

    ***

    We¡¯ve been in Switzerland for a few days now, and it feels like a world away from the chaos of the cage. Jason, for all his antics, knew we needed a break, so he booked us a week in this small, mountainous village, tucked away in the Swiss Alps. The air is crisp and clean, the kind that makes every breath feel like it¡¯s refreshing your soul. Snow-capped peaks rise up around us, towering above the quiet, chill village that sits nestled in the valley, like something out of a postcard.

    The place feels peaceful, untouched by the noise of the world. Just simple cottages, narrow cobblestone streets, and the occasional cowbell ringing in the distance. Lisa loves it here¡ªher eyes light up every time she looks out over the mountains, and honestly? So do I.

    We¡¯re sitting at a small table in an even smaller restaurant, the kind where the locals gather, not tourists. Wooden beams line the ceiling, and the warmth of the fire crackles in the hearth, giving the place a cozy glow. The smell of the food is rich and earthy, like it¡¯s been cooking for hours.

    We¡¯re eating R?sti, a classic Swiss dish¡ªcrispy fried potatoes, with melted Gruy¨¨re cheese, served alongside some sliced veal in a creamy mushroom sauce. It¡¯s hearty, simple, but perfect for the cold air outside. Lisa takes a bite, her eyes closing in contentment as she savors the food, then she looks at me with that smile of hers, the one that makes everything else disappear.

    ¡°You know,¡± she says, her voice soft, ¡°if we ever retire, I wouldn¡¯t mind a place like this. Simple, quiet. Just... us.¡±

    I smile back, reaching over to squeeze her hand.

    ¡°Yeah? You sure you wouldn¡¯t miss the big city? The lights? The fancy stuff Jason¡¯s always pushing on us?¡±

    She laughs, shaking her head.

    ¡°Not at all. This? This is all I need.¡± Her eyes sparkle as she looks around the restaurant.

    ¡°Good food, good company... and the most beautiful mountains I¡¯ve ever seen.¡±

    I glance out the window, where the peaks rise up in the distance, their white snowcaps almost glowing under the late afternoon sun. The village is peaceful, so different from the noise and spotlight of our usual lives.

    ¡°I could get used to this,¡± I admit, turning back to her. ¡°The quiet. No pressure. Just... life.¡±

    Lisa leans in, her voice warm and teasing.

    ¡°I bet you¡¯re already thinking about your next fight.¡±

    I chuckle, shaking my head.

    ¡°Not this time.¡± I take a sip of the local wine, letting the warmth spread through me.

    ¡°Right now? I¡¯m just thinking about you. About us. Maybe we can open a farm with Arthur.¡±

    She smiles again, and for a moment, the world outside feels like it¡¯s miles away. We talk about the village, the people we¡¯ve met, sharing stories and laughter like we haven¡¯t had in a while. It feels easy here, like the mountains are guarding us from everything beyond this valley. No fights, no pressure, no Jason spinning the next big promotion. Just the two of us, enjoying the simplicity of life.

    We finish the meal, but neither of us is in a hurry to leave. The fire crackles in the background, the warmth filling the room as we sit back, content. Outside, the snow is beginning to fall lightly, dusting the rooftops of the village with a fresh layer of white.

    After this, the plan was to hike the mountains that surrounded us, taking in the fresh air and breathtaking views. But before that, I excuse myself to the bathroom, leaving Lisa smiling over the last sips of wine.

    The bathroom is small and simple, just like the rest of the place. I splash cold water on my face, feeling refreshed, letting the quiet settle around me. As I dry my hands, I hear a faint thud from outside, followed by a few more muffled noises. For a moment, my mind flickers to the kitchen¡ªprobably just the staff prepping or dropping something. It¡¯s a small village restaurant, after all.

    But when I step back out into the dining area, the air feels different. Too quiet. The moment I round the corner, everything changes.

    The scene hits me like a punch to the gut.

    Blood. Everywhere.

    The warm, cozy atmosphere of the restaurant has been replaced by something straight out of a nightmare. Bodies litter the floor, their twisted, unnatural positions a stark contrast to the calm, serene vibe from just moments ago. Blood pools beneath the tables, streaked across the walls, dripping from the edges of chairs. Some of the bodies are slumped over the tables, their meals left unfinished, while others are sprawled out on the floor, faces frozen in shock and horror.

    The rich smell of the R?sti we¡¯d been eating is now mixed with the metallic tang of blood. The soft crackle of the fireplace has been replaced by a chilling silence, broken only by the occasional drip of blood hitting the floor.

    And in the center of it all, six figures, standing among the carnage like they¡¯re part of it.

    Each of them wears black hoodies, their faces hidden behind white, owl-shaped helmets, the blank, expressionless masks reflecting the dim light. They¡¯re holding automatic rifles, the barrels still smoking faintly. The floor beneath them is slick with blood, the restaurant¡¯s warmth now consumed by the cold, violent scene they¡¯ve created.

    And then I see her..

    Lisa is still sitting at our table, frozen in place, her body tense with fear, her eyes wide and staring straight ahead. She¡¯s pale, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she struggles to keep her breathing under control. The glass of wine in front of her sits untouched, her hand gripping the edge of the table so tightly her knuckles are white.

    She¡¯s surrounded by them. The six maniacs in their black hoodies and owl masks, rifles clutched tight. Their presence is suffocating, and I can see it in her¡ªshe¡¯s terrified, trying to stay still, to not provoke them. One wrong move, and she knows what could happen.

    One of them, the one I¡¯m assuming is their leader, takes notice of me. His body shifts slightly, and with a casual motion, he slings his rifle back over his shoulder, like he¡¯s not in any rush. He turns to face me, his owl mask¡¯s empty eyes fixed on mine.

    ¡°Hello there, champ!¡± His voice is strange¡ªtoo high-pitched, almost mechanical. A voice modulator, probably. It¡¯s unnatural, unsettling.

    ¡°Sorry to break up your holiday!¡± he adds, his tone mockingly cheerful, like this is some kind of sick joke.

    I stay still, every muscle in my body tensed, watching his every move. I see the barrel of his rifle swing slightly as he gestures toward Lisa, his voice dropping an octave.

    ¡°But you are under hostage. One move, and I¡¯ll put a bullet through your darling¡¯s head.¡±

    He points the barrel directly at Lisa¡¯s head. I watch as her eyes squeeze shut, her body trembling, shoulders shaking. She¡¯s holding it together, but barely. The fear radiating off her is enough to choke the air in the room.

    I can feel my fists clenching at my sides, but I don¡¯t move. I can¡¯t. Not yet.

    Not because I fear them. I don¡¯t.

    It¡¯s because if I move now, if I do anything... Lisa will die. There¡¯s no question in my mind. This guy, this leader, isn¡¯t bluffing. He¡¯s got the rifle aimed directly at her head, his finger resting casually on the trigger.

    And Lisa knows it too.

    I force myself to stay calm, to not let the rage bubbling inside me take over. I can take them. I know I can. But right now, one wrong move, and Lisa¡¯s gone. And that¡¯s a risk I can¡¯t afford to take.

    I lock eyes with the leader, his mask tilting slightly as if he¡¯s amused by the situation, waiting for me to react, waiting to see if I¡¯ll crack under the pressure.

    But I won¡¯t. Not yet. I need to be patient.

    ¡°Good boy,¡± the leader says, still grinning beneath the modulated voice. He taps the side of his rifle, his body language casual, like he¡¯s toying with me.

    ¡°Don¡¯t make this harder than it needs to be. Just stay still, champ. Let¡¯s have a nice little chat, and maybe your girl here gets to keep breathing.¡±

    ¡°What do you want?¡± I ask, my voice calm, steady. I¡¯m in the moment, my mind razor sharp. I don¡¯t fear them. I¡¯m ready¡ªready to strike when the opening comes, when there¡¯s a split second where they can¡¯t hurt Lisa. That¡¯s all I need. One moment.

    The leader tilts his head slightly, the modulated voice coming out in that strange, high-pitched tone.

    ¡°To give you your consequences.¡±

    He takes a step closer, the rifle slung casually over his shoulder, but the threat is still clear. He gestures toward me with it, his movements slow, deliberate.

    ¡°How does it feel, huh? Sitting up there? Looking down on everyone beneath you, like they¡¯re trash?¡± His tone is mocking, dripping with venom.

    He walks toward me, his footsteps light, casual, like this is just another day for him. He gestures with the barrel of the rifle for me to kneel. I do. Not because I have to, but because right now, I need to play this smart. Lisa¡¯s life hangs in the balance. I can¡¯t make a move¡ªnot yet.

    He sneers behind that owl mask, looking down at me.

    ¡°Talking your shit,¡± he continues, his voice rising slightly. ¡°Thinking you¡¯re the top of the world. Now look at you¡ªyou¡¯re beneath me.¡±

    It¡¯s ironic, really. Even on my knees, I¡¯m still taller than him. But with the rifle in his hands? Height doesn¡¯t matter. Power does. And right now, he¡¯s got the advantage.

    ¡°What do you want?¡± I ask again, my voice low but firm. He¡¯s close now¡ªtoo close. I can see a glimpse of his eyes through the slits in his mask. They¡¯re filled with rage, but there¡¯s something else there too. Desperation. Anger that¡¯s been festering for too long.

    He leans in, his breath audible through the modulator.

    ¡°I want you to feel what we, the lower society, feel.¡±

    His voice drops even lower, a harsh whisper.

    ¡°Suffering.¡±

    The word hangs in the air, heavy with malice, but I don¡¯t move. I can¡¯t. I assess the situation, my mind racing, but every option leads back to one thing¡ªLisa.

    There are six of them, all armed. Even if I could take the leader down, I know the others wouldn¡¯t hesitate to pull the trigger. Two of them are standing just behind Lisa, their rifles trained on her, fingers resting lightly on the triggers. One wrong move¡ªjust one¡ªand they¡¯d fire.

    I feel the tension in my muscles, the instinct to act, to strike, gnawing at me. I¡¯ve been here before, staring down worse odds. But this? This is different. My every move has to be perfect, calculated. If I miss a beat, if I make a single mistake, Lisa dies.

    I scan the room again, looking for any opening, any weakness. But they¡¯re too close. No time, no angle. There¡¯s no way to take them out without Lisa being caught in the crossfire. Every instinct I have screams to fight, but the logic in my head tells me one thing:

    I¡¯m trapped.

    I glance at Lisa. Her eyes are locked on mine, wide with fear. She¡¯s holding her breath, sitting perfectly still, trying not to provoke them. She seemingly tried to scream, but she knows she can¡¯t. I have to protect her.

    A thud, barely audible, and suddenly a white-hot pain rips through my back, coursing through every nerve. My body seizes up, my muscles locking as a jolt of high-voltage electricity tears through me.

    It wasn¡¯t the leader.

    It came from behind. One of the others¡ªa shadow I didn¡¯t see¡ªstruck me with the taser while my focus was on the leader. I barely have time to register what¡¯s happening before the pain consumes me, dragging me down.

    But then, through the haze of electricity frying my nerves, I feel another blow¡ªsharp and brutal¡ªsmashing into the back of my skull. The butt of a rifle, swung with deadly precision. Pain explodes in my head, white-hot and searing, and I feel my vision blur. I¡¯ve taken worse hits before, I¡¯ve endured worse suffering, but this time... this time it¡¯s different.

    I force myself to stay awake, to keep fighting through the pain. I¡¯ve survived hell before¡ªI can survive this. But just as I try to lift my head, another crushing strike lands on the same spot at the back of my skull, harder than before. The world tilts, spinning, and I feel consciousness slipping through my fingers like sand.

    I fight¡ªfight with everything¡ªto keep it bright. I struggle to stay conscious, to push through the burning agony tearing through my body, but it¡¯s like trying to swim against a current that¡¯s too strong. My muscles betray me, locking up, seizing. The best fighter in the world, and I can¡¯t even move. All the years of training, all the hard work, the sweat, the sacrifices... none of it matters now. My body¡ªthe same body I¡¯ve built for war¡ªfails me the moment I need it most.

    But through the haze of pain, my eyes lock onto Lisa. She¡¯s trembling, barely holding herself together, but she¡¯s still watching me. She hasn¡¯t given up. I can see it¡ªthe terror in her eyes, the fear that any second now... it could all be over. For her. For us.

    And I can¡¯t do anything.

    I try to push through, to hold on, but my body refuses to respond. The pain is too much, the electricity too strong, ripping through every fiber of me like I¡¯m nothing. I¡¯m furious¡ªfurious that I¡¯ve been reduced to this, kneeling, powerless. Furious that my body, this weapon I¡¯ve crafted, is failing her¡ªfailing us¡ªwhen she needs me most.

    She needs me. And I¡¯m not there. I can¡¯t move.

    I want to scream, to shout, to do something¡ªanything¡ªbut my voice is stuck in my throat, swallowed by the pain. I see her eyes, wide with fear, pleading for me to do something. I¡¯m her last hope.

    I¡¯m supposed to protect her.

    I try to hold on. I try to fight it, to stay awake, but the darkness pulls at me, relentless. It¡¯s dragging me down, and I can feel it¡ªmy vision narrowing, the world slipping further and further away, like I¡¯m sinking into an abyss I can¡¯t climb out of.

    I can¡¯t give in. Not now. I force my thoughts to stay sharp, to remind myself of everything I¡¯ve endured before. I¡¯ve survived worse, dammit. I¡¯ve fought through hell and come out the other side. I can¡¯t let this be the end. I won¡¯t.

    But then, just as I think I¡¯m regaining a sliver of control, I feel another vicious crack against the back of my head. The third blow hits like a sledgehammer, and this time, I know it¡¯s over. The last thread of consciousness slips, the world collapsing in on itself.

    Before the dark takes me, I promise her¡ªI swear to myself, to her, to everything I am:

    I will save us.

    <hr>

    To be continued...

 Ava Grace

    The rain pounded down, a relentless storm that blurred the edges of the world, each drop hitting the ground like a thousand tiny daggers. My hair clung to my face, plastered there by rain and tears that had long since mingled into one. The breath caught in my throat, uneven and shallow, each inhale more desperate than the last. I was shaking, a kind of tremor that started in my chest and radiated out through my limbs, making my hands quiver like leaves in the wind.

    Dominic Hale stood across from me, his face a mask of pain locked in a frame of determination. His jaw clenched tight, eyes holding something between sorrow and resolve, like he was swallowing down a scream he couldn¡¯t afford to let out. Water dripped from the edge of his coat, his hands buried deep in his pockets as if that would stop them from reaching out to me. The space between us felt like a chasm opening wider by the second.

    I took a step forward, my hand stretching toward him, but hesitating mid-air, fingers twitching like they¡¯d lost their purpose. The rain blurred my vision, or maybe that was the tears¡ªI couldn¡¯t tell anymore. ¡°Please,¡± I choked out, my voice barely a whisper, caught between the raindrops. ¡°Don¡¯t do this.¡±

    He looked at me then, really looked at me, like he was trying to memorize every detail, to lock this moment away somewhere safe. But his expression didn¡¯t soften; it only grew heavier, as if he was carrying a weight too great to bear. The muscles in his face twitched, his lips parting slightly, but no words came out. He blinked slowly, deliberately, like each blink was a shield against whatever emotion threatened to surface.

    ¡°How can you just walk away?¡± The words tumbled out, raw and unfiltered, my voice cracking as I forced them past the tight knot in my throat. ¡°How am I supposed to breathe without you?¡±

    I saw the slightest flinch in his eyes¡ªa flicker of something that might have been doubt, or regret, or maybe just the cold reality settling in. His face twisted, not with anger, but with a kind of sorrow that seemed to hollow him out from the inside. He took a step back, like he was distancing himself not just from me, but from the words I¡¯d thrown at him.

    ¡°You don¡¯t need me,¡± he said, the words almost too quiet to hear over the downpour. His voice was steady, but there was a tremor there, buried deep beneath the surface. ¡°You¡¯ll survive. You¡¯ll do better without me... I¡¯m the one holding you back.¡±

    I opened my mouth to argue, to scream that he was wrong, that he was everything. But the words stuck in my throat, replaced by a silent sob that tore through my chest. I reached for his arm, fingers closing around the damp fabric of his coat, clinging on with all the strength I had left. My nails dug into the material, desperate, as if my touch alone could anchor him here, could make him stay.

    Dominic¡¯s gaze dropped to where my hand gripped his sleeve, then slowly drifted up to meet my eyes. For a heartbeat, I saw something break in him¡ªa crack in that iron-clad resolve. But just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by a hard, unyielding line. With a slow, deliberate movement, he pried my fingers from his arm, gently but firmly, letting them fall away.

    ¡°This is for the best,¡± he whispered, almost like he was trying to convince himself as much as me.

    The rain hammered down harder, plastering my hair to my face as I fell to my knees, the mud swallowing my hands, my knees, pulling me deeper into the earth. I stared up at him, rain streaming down my face, mixing with the salt of my tears, my voice hoarse, barely a rasp now. ¡°Don¡¯t go. Please... I love you.¡±

    For a split second, I thought he might reach for me, thought I saw his hand twitch with the impulse to pull me up, to hold me, to take it all back. But he didn¡¯t move. He just stood there, drenched and silent, the rain running off his coat like it was washing him clean of me.

    ¡°I love you too,¡± he said, so quietly it almost got lost in the storm. Then he turned, every step taking him further away, each one like a knife twisting in my chest. The distance between us stretched until he was just a blur through the curtain of rain.

    I crumpled forward, my hands sinking into the cold, wet earth, the mud squeezing up between my fingers. My breath came in jagged gasps, the sobs wracking my body, too broken to be held in. The rain drowned out my cries, swallowed them whole, leaving nothing but the hollow echo of my pain.

    THAT¡¯S A WRAP!

    Everything stops.

    The rain, the heartbreak¡ªit all drops away like a curtain being pulled back. I get to my feet, still dripping wet, but the tears vanish as easily as the character does. All of that emotion? Gone, like it was never there. My heart slows, and I blink away the intensity, stepping out of the scene as if it hadn¡¯t just demanded everything from me.

    Dominic¡¯s still standing there, his chest rising and falling, eyes distant, like he¡¯s still processing the weight of it all. Pathetic. He¡¯s good, sure, but the way he¡¯s rattled after a scene like this? Amateur hour. I don¡¯t need a moment to catch my breath like he does. I¡¯m already done.

    Without a word, I swipe the water from my face, not caring where it lands, and walk past the crew. No one says anything¡ªthey know better. I don¡¯t need their fawning, their empty applause. What, are they going to tell me I was amazing? Of course I was. I¡¯ve done this a thousand times. I don¡¯t need to be told what I already know¡ªI¡¯m the best.

    As I stride past them, I see Naiai, my assistant, standing nearby. Poor, awkward Naiai, clutching that clipboard like her life depends on it. She¡¯s staring at me with wide, doe-like eyes, always looking like she¡¯s two seconds away from trembling. Pathetic, really.

    ¡°Ms. Grace, you were incredible,¡± she says, her voice shaky, dripping with that desperate need for my approval.

    I barely look at her.

    ¡°Of course I was,¡± I mutter, not bothering to slow down, not even glancing her way. My boots squelch in the mud, each step soaking the ground, but it doesn¡¯t matter. None of it does. She follows behind me, like a shadow, clinging to the edges of my presence, waiting for me to throw her some scrap of acknowledgment.

    But I won¡¯t. Why should I?

    I strut toward my trailer, I¡¯m heading to my sanctuary, a place that no one else on set has access to. My trailer isn¡¯t like the cramped, ordinary ones most of these actors have to tolerate. No, mine is a rolling palace, custom-built to reflect exactly who I am¡ªthe number one actress in the world.

    As I approach, the door swings open automatically, the subtle click of the mechanics barely noticeable. Luxury greets me before I even step inside. The trailer gleams, sleek and metallic, with curves as smooth as the finest architecture. It¡¯s more of a private suite on wheels than a trailer, designed to make sure that I¡¯m reminded, every second, of who I am. The best.

    Inside, the space is pure opulence. Marble floors, polished so perfectly they reflect my every movement, stretch across the length of the trailer. Gold-trimmed furniture¡ªthe kind that most people only dream of owning¡ªsits elegantly in every corner, upholstered in plush velvet cushions. The air is scented with the faintest hint of my signature perfume, a custom blend designed only for me. It costs a fortune just to have it bottled, but for me, price doesn¡¯t matter.

    As I enter, my servants are already waiting¡ªsilent, obedient, exactly as they should be. One of them steps forward, holding a tray with a steaming cup of coffee. But it¡¯s not just any coffee. It¡¯s the best in the world. Kopi luwak, harvested from wild civets in the deepest parts of Indonesia. It costs hundreds per cup, and yet here it is, prepared exactly to my liking. Rich, smooth, flawless, like everything in my life.

    I barely nod in acknowledgment as I take the cup. They know their place. They exist to serve me, and they do it well, or they¡¯re gone.

    But first, a shower.

    I hand my coffee to another servant as I step into the adjoining room, where a hot bath is already waiting for me. The tub is marble, of course, embedded into the floor and filled with steaming water, fragrant with essential oils. It¡¯s perfect, as always.

    Two of the servants step forward to begin undressing me, their hands efficient, delicate, as they peel away the damp clothes from my body. My body, I think, as I glance in the mirror. While it¡¯s not as¡­ perfect as some, it¡¯s still enviable. The number one porn star, Crystal Light, may have the title of the best body on Earth, but mine¡¯s nothing to scoff at either. I¡¯ve worked for this¡ªsculpted, toned, perfected.

    As I sink into the bath, the heat soaks into my skin, and I let out a sigh. The servants work silently around me, adjusting the water temperature, pouring oils into the tub, and occasionally bringing me whatever I desire without a word. It¡¯s the kind of service I¡¯ve come to expect¡ªthe kind I deserve.

    I close my eyes for a moment, letting the water rise around me, while I think about how good life is at the top. This isn¡¯t just about acting¡ªthis is about being part of the Premier Society, where everything is designed to perfection. Malleus has made sure of that. Only the best in each field get this kind of treatment. My trailer, my food, my clothes¡ªall handpicked for me, all tailored to my status.

    This is what being number one feels like. This is what people dream of when they see me on screen¡ªthe life they¡¯ll never have.

    And here I am, living it, every single day.

    I sink deeper into the bath, feeling the warmth of the water as it wraps around me, the oils and fragrances mixing into a heady, luxurious concoction. My mind drifts as I sip the coffee¡ªsmooth and rich, just as it should be. This is peace, the kind only someone like me could have.

    Naiai enters quietly, stepping into the bathroom with her usual nervous energy, but I don¡¯t bother looking at her. She knows better than to interrupt unless it¡¯s important.

    ¡°Ms. Grace,¡± she begins, her voice trembling slightly as it always does when she addresses me.

    ¡°The director wanted me to pass on a message. He said your performance today was... well, he said it was a masterclass in acting. He was absolutely floored by your¡ª¡±

    ¡°Of course he was,¡± I interrupt, my voice calm, not even a flicker of interest in her words. Praising me is like breathing to these people¡ªthey can¡¯t help it. I¡¯ve heard it all before, a thousand times. They¡¯re always floored, always stunned. It¡¯s routine by now.

    ¡°Was that it?¡±

    Naiai hesitates, shifting awkwardly, then glances at the tablet she¡¯s holding.

    ¡°Well, there¡¯s more,¡± she says carefully.

    ¡°People are... talking about Alexis Dreyer.¡±

    Alexis Dreyer. Just hearing her name makes me roll my eyes. That woman spends more time worrying about her image than her craft, but I can¡¯t deny the attention she gets. The public¡¯s so easily fooled by pretty faces.

    ¡°What about her?¡± I ask, though I can already guess where this is going.

    ¡°There¡¯s been a lot of buzz about her... flawless appearance lately,¡± Naiai continues, biting her lip as she stares at her tablet.

    ¡°People are saying she probably just saw Dr. Valor for some treatments, considering how perfect she looks now.¡±

    I raise an eyebrow, taking another sip of my coffee. Typical. Alexis always had a way of getting things done¡ªshe¡¯s all surface, all image. Hence why she¡¯s just number two, beneath me.

    ¡°Valor, huh?¡± I say absently. I hadn¡¯t even realized I was overdue for an appointment myself.

    ¡°Schedule a session with him for me,¡± I say flatly, staring at the steam rising from the water.

    Naiai shifts awkwardly again, and when I look at her, she¡¯s got this... confused look on her face.

    ¡°Ms. Grace,¡± she says quietly.

    ¡°Dr. Valor¡¯s... dead. He was killed three days ago.¡±

    I pause for a moment, not because I¡¯m shocked, but because it takes a second to process. Dr. Valor? Dead? That¡¯s inconvenient.

    ¡°Well, book me someone else, then. I don¡¯t care who.¡±

    Naiai blinks, clearly taken aback by my reaction, or lack thereof. I can tell she¡¯s waiting for something more¡ªa show of concern or surprise¡ªbut she should know better by now. I couldn¡¯t care less. Doctors come and go; I¡¯ll find another one. It¡¯s not like I was seeing him for his brilliant mind¡ªI was seeing him because he kept me looking flawless.

    ¡°What are you waiting for?¡± I snap, setting the cup down on the edge of the tub.

    ¡°Get it done.¡±

    Naiai nods quickly, fumbling with her tablet as she turns to leave, clearly rattled by how easily I dismissed Valor¡¯s death. These people never understand. He was useful, nothing more. Now that he¡¯s gone, someone else will step up. It¡¯s just business.

    I sink further into the bath, watching the steam rise as I think about my next move. It¡¯s always about the next move.

    As if reading my mind¡ªor more likely, because she forgot again¡ªNaiai comes back into the bathroom, tablet in hand, her face that same mix of uncertainty and over-eagerness. She does this all the time. You¡¯d think she¡¯d learn by now. And yet, she¡¯s still the best assistant in the world. Probably because I made her that way. Still, being from the lower society, her brain doesn¡¯t function like mine.

    Naiai clears her throat softly.

    ¡°Ms. Grace, I¡¯ve finalized your schedule for tomorrow,¡± she says, scrolling on her tablet.

    ¡°You¡¯ll be flying to Hawaii for the charity event. There was a major earthquake yesterday, and the victims are desperate for support.¡±

    I don¡¯t look at her, just nod, waving my hand dismissively. I¡¯m not interested in the details¡ªI never am. The cameras will be there, that¡¯s all that matters. The world will see me ¡°saving lives,¡± and that¡¯s the only reason I¡¯m even setting foot in that disaster zone.

    ¡°Make sure everything¡¯s ready,¡± I say, still focused on the warmth of the bath.

    ¡°You¡¯ll need to catch a flight tonight. I want you there before me, setting everything up.¡±

    ¡°Of course, Ms. Grace. I¡¯ll leave tonight,¡± she says quietly, already backing out of the room. We¡¯re in Tokyo, so she¡¯ll have to spend the next half-day on some cramped plane, dealing with customs and security like the rest of her kind. I, on the other hand, will be teleporting directly to Hawaii tomorrow. Malleus makes sure I don¡¯t waste a second of my life on things like travel. The Premier Society doesn¡¯t wait for planes. We arrive.

    ¡°Good,¡± I say, nodding, dismissing her with a flick of my hand.

    ¡°Get out.¡±

    Naiai scurries away, probably grateful for the chance to get away from me for a few hours. Not that I care.

    I sink deeper into the bath, letting the warmth soothe my skin as the servants glide around me like shadows, tending to my every need. One of them places a tray beside the tub, where a plate of Almas caviar, harvested from the rarest beluga sturgeon, sits on ice with delicate blinis and cr¨¨me fra?che. Beside it, a glass of D¡¯Amalfi Limoncello Supreme, the most expensive liqueur in the world, known for its rare Amalfi lemons and presented in a bottle encrusted with diamonds.

    I take a spoonful of the caviar, the pearls bursting on my tongue with their rich, briny flavor, every bite a reminder of the exclusivity of my life. This is what being number one tastes like. This is my life¡ªflawless, luxurious, and perfectly crafted. Everyone else is just trying to catch up.

    When I opened my eyes, the warmth of the bath still lingering in my muscles, the servants had already disappeared, as they should. They¡¯re trained well enough to leave without a word. But as my vision cleared, I noticed someone else. Dominic.

    He stood at the edge of the tub, his tall frame leaning casually against the wall, that stupid smile plastered on his face. So predictable. I didn¡¯t say anything, just gave him a slight nod, and without hesitation, he moved closer, his hands already reaching to massage my shoulders. It wasn¡¯t a good massage¡ªhe¡¯s an actor, not a therapist. His hands were too rough, too clumsy. But I knew why he was here, so I let him continue.

    After a few moments of enduring his attempt at a massage, I opened my legs, the water gently parting as I made the invitation. He bit immediately, just as I knew he would. Men are always so easy to predict, especially when they think they¡¯re special. Dominic, like so many before him, thought this meant something.

    But to me, it didn¡¯t. It never has.

    I don¡¯t care about personal relationships. Love? Lust? None of that matters. I just care about the feeling, about the relaxation. The only thing sex does for me is help me unwind, help me clear my mind. That¡¯s it. I¡¯ve probably slept with hundreds of men by now, maybe more. And not once have I ever felt anything for them. No love, no affection, nothing beyond the physical release.

    More than half of them, though, they think this means I care. They think there¡¯s some kind of connection, some deeper bond. There isn¡¯t. Usually, I don¡¯t even bother opening my eyes. I just let them do the work, and once they¡¯re done, they leave. That¡¯s all it is.

    Dominic¡¯s no different. He¡¯s good at pretending on screen, but off it? He¡¯s just like the rest of them¡ªhoping for something I¡¯ll never give.

    When I opened my eyes after the brief relaxation Dominic provided, he was gone. Typical. He¡¯s not much of a massager, but at least he¡¯s adequate for one thing¡ªhelping me unwind. No strings attached, just how I like it.

    As I stretched slightly in the now cooling water, my servants returned, as silent as ever. One of them leaned over the tub, gently washing me off with warm water and scented oils, while another stood ready with a thick, plush towel. They knew the routine. I let them wrap me in the towel, the heat sinking into my skin, leaving me feeling refreshed but still perfectly distant from the world.

    I walked toward my bedroom, the luxurious silk of the towel brushing against my skin. But before I got too far, I reached for the small crystal jar on my bedside table. A multivitamin¡ªone designed specifically to keep my skin flawless. Everything about me was carefully curated, perfectly maintained, and that meant the best of everything¡ªfrom beauty products to supplements.

    Next, I reached for the small pillbox next to it. A gift from Malleus. He¡¯d made sure it was part of my routine. He said the pill was special, something only for Premier Society members, developed to eliminate any chance of disease¡ªparticularly STDs. Considering my rather extensive list of men over the years, it was good to know I wouldn¡¯t have to bother with any of the complications that the rest of the world had to deal with. Another perk of being the best.

    I swallowed the pill without a second thought. Malleus always provided what I needed, and in this case, it was about cleaning up after the relaxation. Useful, practical, and yet another reminder that I¡¯m not like them¡ªthe ones who have to worry about these things.

    Refreshed and ready, I made my way to my bedroom. Another day done, another night of perfection waiting.

    I sleep comfortably in my luxurious bed, the sheets made from the finest Egyptian cotton, temperature perfectly regulated to match my body, and the soft, dim lighting casting a warm glow across the room. The soothing sounds of a live violin and piano performance from my servants play in the background, filling the air with calm, melodic notes. The music is subtle, relaxing, exactly what I need. In no time, I drift into sleep, enveloped in comfort.

    When I open my eyes the next morning, the scene is already set. Breakfast has been delivered¡ªa spread of fresh fruits, artisanal bread, and juice squeezed from only the best produce, of course. One of my servants stands by with a tray, presenting me with my morning essentials, including a pill¡ªanother one provided by Malleus. This one is especially useful. It cuts half of the calories of whatever I eat today, ensuring I stay perfect, no matter how much I indulge. Even if I ate like one of those lower-society pigs, starving for a week and then gorging themselves, I¡¯d still be fine. Perfect.

    I swallow the pill without hesitation. I don¡¯t need to worry about food¡ªMalleus makes sure I can eat whatever I want, and yet stay exactly how I should be. It¡¯s one of the many perks of being at the top.

    I slide out of bed and reach for my Nimbus, the sleek holographic screen lighting up with a swipe of my finger. I start sifting through the emails¡ªnothing too important, as usual. The director sent me the trailer for the movie we wrapped yesterday. I tap to open it, the video playing in the air before me. Sci-fi romance, I remember. The story¡¯s decent, nothing groundbreaking, but it¡¯ll probably do well enough. Though I doubt it¡¯ll win any awards. My other five films this year are far better contenders.

    I take a sip of juice, ignoring the rest of the emails, until a message from Naiai catches my eye. She¡¯s arrived in Hawaii and, unsurprisingly, the situation looks just as miserable as I expected. She attached a picture¡ªa makeshift tent, where she¡¯ll be sleeping and setting up the charity event. It looks disastrous. Debris everywhere, buildings destroyed, people probably begging for help, as they always do.

    And soon, I¡¯ll have to walk through all of that filth. Yuck.

    I sigh, staring at the image a bit longer. I hate this kind of work. I don¡¯t care about the victims. It¡¯s not my problem they couldn¡¯t afford to live somewhere safer, somewhere with a mansion to protect them from the chaos. That¡¯s on them.

    But I¡¯ll do it. It¡¯s all for publicity, after all. I¡¯m the only top ten celebrities in the world to do this kind of charity. People love it when they see you help the helpless, when you ¡°care.¡± It boosts your profile. It makes them worship you even more.

    After finishing my breakfast. My servants approach with their usual grace, gently taking my hand and guiding me through to my walk-in closet. Calling it a closet is an understatement¡ªthis is more like a private boutique, a gallery of fashion that spans decades, each piece more exquisite than the last. The walls are lined with custom-built shelves, each one showcasing designer gowns, luxury dresses, and one-of-a-kind ensembles, all arranged perfectly by color and style.

    Some of the pieces hanging here are literally priceless¡ªgowns that have graced the runways in Paris, Milan, New York. Some are the only ones in existence, designed specifically for me. Each one is worth more than most people from the lower society will make in a lifetime. One of these dresses alone could feed an entire country of lower-society peasants for months, yet here it is, hanging unused, just part of my collection.

    I walk past a Vera Wang couture gown, custom-made just for me, its delicate lace woven with threads of gold. Next to it is a Gucci leather jacket, encrusted with gemstones, a piece so rare that there¡¯s nothing else like it on the planet. These are the kind of clothes only I can wear, only someone like me could even afford to possess.

    I run my fingers along the soft silk of a Dior dress, a masterpiece of craftsmanship, as my servant pulls a particular gown from the collection¡ªsomething elegant yet practical. I decide that today, I¡¯ll actually wear one of these rare pieces. After all, what¡¯s the point of having something no one else in the world can own if you don¡¯t put it on display?

    As I step into the middle of the room, the servants prepare the selected outfit, helping me dress with a precision only the top designers could have trained them in.

    Usually, I¡¯d wear high heels¡ªa staple of my daily wardrobe¡ªbut today¡¯s going to require a bit more... practicality. I¡¯m going to be walking through ruins, after all. I don¡¯t care about the dirt, but even I know it¡¯s better to move gracefully through chaos than to stumble in stilettos. I choose a pair of luxury flats, still elegant, still designer, but far more suited to what awaits in Hawaii.

    I wish Roman was portable enough to be in this trailer. He¡¯s my AI-assistant back home in Berlin, designed by Malleus, and of course, given only to the top one. Roman is more than just an assistant¡ªhe¡¯s perfect, the only one I can trust to give me actual feedback. I usually ask him for his opinion on my style, and he¡¯s always brutally honest in a way no one else dares to be.

    But he¡¯s not here today, stuck in Berlin, tethered to my home. And here I am, relying on Naiai and these human servants to dress me. Incompetence is what they excel at, but at least Roman would¡¯ve known exactly what I needed, right down to the smallest detail.

    I¡¯ve asked Malleus before¡ªdemanded, actually¡ªto make Roman portable. To let me take him with me, or at least connect him to my Nimbus. If I had Roman with me everywhere, I wouldn¡¯t need Naiai, or these walking mannequins serving me. Roman could run everything, perfectly. But Malleus shot me down, saying it wasn¡¯t possible. Not yet, at least.

    ¡°Maybe next time,¡± I mutter under my breath, as the servants zip up the gown and step back, admiring their work. It¡¯ll do.

    I hop into the teleporter, and with a blink of an eye, I arrive in sunny Hawaii. The moment the warm tropical breeze hits me, it should be paradise¡ªthe blue sky stretching over palm trees, the ocean shimmering in the distance. But paradise is long gone.

    I¡¯m standing in what was once a luxury mega-mall, a place I¡¯ve visited before. The once-pristine glass windows of designer stores now stand shattered, the polished marble floors are smeared with mud, debris, and filth. Refugees¡ªfilthy, desperate¡ªhave turned the mall into a makeshift shelter. I spot a Gucci store, now filled with tattered tents. I feel a wave of disgust churn in my stomach.

    On any normal day, these people wouldn¡¯t even be allowed to look through the window of this store, let alone occupy it. Yet here they are, living in it, turning the store into a slum. Their filthy hands have touched what was once sacred, a place where only the finest walked.

    The air here is thick with the stench of sweat and decay. The smell of unwashed bodies and stagnant water hangs everywhere. I look around¡ªwhat was once a place of luxury is now a ruined wasteland. I¡¯ve been here before, shopping in the same halls now overtaken by tents and dirty blankets. The contrast is sickening.

    The people themselves are no better. Bloody, dirt-streaked, and unkempt, their clothes torn, their faces smeared with grime. Some of them limp past me, nursing injuries, while others simply sit in their misery, clutching their children or what little belongings they could save. Their eyes are hollow, their skin bruised and covered in dust.

    I feel nothing but disgust as I watch them. This is what happens when you can¡¯t afford better. This is their fault, for not being smart enough, rich enough, good enough.

    I take a breath, turning my nose away from a particularly foul-smelling group, when Naiai appears at my side, moving quickly to catch up to me. She looks frantic, but as soon as she¡¯s within earshot, she whispers the one word I¡¯ve been waiting for:

    ¡°Camera.¡±

    I straighten instantly. The act begins.

    My face shifts into one of genuine concern, as if the plight of these people truly weighs on my heart. I slow my steps, my gaze softening as I approach the refugees. I reach out to touch their hands, making sure to pause long enough for the camera to capture the moment. I give them food and blankets handed to me by Naiai, making sure each gesture looks heartfelt.

    ¡°Here, take this,¡± I say softly to a woman clutching a child, my voice thick with pretend emotion.

    ¡°We¡¯re going to get through this. You¡¯re not alone.¡±

    It¡¯s easy for me. I¡¯ve done this my entire life. The cameras love this version of me¡ªthe savior, the compassionate celebrity who cares so deeply for the suffering. I reach down to lift a small child, offering a comforting smile, as if the very sight of this place isn¡¯t making me sick to my core.

    But I do feel sick. Disgusted. The child hasn¡¯t been washed for days, maybe longer. His skin is streaked with dirt, and the smell that clings to him is revolting. It takes every ounce of control I have not to gag as I lift him, his filthy little hands clinging to my brilliant dress. His sticky, grimy skin brushes against the fabric, and it¡¯s all I can do to keep my face locked in this mask of sadness and concern instead of the anger and revulsion bubbling beneath.

    Piece of shit should rather die than clutch my hand with his dirty fingers. He doesn¡¯t deserve to touch me, to ruin my perfection with his filth. But I smile¡ªnot for him, never for him. I smile for the camera, for the world watching. They¡¯re the ones who matter.

    While I¡¯m still holding the child, pretending to care, an old lady suddenly stumbles toward me and, without warning, wraps me in a hug. Her disgusting, frail body presses against mine, her clothes damp with sweat and grime. The rot smell surrounds her, hitting me like a wave. I almost puke right there, my stomach churning from the stench. But I don¡¯t. I can¡¯t.

    I¡¯m the best actress in the world, and I¡¯ve had to deal with worse, though this comes close. Instead, I swallow the bile rising in my throat and carefully place the small child back into the arms of his equally filthy parents, all while forcing my face into a look of compassion and warmth.

    Then, I turn back to the old woman, and I embrace her with a smile that only the camera can appreciate. I hug her back, feeling the rancid stench cling to me like a disease. Camera flashes explode in front of us, capturing every angle, every perfect moment. This should look great on the front page of every magazine, headline after headline. People are going to love this¡ªthe world¡¯s biggest star showing love to the forgotten, the broken.

    As I pull away, on cue, Naiai swoops in. She steps between us, separating me from the old woman as gracefully as possible, but the relief I feel is instant. Naiai gestures kindly to the woman, offering her a handful of supplies, food, and water¡ªmaking sure the cameras catch it all. She knows the routine by now, and she plays her part well.

    But when I glance at Naiai¡¯s face, something feels... off. Her expression isn¡¯t the carefully curated mask I wear. It¡¯s not the look of someone acting, playing a role. She actually cares. Her eyes are soft, and I see it clearly for a second: Naiai genuinely feels for these people.

    They¡¯re her people, after all. Lower-society.

    Naiai and her team guide me through the filthy rows of tents, moving between these pathetic excuses for human beings who look at me like I¡¯m their savior. Well, in a way, I am. I¡¯m here, after all¡ªhere instead of lying on my luxurious bed, giving them supplies so they can cling to life for a few more days. They should be bowing, worshiping me for gracing them with my presence.

    Some of them actually do.

    As I approach, a group of them fall to the ground, bowing at my feet. One of them, a woman, says, ¡°I¡¯m your biggest fan,¡± her voice trembling with awe. I like that. I like the sight of them kneeling, dirty and broken, while I stand tall, clean, and perfect. It feels right.

    But I know the cameras are still on me, so with a carefully crafted look of humility, I reach down and help the woman stand, my smile warm, as though this display of obedience doesn¡¯t thrill me. It¡¯s all about appearance, after all. I have to look good. Maybe next time, I¡¯ll tell my servants to bow to the floor whenever I enter a room¡ªit suits me.

    After what feels like excruciating hours, moving from one pathetic tent to another, Naiai finally signals that we¡¯ve taken enough pictures, enough PR gold to last for a while. She guides me toward our makeshift tent, away from the crowd of desperate people, and most importantly, away from the cameras.

    The moment I step inside, the facade drops. I bend over, and everything I¡¯ve been holding in¡ªthe disgust, the revulsion¡ªcomes spilling out. I vomit into the basket that Naiai has already placed for me, as if she knew exactly when this would happen. She always does. Better not to litter the floor, even though the floor is already filthy, just like everything else in this makeshift nightmare of a tent. It¡¯s far from the luxury I deserve.

    ¡°Water, now!¡± Naiai shouts, her voice sharp and urgent, directing the team like the well-trained crew they are. But she knows better than to bring me just any water. It¡¯s not some regular bottled brand¡ªit¡¯s water sourced from the Alpine mountain spring, flown in specifically for me. The very best.

    One of the crew rushes over with the bottle, and I drink all of it quickly, letting the pure, crisp water wash away the taste of vomit and the lingering disgust. It¡¯s refreshing, and I can already feel the filth of the day starting to wash off¡ªat least from the inside.

    But that¡¯s not enough. I can still feel the grime of this place clinging to my skin, the touch of those disgusting people, their sweat, their dirt. I quickly run to the makeshift shower we had set up, practically ripping off the dress as I go.

    Naiai takes my dress without a word, already sending it to the instant-laundry service we had prepared. In just ten minutes, it¡¯ll be clean, fresh, and ready to wear again.

    As the water runs down my body, I notice immediately that it¡¯s not enough. The filth clings to my skin, stubborn and vile, refusing to wash away with just water. I don¡¯t want to scrub it off myself¡ªthe very thought of touching this disgusting grime with my own hands makes my stomach churn. But before I even need to say anything, Naiai steps into the shower. She knows, like she always does.

    In her hands, she¡¯s already holding my usual soap, the luxury brand I use, and a scrubber. No hesitation, no waiting for my command.

    She starts scrubbing my body, the water splashing against the tile as she works the soap into my skin, scrubbing away the disgust I can still feel crawling over me. As the filth and grime finally start to slip away, she looks up at me with that same calm, practiced efficiency.

    ¡°I thought you¡¯d be used to this by now,¡± Naiai says, her tone light but with a hint of something beneath it¡ªa touch of sarcasm, maybe. It¡¯s subtle, but I catch it.

    She does sounds and feel different today. Like she¡¯s more brave.

    ¡°I¡¯ll never get used to this,¡± I say sharply, my voice flat as I tilt my head back, letting her scrub my shoulders and arms. ¡°It¡¯s disgusting.¡±

    She doesn¡¯t respond. She just keeps scrubbing, removing every trace of the day, making me clean again, perfect again.

    But as Naiai scrubs my body, I glance down at her face. She looks different¡ªnot just focused or efficient, but... something else.

    ¡°You seem to care about them,¡± I say, my tone sharp, breaking the steady rhythm of the shower. Her hands don¡¯t stop, but I hear a small laugh, soft and controlled, escape her lips.

    ¡°Well, that¡¯s because I¡¯m from here,¡± she says, still scrubbing away the last remnants of filth from my arms.

    From here? I blink. Really? I didn¡¯t know that. She¡¯s been working with me for nearly ten years, and I only ever learned her name. I knew she was good at her job¡ªshe sometimes forgets things, but otherwise she¡¯s reliable. But from Hawaii? I didn¡¯t care enough to ask.

    ¡°Oh,¡± I say, trying to fill the silence. ¡°I didn¡¯t know that.¡± I feel a strange, uncomfortable sensation¡ªa flicker of embarrassment. It¡¯s absurd, really, but the feeling sticks.

    I pause for a moment, watching her work. Then, almost absentmindedly, I ask, ¡°Are your parents still alive?¡±

    Her hands stopped scrubbing for a split second, and the water still splashed between us. Then she resumes, but I can sense the shift in her energy.

    ¡°Until yesterday,¡± she says quietly. ¡°They died in the earthquake.¡±

    I feel... something. A numbness, maybe. What is this feeling? Usually, I don¡¯t care about what people go through. Not my assistants, not anyone, really. But something about the way Naiai said it¡ªso calm, so matter-of-fact¡ªhits me in a way I¡¯m not used to.

    ¡°Oh,¡± I manage to say, my voice awkward and stiff. She moves to wash my hair, her hands gentle as always, but the weight of her words lingers in the air, mixing with the steam and the water. I don¡¯t know what to do with this feeling, whatever it is. Usually, I feel nothing.

    But when Naiai speaks again, her tone has shifted back to the one I¡¯m not used to¡ªprofessional, calm, detached.

    ¡°In ten minutes, you¡¯ll be giving a speech to the people. Just say you¡¯re with them, that you¡¯ll give them your support and all that. You know what to do, right?¡± she asks as she finishes washing my hair. My body feels fresh and clean again, but something about her voice has regained its usual rhythm, like the weight of what she shared before has been neatly folded away.

    ¡°One more thing,¡± she adds as she towels me off.

    ¡°It might be a good idea to say ¡®Mahalo¡¯ at the end of your speech. It means ¡®thank you¡¯ in Hawaiian. They¡¯ll appreciate it coming from you.¡±

    Mahalo? I raise an eyebrow but don¡¯t say anything. I can already imagine how people will eat that up¡ªme speaking a bit of their language, showing empathy. It¡¯s a clever touch, really.

    ¡°Your dress is ready as well. It¡¯s been cleaned, and there¡¯s a drink and some food waiting for you on the table. I managed to find the best we could get here. I hope you like it.¡± She continues to dry me with a warm towel.

    I watch her as she works, her hands careful, making sure no water is left on my skin. Her face is calm, composed, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips, but nothing more. Just like before, she hasn¡¯t said a word about her parents. She¡¯s still working, still doing her job as if nothing has changed.

    Maybe she¡¯s a better actress than me.

    Once Naiai finishes drying my body, her team hands her my dress¡ªnow perfectly clean and flawless, just like me. She dresses me carefully, her fingers working deftly to fasten every detail, and then she begins to comb my hair, making sure everything is in place. Making sure I¡¯m perfect.

    But for the first time in as long as I can remember, I feel a strange urge to acknowledge her. To say something I normally wouldn¡¯t.

    ¡°Thank you, Naiai,¡± I manage, the words feeling foreign and awkward on my tongue.

    She freezes, her hand mid-air, comb still in her grasp. She turns to face me, her eyes widening in surprise. Clearly, she wasn¡¯t expecting that.

    For a second, we just stand there, and the moment feels oddly significant, even though it¡¯s just two words.

    But before we could say anything more, one of her team members called for her, something about the food supply for the refugees. Naiai gave me a quick nod, excusing herself, and I turned toward the table, eyeing the food she¡¯d set out for me.

    She wasn¡¯t wrong. It¡¯s the best she could find in these conditions, and to my surprise, it¡¯s actually good, even by my standards. I take a few bites, letting the flavors linger. It¡¯s not the kind of meal I¡¯d normally have, but considering the disaster around us, it¡¯s up to par.

    As I eat, I pick up the script for the speech. It¡¯s more of a template now, the same kind of thing I¡¯ve said a hundred times at events like this¡ªI¡¯m here for you, I support you, we¡¯ll get through this together. It practically writes itself at this point. I don¡¯t even need to think about it.

    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

    But then I remember Naiai¡¯s suggestion: Mahalo. Thank you in Hawaiian. A nice touch, something personal for the locals. It¡¯s just a word, but it¡¯ll mean something to them. I¡¯ll use it. It¡¯s small, but they¡¯ll love it.

    As I continued reading over the speech, I glanced toward where Naiai was talking to her team. She¡¯s efficient, always managing every detail, even when the world is crumbling around her. And here I am, getting ready to say a few lines that¡¯ll make the headlines, another performance I¡¯ve perfected.

    Mahalo. It¡¯s just a word, but it¡¯ll make all the difference in their eyes.

    One of my team members steps in, letting me know the stage is ready. I nod, finishing the last adjustments to my appearance. It¡¯s time.

    Before stepping outside, I take a deep breath¡ªnot because I¡¯m tense, but because it¡¯s my last clean breath before the stench out there hits me again, making me want to puke. Once I step outside, I¡¯ll need to wear the mask, the version of me they love¡ªthe version they think is their savior.

    As soon as I step out of the tent, it happens. I become her again¡ªthe graceful, compassionate Ava Grace¡ªthe one who makes them feel like they matter, the one they worship. I glide toward the stage, my steps smooth, my expression serene, and the crowd parts as I pass, their desperate eyes on me.

    I step onto the stage, and as soon as the cameras fix on me, I start my speech.

    <hr>

    ¡°Good afternoon. I know this has been an incredibly difficult time for all of you. This earthquake has taken so much¡ªhomes, loved ones, and the stability you once knew.

    But today, I want you to know that you¡¯re not alone. I am here and will do everything I can to help. We will work together to rebuild, to restore what has been lost. Your strength, your resilience, has touched me deeply. You have been through so much, yet you continue to move forward. That is something no disaster can take away from you.

    I stand with you. I feel your pain, and I am committed to making sure that you have the resources you need to rise again. You have my word."

    <hr>

    I pause, scanning the crowd, catching their wide-eyed stares, some brimming with tears. It¡¯s working like it always does. And now for the final touch¡ªthe word that Naiai had suggested. The word that would seal the deal.

    I look down at them, offering my most sincere smile.

    ¡°Mahalo.¡±

    The moment the word leaves my lips, the crowd erupts. Some burst into tears, their faces red and shaking with emotion, as if hearing that word from me was all they needed. Others stand there, stunned into silence, their eyes wide, their mouths slightly open. I can practically hear the clicks of cameras capturing every angle of this moment.

    It worked. Perfectly.

    I bow one more time to the crowd, holding the pose just long enough for the cameras to catch every angle. Then, without hesitation, I turn and head back to my tent, keeping my steps as graceful as possible despite the overwhelming urge to get out of that filthy space. Once inside, I finally let out the breath I¡¯d been holding. Gasping slightly, I try to fill my lungs with the clean, fresh air of the tent, away from the stench of the crowd.

    ¡°My god, can someone clean that filth out there?¡± I nearly scream, the disgust dripping from my words. But before I can vent further, Naiai steps in from behind, her calm presence cutting through my frustration.

    ¡°You may go home now,¡± she says.

    ¡°You need to rest. Tomorrow, you have the Premier Gala. You can¡¯t miss that.¡±

    I close my eyes, relieved. The Gala¡ªa world of luxury, elegance, and sophistication. Far from this disaster.

    ¡°I¡¯ll make sure all of your hard work today will go live and be broadcasted worldwide,¡± Naiai continues, she¡¯s on roll today.

    ¡°You¡¯ll be the main topic at the Gala tomorrow. And I¡¯ve already contacted Roman. He¡¯s ordered the perfect designer dress for you, one that fits you flawlessly. It should arrive at your home before you get there.¡±

    I nod, pleased with her thoroughness. Everything¡¯s already in motion, just as it should be. Perfectly planned, perfectly executed.

    ¡°Good,¡± I say, my voice returning to its usual cool tone, acknowledging her good work.

    Without another word, I step into the teleporter, and in the blink of an eye, I¡¯m gone. Straight to Berlin, to the comfort of my home, far from the grime and the stench of the disaster zone. Back to where I belong.

    ¡°Welcome home, Ava,¡± Roman¡¯s smooth, familiar voice greets me the moment I step out of the teleporter. It¡¯s a voice that doesn¡¯t just speak¡ªit wraps around you, reassuring, precise, designed perfectly for someone like me. I inhale deeply, savoring the air of my own space.

    This is it.

    The comfort, the luxury, the absolute perfection of my home in Berlin surrounds me the moment I step inside. It¡¯s not just a house¡ªit¡¯s a sanctuary, a reflection of who I am and what I deserve. Everything here is a symbol of wealth, but not just any wealth. True wealth.

    Marble floors, hand-carved from the rarest stones in the world, stretch across the vast open living area, gleaming under the soft, automated lighting that adjusts to my mood as I walk. The walls are adorned with custom art pieces, each worth more than most people could earn in a lifetime. The ceiling stretches high above, vaulted and expansive, framed by intricate gold leaf detailing, the kind that makes everything feel regal, eternal.

    Every corner is carefully curated. The furniture is not only designer, but one-of-a-kind, made by artisans who were commissioned solely to cater to my tastes. Velvet sofas, imported from Italy, paired with sleek, modern tables crafted from the most expensive woods, make the entire space feel like a living piece of art. The chandeliers above aren¡¯t just lighting fixtures¡ªthey¡¯re masterpieces, dripping with diamonds and sapphires that cast soft, shimmering reflections on every surface.

    To my left, a massive floor-to-ceiling aquarium holds rare and exotic fish that glow under the ambient lighting. Their movements are hypnotic, a perfect addition to the sense of serene extravagance that pervades the space. To my right, a grand spiral staircase with railings wrapped in pure gold leads up to my private quarters, where the real luxury begins.

    Roman¡¯s voice follows me, softly narrating the day¡¯s updates as I move through the house. The air is purified, the temperature always perfect¡ªneither too warm nor too cool¡ªset to the exact comfort that I desire without ever needing to ask.

    Everything here is more than luxury¡ªit¡¯s opulence on another level. Even the view from the massive windows, overlooking the city of Berlin, is perfectly framed by automated curtains that part the moment I walk past. The skyline glitters below me, but even that feels insignificant compared to the luxury I stand in.

    As I step deeper into the living room, a small drone hums softly as it glides toward me. It¡¯s sleek and efficient, like everything else in my life. Without a word, it begins scanning my body, its sensors picking up any traces of dirt or bacteria from the outside world. A gentle mist of antivirus spray coats me, neutralizing whatever filth I might have brought back with me. The scent of disinfectant fades quickly as the drone releases a custom-blend perfume, delicate yet commanding, making me feel as fresh and flawless as I should.

    ¡°The director sent over the final cut of your latest film,¡± Roman¡¯s voice chimes in, smooth as always, filling the air as I make my way toward the grand lounge. ¡°I watched it earlier today.¡±

    I pause for a moment, mildly interested. ¡°And?¡±

    ¡°Your performance is flawless, as always,¡± Roman continues, his tone matter-of-fact, but there¡¯s something in his voice¡ªa slight pause before the next sentence. ¡°But the other actor¡ªDominic Hale, I believe¡ªis not up to your standard. His delivery is wooden, and frankly, it dulls the impact of your scenes together. You carry the film, but... it won¡¯t reach the heights of your previous work.¡±

    I nod, already expecting that. ¡°I¡¯m not surprised,¡± I say, sinking into one of the velvet sofas, its softness embracing me. ¡°The story wasn¡¯t particularly groundbreaking either.¡±

    Roman hums in agreement, a quiet, almost respectful sound. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t expect much from this movie in terms of awards or critical acclaim,¡± he adds, echoing my thoughts. ¡°It will perform moderately well due to your presence alone, but beyond that, it¡¯s nothing remarkable.¡±

    I let out a small sigh, staring at the Berlin skyline through the massive windows. I already knew this film wasn¡¯t going to be one of my best. It¡¯s filler, a stepping stone. I have other films lined up this year that will likely take center stage. But it¡¯s still mildly irritating to have Dominic¡¯s incompetence dull my work.

    ¡°Figures,¡± I mutter, more to myself than to Roman. ¡°I¡¯ve done all I can with that one. The rest is on them.¡±

    As I settle into the velvet sofa, Roman¡¯s voice comes through again with a hint of admiration.

    ¡°Your performance in Hawaii was nothing short of brilliant,¡± he says smoothly. ¡°You looked like an angel, descending to help the poor and suffering.¡±

    I smile slightly, appreciating the validation, but before I can respond, Roman projects an image onto the holographic screen in front of me. It¡¯s a photo of me in Hawaii, my dress slightly stained with dirt, likely from that old woman who had the nerve to hug me. The grime on her body had transferred to my gown, leaving its mark.

    ¡°Your dress, however, was a bit... compromised. It appears this was taken just after the hug.¡±

    He zooms in on the smudges of filth left behind on the fabric, the grime standing out against the perfection of the gown.

    I feel a brief flicker of irritation, but before it can settle, the image shifts, transforming into a series of comments from social media. Roman knew exactly what to show me next: hundreds of comments from fans, all praising me.

    ¡°You have nothing to worry about,¡± Roman reassures me, his voice soft and confident.

    ¡°Social media is flooded with admiration for your selflessness and your grace. The dirt on your dress? They see it as a sign of your dedication. They love you for it.¡±

    I glance at the screen, scanning the comments, all echoing the same sentiment: ¡°She¡¯s the best.¡± ¡°An inspiration.¡± ¡°Our angel in the storm.¡±

    Good. Exactly what I expected.

    ¡°And, interestingly enough,¡± Roman adds, his voice perking up slightly, ¡°your use of the word ¡®Mahalo¡¯ has gone viral. It¡¯s trending on all platforms, with people calling it heartfelt and genuine.¡±

    I smile, feeling a small wave of satisfaction.

    ¡°That¡¯s good news.¡±

    ¡°Indeed,¡± Roman agrees.

    ¡°It¡¯s already boosting interest in your next movie. Pre-sales have spiked across several regions, particularly in Hawaii. It seems your performance has not only won their hearts but will help your box office numbers as well.¡±

    Perfect. Everything¡¯s falling into place.

    After a moment of reviewing the social media frenzy, Roman¡¯s voice shifts, moving on to the next priority.

    ¡°Now, regarding tomorrow¡¯s event¡ªthe Premier Gala,¡± he begins, his tone returning to its usual business-like precision. ¡°All of the top ones are scheduled to attend, of course. However, two have confirmed they won¡¯t be attending. Dr. Valor won¡¯t be joining, obviously, as he¡¯s recently deceased. And it appears Tobias Kane has gone missing since yesterday. There¡¯s been no word from his camp.¡±

    I raise an eyebrow slightly. Tobias missing? Odd, but not my concern. Roman continues without a pause.

    ¡°Additionally, Milady Madelyn will not be attending either, but that¡¯s no surprise. She¡¯s always been... elusive, and her attendance at the Gala has been nonexistent for years.¡±

    I nod. It¡¯s expected. Milady Madelyn is too caught up in her own world to care about the Premier Gala. But with Valor dead and Tobias missing, there are two significant gaps in tomorrow¡¯s event. The rest of us, however, will be there, and I intend to stand out.

    ¡°Moving on,¡± Roman continues, his tone smooth and attentive.

    ¡°I¡¯ve taken the liberty of confirming the wardrobe Naiai arranged for tomorrow evening. She made an excellent choice¡ªa Valentino couture gown, custom-tailored to fit your exact measurements. The cut will highlight your figure perfectly, especially under the event lighting.¡±

    ¡°As for makeup, I¡¯ve scheduled your artist to focus on a bold yet elegant look¡ªred lips to contrast the subtle shimmer of the gown, with a smoky eye to bring out your best features.¡±

    He pauses for a beat before continuing, ¡°For your fragrance, I suggest Clive Christian No. 1 Imperial Majesty¡ªonly ten bottles in existence, and you happen to own one. The scent will linger without overpowering the room, ensuring you¡¯re the center of attention without even needing to speak.¡±

    I smile at the thought. Roman always knows exactly what will work best. ¡°And the shoes?¡± I ask.

    ¡°Christian Louboutin, 24-carat gold heel, of course. They¡¯ll be discreet, but when the light catches them, it¡¯ll add just the right touch of glamour.¡±

    Perfect. Roman has thought of everything. The Gala will be another opportunity to remind everyone who the true star is, especially with two of the top ones missing.

    ¡°Thank you, Roman. Now, can you call Naiai for me?¡± I say smoothly, not looking away from the window as I enjoy the serene view of Berlin from my penthouse.

    Within ten seconds, Naiai picks up the call, but her voice sounds different this time¡ªlike someone who¡¯s just been crying. I know that tone all too well. I¡¯ve mastered it in my performances.

    ¡°Yes, Ms. Grace?¡±

    ¡°Naiai,¡± I begin, my tone calm but different¡ªlighter, almost.

    ¡°Take my private jet and have yourself a vacation, okay? I hear Italy is good this time of year.¡±

    There¡¯s a pause on the other end of the line. Naiai is clearly shocked, and I can almost hear the confusion in her silence. After all, I¡¯ve never given her a vacation. She¡¯s never asked for one, either. She knows the job, and I¡¯ve never made space for breaks. But she deserves it, I suppose. She¡¯s earned it.

    ¡°Are you sure, Ms. Grace? What about tomorrow¡¯s Gala?¡± Naiai asks, her voice filled with uncertainty, probably trying to make sense of my sudden change in attitude.

    ¡°I¡¯ll handle it myself. Don¡¯t worry,¡± I reply with an air of confidence, waving a hand as if she could see me dismissing the concern.

    ¡°Just take the time off.¡±

    The hesitation is palpable, but I don¡¯t wait for her to respond. I nod to Roman.

    ¡°Transfer one billion credits to Naiai¡¯s account.¡±

    That¡¯s my payment from my last movie, but I can afford to lose it, I have many more billion of credit on my bank.

    Roman¡¯s voice confirms immediately, ¡°Done.¡±

    ¡°Naiai, use all of that money. Don¡¯t come back to work until it¡¯s gone. Enjoy yourself. Take your time. When you¡¯ve spent every last credit, then you can think about coming back. Until then, consider it a long vacation.¡±

    There¡¯s stunned silence on the other end of the call. She¡¯s probably still processing what I just said, and I don¡¯t blame her. I¡¯ve never done anything like this before. But I don¡¯t dwell on it.

    Without waiting for her response, I say, ¡°Bye,¡± and hang up the phone, not giving her a chance to protest or ask any more questions.

    ¡°You sure you¡¯re not acting?¡± Roman¡¯s voice cuts through with a cold, calculated tone, the same way he always delivers his observations.

    I chuckle softly. ¡°Not this time.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s genuine appreciation, actually,¡± I say, surprising even myself a little. Then, without much thought, I add, ¡°Her parents passed away yesterday.¡±

    There¡¯s a brief pause as if Roman is processing the information. ¡°I see,¡± he responds, his voice still flat but with a faint trace of understanding¡ªat least, as much as an AI can understand. ¡°She¡¯s worked for you for ten years, yet this is the first time you¡¯ve been... nice to her.¡±

    I let that sink in for a moment, Roman¡¯s blunt observation hanging in the air.

    Well, I think to myself, maybe there¡¯s a first time for everything.

    ¡°Anyway, Roman, that¡¯s it for me,¡± I say, standing up from the velvet sofa. ¡°Bring my sleeping capsule to the bed. I¡¯m heading off early tonight. I¡¯ve been working non-stop for the past two days. I deserve it. I need to be fresh tomorrow morning.¡±

    ¡°Understood,¡± Roman replies as I head toward the luxurious bedroom, my steps slow and relaxed, already feeling the weight of the past days starting to lift.

    By the time I reach the bed, the sleeping capsule is already waiting for me on the bedside table, its soft glow illuminating the room in a subtle, calming light. I take the capsule, downing it with a sip of water, feeling the familiar calm wash over me as it begins to take effect.

    I sink into my bed, the soft, high-thread-count sheets cocooning me in comfort. Within moments, my eyes drift shut, and I feel my body relax into the mattress.

    The world fades, and I wake up the next morning refreshed and ready to tackle the day. Bright-eyed, flawless, and ready for the Gala.

    ¡°Good morning, Ava,¡± Roman¡¯s voice greets me the moment I stir awake. ¡°Your breakfast is ready on the table. So is your dress for tonight.¡± I blink a few times, the comfort of my bed making it hard to get up, but Roman¡¯s gentle prodding continues.

    ¡°I recommend an hour of running on the treadmill, followed by one hour of yoga. Don¡¯t forget to take your pill and check your email. It seems Naiai sent you something.¡±

    I stretch, feeling the soft luxury of the sheets beneath me before finally swinging my legs out of bed. Time to get back to routine. As always, Roman has everything in order. My eyes flick to the dress hanging nearby¡ªstunning, as expected¡ªand the breakfast laid out on the table, prepared perfectly.

    ¡°Naiai?¡± I mutter, still a little groggy. What could she have sent? My curiosity is piqued, but I must first follow Roman¡¯s carefully crafted schedule. The treadmill, yoga, pills¡ªeverything has its place.

    As I follow Roman¡¯s schedule¡ªrunning on the treadmill, then transitioning into my yoga routine¡ªI listen to a podcast in the background, the familiar sound of news anchors discussing recent events. Unsurprisingly, most of it is about me. My newest film and the speech in Hawaii seem to be covering every media outlet across the globe. It¡¯s always the same. Public opinion keeps rising in my favor, even though I¡¯m already at the top. Where else is there to go?

    By the time I¡¯m deep into my yoga session, the news shifts to something more... interesting. They start talking about the passing of Dr. Valor, raising questions about security protocols. How could the best doctor in the world, protected by the finest systems the Premier Society has to offer, be killed in his own home?

    I pause for a moment, holding a pose, feeling a flicker of curiosity. If someone like him isn¡¯t safe, what does that mean for the rest of us?

    After my yoga, as I sit down for lunch, the news changes again, this time to the disappearance of Tobias Kane and his wife. At first, I assumed he was just off somewhere in the mountains, training or isolating himself, as he often does. But now, even his trainer and manager have no idea where he¡¯s gone. The mystery deepens, but I shrug it off. He¡¯ll turn up. He always does.

    Even if he¡¯s in danger. I¡¯m sure he could manage himself just fine. I watched him fight the Brazilian fighter the other day. He¡¯s called the number one fighter for a reason. I feel bad for Lisa, though, kinda like her.

    As I finish lunch, Roman alerts me that the therapist has arrived. I live alone, and I prefer it that way. I don¡¯t like strangers lingering around my home, not even my own servants. They come, do their tasks, and leave. So the therapist, too, knows the routine¡ªmassage, pedicure, manicure, hair care, everything to ensure I look glamorous for the Gala tonight.

    As I recline, enjoying the pampering, the podcast shifts once more to the state of the world¡ªthe unemployment rate is soaring, poverty lines are getting worse.

    I roll my eyes. Like I care.

    If someone can¡¯t afford to live, that¡¯s not society¡¯s problem. That¡¯s their problem. Maybe they should try being better at something.

    The therapist¡¯s hands continue their work, kneading away any tension I may have had as the news continues to drone on in the background, but my mind is already on the Gala. That¡¯s the only thing that matters today.

    As the time for the Gala draws near, Roman¡¯s voice reminds me, calm and efficient as always.

    ¡°It¡¯s time to get ready, Ava.¡±

    I nod, and the servants enter the room, along with the makeup artist Roman arranged. They move quickly and skillfully, dressing me in the Valentino couture gown, cinching every detail to perfection. The makeup artist carefully applies the bold yet elegant look¡ªred lips and a smoky eye¡ªjust as Roman had instructed.

    They fawn over me, their words flowing as easily as their hands. ¡°You look fabulous, Ms. Grace,¡± one of them says. The others nod in agreement, echoing the sentiment.

    When everything is done, I stand in front of the mirror, and for a moment, even I have to admit it¡ªI look perfect. The gown clings to me in all the right places, and the makeup adds just the right amount of drama without being overdone¡ªexactly as it should be.

    I step out and enter my Aerocar, sleek and elegant, waiting to take me to the Gala in Paris tonight. I could¡¯ve taken the Teleporter¡ªit would have been faster¡ªbut the cameras will be waiting at the entrance. It¡¯s much more suitable for me to arrive in style, and the Aerocar is designed for just that.

    The AI system is flawless, the best driver anyone could have. I¡¯ll be at the Gala in half an hour, arriving exactly as I should¡ªin full view of the cameras.

    On my way to the Gala, I pull out my Nimbus, the holographic screen lighting up as I check my emails. One catches my eye¡ªNaiai¡¯s message.

    I open it, and the first thing I see is a series of pictures. She¡¯s in Milan, apparently, having a good time. There¡¯s a photo of her laughing, dressed in a simple shirt, standing in front of a quaint caf¨¦. She looks... cute, I suppose, in her own understated way. I study her outfit for a moment. Simple, yet beautiful. She has a knack for that¡ªpicking something effortless that still works.

    Maybe I could learn from her style. I never wear simple outfits, but it works for her. Maybe, just maybe, I could ask her opinion sometime, though I¡¯m not sure I¡¯d ever feel comfortable going for something less... extravagant.

    Then, I scroll down and see the email itself¡ªa long message filled with her gratitude. She¡¯s thanking me for the vacation, saying how much she appreciates it, and hoping for the best for me at the Gala tonight.

    It¡¯s thoughtful, almost... sweet.

    As the Aerocar glides silently toward Milan, I switch from my emails to social media, where my presence is unparalleled. I have the most followers in the world. Everyone knows who I am, from the President to the lowest members of society. And not just know me¡ªthey adore me.

    I may not be the richest¡ªthat title belongs to Voss. I¡¯m not the smartest, either¡ªthat would be Milady. But none of that matters because I hold everyone¡¯s heart with my acting, my performances, my so-called charity work. All of it carefully designed. None of it sincere. None of it genuine.

    Yet, as I glance out the window of the Aerocar, watching the cities pass beneath me, a strange thought crosses my mind. What do I actually want?

    I could have anything I desire in this world: the best dress, the best food, the best medicine, all at my fingertips. People worship me, they hang on every word I say, they cheer at every event I attend. But it feels... empty. Hollow, even.

    Sure, there¡¯s a flicker of fulfillment after finishing a great movie, or when I see a fan who genuinely adores me. That fleeting sense of accomplishment when I know I¡¯ve outperformed everyone else, once again cementing my place at the top.

    But is that it? Is that all there is?

    The thought lingers for just a moment before vanishing into thin air as the Aerocar touches down smoothly in front of the Adira Hall¡ªthe exclusive venue built specifically for the Premier Gala. Adira Hall is a masterpiece of modern architecture, its sleek black glass fa?ade rising high into the night sky, reflecting the glow of the city lights. The building itself is an embodiment of prestige¡ªsharp lines, towering spires, and gleaming surfaces, all meant to radiate exclusivity and power.

    I step out of the Aerocar, and in an instant, I¡¯m back. Ava Grace, the star. The one they all know. Hundreds of cameras flash in my face as soon as I set foot on the red carpet. I smile, turning my face to the right angle, posing just as they expect.

    The crowd erupts, thousands of fans cheering my name and waving banners. One banner catches my eye, held by a disabled teenage girl near the front. I seize the moment¡ªperfect for the cameras.

    I approach her, kneeling slightly to be on her level. Her eyes widen, frozen in disbelief. I smile warmly, reaching out to shake her hand. The crowd quiets for a moment, watching. I lean in, posing for a picture with her.

    Click. The moment is captured, immortalized. I know the media will eat this up¡ªAva Grace, the generous, caring celebrity. It¡¯s too easy.

    I straighten up, flashing one more smile to the crowd before entering Adira Hall.

    Inside, the space is just as grand as ever. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, casting shimmering light across the polished marble floors. It¡¯s filled with only the world¡¯s most elite. My eyes scan the room, recognizing a few familiar faces.

    Jean-Luc Cartier, the number one architect in the world, stands by the bar, sipping on a glass of champagne. He¡¯s designed Adira Hall and countless other landmarks across the globe. We worked together once when I sponsored the opening of one of his buildings¡ªa great PR move. He¡¯s always been polite but distant, focused on his craft more than the glamour.

    To my left, I spot Luca Ferrara, the number one fashion designer. He¡¯s responsible for several of my gowns over the years, including the one I¡¯m wearing tonight. Luca and I have always had a good relationship¡ªwe understand each other¡¯s importance in this world. His talent, my image. A perfect match.

    And there, by the grand staircase, is Matteo Gianni, the number one director. He¡¯s directed three of my most successful films, and we¡¯ve shared countless red carpets together. We both know how much we owe each other¡¯s careers. His movies brought me more prestige, and my performances made his films unforgettable.

    I nod to a few of them, exchanging smiles and pleasantries as I glide through the hall, already feeling the eyes of the room on me.

    As I glide through the hall, someone steps in front of me, blocking my path with an easy, confident smile. Sebastian Vale, the number one racer in the world. He¡¯s fresh off a win¡ªsomething like a grand championship, I think. The details don¡¯t matter. He¡¯s always winning something.

    ¡°Ava,¡± he greets me, his grin wide and a little too familiar.

    ¡°You look absolutely stunning tonight.¡± His eyes travel up and down my gown, lingering a second too long.

    ¡°I¡¯ve got to say, it¡¯s not every day I see a woman who can turn heads like that and still be the most talented person in the room.¡±

    I know that look. I¡¯ve seen it a thousand times. He doesn¡¯t care about the gown or the talent. He wants me. But that¡¯s no surprise. They all do.

    ¡°Sebastian,¡± I reply, my voice smooth and detached, offering him the polite smile I reserve for situations like these.

    He steps closer, dropping his voice slightly as if trying to be charming.

    ¡°You know, I¡¯ve been thinking. I just won the Grand Prix, and all the victory parties are great and all, but they¡¯d be even better with someone like you by my side.¡± He leans in, his voice turning playful.

    ¡°What do you say? You and me? We¡¯d be quite the pair.¡±

    I glance at him, completely uninterested. He¡¯s handsome, sure. But I¡¯ve seen this before¡ªthe same lines, the same ego. Another man trying to catch the attention of Ava Grace, trying to score the ultimate prize. It¡¯s boring, really.

    ¡°That¡¯s nice, Sebastian,¡± I say, brushing off his comment without skipping a beat. I offer him a thin smile, not even trying to hide the lack of interest.

    ¡°But I think you¡¯re fine on your own. Enjoy your victory.¡±

    He looks a little taken aback, but he laughs it off like he can¡¯t quite believe I¡¯m not jumping at the chance.

    ¡°Well, if you ever change your mind, Ava,¡± he says, stepping back, ¡°you know where to find me.¡±

    ¡°Of course,¡± I reply lightly, already moving past him.

    As I scan the Gala, my eyes land on the President of Finland. He¡¯s not a typical face in the Premier Society crowd, which makes his presence here a bit of a surprise. Must be Malleus¡¯s doing, likely in recognition of Finland¡¯s recent surge¡ªsomething about them boasting the highest GDP growth this year or some such accomplishment. What¡¯s more striking is how everyone else here is deeply engaged¡ªgrouped off in animated discussions, nodding at shared jokes, or laughing with their exclusive circles.

    And yet, here I am. Standing by myself, smiling as always. Half of the planet¡¯s population is my followers. But despite all that, despite being the center of every eye, I¡¯m alone. Usually, I¡¯d have Naiai by my side in moments like this. She¡¯s quiet and efficient, and I could always exchange a few words with her, if nothing else. But she¡¯s not here tonight.

    When Naiai wasn¡¯t around, I often found myself talking to Lisa, Tobias Kane¡¯s wife. I liked her, despite myself. She was simple, easy to be around. There was no performance with her, no pretense. But Lisa¡¯s not here either.

    And now, surrounded by the most important people on Earth, I feel it¡ªa deep, unfamiliar feeling.

    I feel alone.

    But thankfully, the Gala finally begins. The grand doors close softly behind me, and the buzz of conversation gradually fades away. The lights dim, casting the hall in a soft, ambient glow, and then the holo projectors flicker to life, filling the entire room with a stunning visual display, wrapping us in a 360-degree world of holographic imagery.

    And then, the voice comes. A voice I know all too well.

    Malleus.

    ¡°Welcome, the best of the world. Welcome to Premier Society,¡± Malleus¡¯ familiar voice booms through the hall. The screens surrounding us immediately translate his words into multiple languages, as not everyone in the Premier Society speaks English. While Malleus speaks to us in English, the holoscreens display captions in French, Mandarin, Russian, and countless other languages, ensuring everyone understands.

    ¡°We are here gathered today to celebrate this annual event, the Premier Gala. The celebration is only for the best in the world.¡±

    His words reverberate through the hall, and I glance at the faces around me. The elite, the untouchable¡ªall of them, like me, the best at what they do. Malleus¡¯ voice holds us all in a strange kind of reverence. We are the chosen, and he never lets us forget it.

    ¡°However, before we begin the event, I would like to introduce you to our newest member this year¡ª Lucien Moreau, the number one chef in the world.¡±

    A spotlight flickers to life, casting a soft glow on Lucien, standing among the crowd. He bows deeply, clearly trying to contain his nerves, though they¡¯re written all over his face. It¡¯s expected¡ªa moment like this would unnerve anyone, even the best.

    The light shifts as Malleus¡¯ voice fills the hall again, this time colder, more detached.

    ¡°Now, onto more serious matters. As many of you are aware, we have recently lost Dr. Valor, the number-one doctor in the world. Despite the security measures in place, his death occurred within his home. Investigations are under¡ªinvestigations are¡ª¡± The slightest pause. A flicker in the holo display, barely noticeable.

    ¡°¡ªunderway.¡±

    ¡°Furthermore, we have also received reports regarding the disappearance of Tobias Kane, the number one fighter. His location remains unknown, and even those closest to him have no information regarding his whereabouts.¡±

    ¡°But let¡¯s all forget that,¡± Malleus¡¯ voice continues, smooth and authoritative, ¡°because today is the day we are going to have fun and enjoy the world.¡±

    ¡°We are the ones who shape this world,¡± Malleus proclaims, his voice booming with authority, echoing through the hall. The screens flicker to life, showcasing images of our achievements¡ªthe breakthroughs that have changed the world. We have changed the world.

    ¡°When I first founded the Premier Society with Milady Madelyn,¡± Malleus continues, ¡°we had one goal: to take humanity to the next level. To build a world where the best were elevated to their rightful place.¡±

    ¡°Everything we built,¡± Malleus continues, ¡°was for the society, for humanity. This is not just about you being the best¡ªit¡¯s about being the ones who carry the weight of the future. You are the pinnacle of progress. We have made the world better, and together, we will continue to shape it.¡±

    The holo-screens flicker again, showcasing the triumphs of the Premier Society¡ªrevolutionary cures for diseases, new energy sources, the technology that has transformed daily life. Images of our accomplishments flash in rapid succession, each more breathtaking than the last. Medicine. Engineering. Entertainment.

    I see flashes of my own achievements on the screens, and a flicker of pride warms me. We are the ones everyone looks up to. The world depends on us, even if they don¡¯t realize it.

    Then, the screen shifts again, and Malleus¡¯ voice lowers, taking on a tone of subtle excitement.

    ¡°Now,¡± he begins, pausing for effect, ¡°I am pleased to introduce to you our next great project. Something that will redefine humanity¡¯s future.¡±

    The lights dim, and the holoscreens flicker once more. But this time, the image is different. The world we see is no longer Earth¡ªit¡¯s a barren, red rock¡ªMars.

    A murmur sweeps through the room, and I feel a shiver run down my spine. The image of Mars looms large, raw, and untamed, its surface desolate and alien. The crowd erupts into applause, and I feel the energy surge through the room.

    This isn¡¯t just some random announcement. It¡¯s Mars. They¡¯re not just shaping Earth anymore. They¡¯re about to shape another planet.

    ¡°Re-Home,¡± Malleus declares, as the holo-screens zoom in on detailed plans for colonization, for terraforming. The outlines of futuristic cities built into the craters of Mars flash before us, and for a moment, it feels like we¡¯re already there.

    ¡°I¡¯ll keep the details secret for now,¡± Malleus says, teasingly, drawing out the moment.

    ¡°There is more that Milady Madelyn and I need to discuss. But once this project is completed, you will be the first to claim Mars as your home.¡±

    The applause swells, and I can feel the excitement buzzing in the air. Mars. Of course, Milady would spearhead this¡ªwho else could dream of something so grand?

    I glance around the room, watching the others as they react. Most are giddy at the thought. I can see it in their eyes¡ªthey¡¯re already imagining themselves as pioneers, claiming land on a new planet. But for me? I don¡¯t care about Mars. Sure, it sounds impressive. But I like the spotlight right here, where I can see it¡ªon Earth.

    ¡°Now,¡± Malleus¡¯ voice shifts again as the crowd¡¯s applause begins to fade. ¡± Today, we are going to celebrate our...¡±

    There¡¯s a subtle glitch in his words. I blink, feeling an odd sense of unease as the glitch passes, but before I can process it, the music swells. The lights flicker once, then suddenly flood the room with vibrant flashes, transforming the grand hall into an enormous dance floor. The beat of the DJ¡¯s music starts pounding, and strobes flicker like it¡¯s a nightclub.

    The crowd immediately cheers, throwing their hands in the air as the music takes over. Many of them launch into dance, embracing the moment like it¡¯s a celebration. Even I find myself caught in the energy of it all, my body moving in sync with the beat. I could use the release.

    But then, over the pulsing rhythm of the music, I hear his voice again, but it¡¯s different. Not the smooth, reassuring tone we all know. It¡¯s darker, hoarser, almost like an animalistic growl.

    ¡°Massacre.¡±

    I freeze, my heart skipping a beat.

    The party continues, the lights flash, the music blares, and people around me are still dancing, oblivious. But I stand there, motionless, as the word echoes in my mind.

    Then the world changed.

    One moment, we¡¯re all dancing, the music pulsing, the lights flashing. And then¡ªchaos.

    I hear the first scream, sharp and bloodcurdling, cutting through the music. It¡¯s followed by a gunshot, the deafening crack ricocheting through the hall. The air shifts, and suddenly, everything turns upside down. People who had been dancing just moments ago are now being gunned down. A spray of bullets tears through the crowd, heads snapping back, blood splattering the pristine floor.

    I see bodies drop in quick succession. Sebastian is the first familiar face I spot, lying lifeless, a clean shot through his head. Nearby, Luca Ferrara, once the picture of confidence, crumples, blood pooling around him. Lucien Moreau, the chef Malleus just introduced, is writhing on the floor, clutching his stomach. His hands are slick with blood, his face twisted in agony as he cries for help. But his voice is drowned out, lost in the overwhelming panic and the sounds of people screaming and rushing for the exits.

    I try to move, but the stampede of bodies surging toward the doors overwhelms me. Someone steps on my dress, pinning me down. I¡¯m trampled, the pain shooting through me as I hit the floor. The once-elegant gown I¡¯m wearing now feels like a trap, torn and dirtied, holding me in place.

    I manage to lift my head, my vision blurry with fear and shock. Amid the chaos, I see them¡ªa group of men dressed in black, their faces covered with masks, holding automatic rifles. The kind I¡¯ve seen in action films, ones I¡¯ve used in my own movies. But this time, it¡¯s not a set. This is real.

    They¡¯re moving with precision, shooting anyone in sight. Some people manage to escape, fleeing out the doors, but many more don¡¯t make it. Bodies pile up around me, the floor now slick with blood.

    The music gets louder, thumping in my ears, drowning out the screams and gunfire. The holo projections that had once translated Malleus¡¯ words have vanished, and so has Malleus. It¡¯s as though he was never there. The world feels distorted, unreal¡ªexcept for the blood on the floor and the bodies lying around me.

    I see one of the attackers approaching, his rifle raised, pointing directly at me. The crowd is gone or dead. There¡¯s only a handful of us left, scattered and terrified, and I know this is it. I¡¯m going to die.

    For the first time in as long as I can remember, fear grips me. I try to move, but my body is frozen, my heart hammering against my ribs. All the things I¡¯ve done, the things I never cared about, rush back to me.

    I think of the people I¡¯ve used, the moments I¡¯ve performed but never really lived. I have everything, yet nothing. The wealth, the fame, the admiration¡ªit feels empty now, like a hollow shell that can¡¯t protect me. I¡¯ve spent so much time pretending, hiding behind a facade, but now, lying here, helpless, I realize how little it¡¯s all meant.

    Naiai. Lisa. The few people who showed me some version of care, of something real¡ªand I barely noticed. I should¡¯ve been different. I could¡¯ve been different. But now, it¡¯s too late.

    The man is standing over me now, his gun pointed at my chest. I close my eyes, ready for the inevitable. This is it.

    But instead of the crack of a gunshot, I feel something unexpected¡ªa hand.

    I open my eyes, startled, as the man lowers his gun and reaches down. His gloved hand extends toward me. He¡¯s helping me up.

    I stare, not quite believing what¡¯s happening. Slowly, I take his hand, and he pulls me to my feet.

    When he speaks, his voice is inhuman and distorted, like it¡¯s coming from a machine. Voice-modulator, maybe.

    ¡°Thank you for your help in Hawaii. We really appreciate it,¡± he says, his tone cold but strangely respectful. He leans down and pats the dirt off my dress, his movements eerily gentle for someone who just helped slaughter a room full of people.

    ¡°You¡¯ll be safe, Ava. We will not hurt you.¡±

    He pauses for a moment, looking me directly in the eyes.

    ¡°You are one of us.¡±

    And in that moment, something shatters inside me. I¡¯ve spent my entire life acting, pretending, performing for cameras, for crowds, for the world. But here, now¡ªI feel real. The emotions I¡¯ve faked for so long finally break through, and for the first time in my life, I let go.

    I collapse, falling to my knees on the bloodstained floor, tears streaming down my face. I sob so hard it feels like my chest is caving in. I¡¯m not sure why I¡¯m crying. Relief? Fear? A mixture of everything. But I feel saved.

    This is what the victims in Hawaii must have felt when they saw me¡ªthe hope, the gratitude, the belief that someone, anyone, could make things better. And now, as I look up at this masked man, I realize he¡¯s my savior. He¡¯s the one who¡¯s keeping me alive, sparing me when everyone else around me has been slaughtered.

    All the acting, all the pretending to care¡ªit¡¯s what saved me from death today. This group, whoever they are, sees me as an angel, as something pure and untouchable. And in their eyes, that¡¯s enough to spare me.

    I don¡¯t know who they are, what they want, or why they¡¯ve done this. But right now, all I know is that they¡¯ve saved me.

    ¡°We came here to eliminate the Premier Society, but you¡¯ll be spared,¡± the man says, his voice still distorted, alien.

    ¡°Your help to the lower society has been a massive help to us. We owe you our lives.¡±

    Before I can fully process his words, I hear the sharp crack of a gunshot nearby. Someone collapses just a few feet away, but I don¡¯t know who¡ªit could¡¯ve been anyone. At this point, faces and names blur together in my mind. I look around and see about ten of them, all armed with automatic rifles, methodically sweeping through the hall. The once pristine ballroom is a battlefield now, bodies strewn across the floor, blood soaking the expensive marble.

    Out of the corner of my eye, I notice movement¡ªsomeone hiding on the balcony, crouched in the shadows. It¡¯s hard to tell who it is, but they¡¯re definitely trying to stay out of sight, trembling in fear.

    ¡°Sorry for creating such chaos,¡± the man in front of me says, his voice almost apologetic.

    ¡°We should¡¯ve told you not to come.¡±

    He kneels down in front of me, his mask still on, and reaches out, wiping my tears with his gloved hand. It feels surreal¡ªthis man, who¡¯s been part of this massacre, comforting me like I¡¯m some sort of saint.

    ¡°We, the lower society, love you,¡± he whispers, as if that fact alone justifies everything happening around us.

    But before I can react, a loud bang pierces the air. His head explodes in front of me, the force of the bullet sending fragments of skull and brain splattering onto my face and dress. The warm blood splashes across my skin, soaking me in a wave of his life.

    I try to scream, but nothing comes out. My mouth opens, but my voice is gone, stolen by the horror of what just happened. I¡¯m drenched in his blood, his body collapsing in front of me, and all I can do is sit there, frozen, my heart pounding in my ears.

    As I sit there, frozen in shock, still drenched in blood, I catch movement again. My eyes dart across the hall as one man bursts into view, his rifle raised. Three quick, almost silent shots and three people from the terrorist group drop instantly, their bodies hitting the floor with sickening thuds.

    From another corner of the room, another figure emerges, but this man doesn¡¯t rush. Instead, he takes his time, walking with a cold precision, with cowboy hat on his head. His fingers wrapped around the smooth grip of another revolver. Each pull of the trigger is followed by a blindingly fast explosion of sound, and each shot finds its mark. Bodies crumple to the ground.

    The once glittering ballroom is now a full-blown battlefield again. The music blares on in the background, out of place, mixing with the sound of rapid gunfire. People scream, trying to flee, but the bodies keep falling, dead before they hit the ground.

    From the balcony, a third figure moves into view, almost unnoticed at first. A sniper. His shots are precise, picking off the last members of the group with terrifying efficiency. One after another, the terrorists fall, their numbers rapidly dwindling under the skill of these three unknown forces.

    Within less than a minute, the chaos dies down. The once-vicious terrorist group is completely wiped out. The attackers who had wreaked havoc mere moments ago are now strewn across the floor, lifeless. So is the music, the disco light that dances on the floor. Now the hall is back to normal but eerily quiet.

    I sit there, trembling, not knowing who these three people are. My mind races¡ªcould they be security hired by Malleus? Are they here to save what¡¯s left of the Premier Society?

    But the only certainty in this horrific moment is that now, it¡¯s just me and these three strangers in the hall. And I have no idea what will happens next.

    ¡°Oi, what the fuck was that, mate?¡± the man with the rifle growls, his thick British accent cutting through the stillness that follows the chaos.

    ¡°Ain¡¯t got no clue, partner,¡± the cowboy replies, tipping his hat slightly, his revolver still smoking in his hand.

    ¡°Prob¡¯ly some damn fool group lookin¡¯ to stir up trouble.¡±

    The man with the rifle scowls and looks around, raising his voice to the empty hall.

    ¡°Malleus! You better answer this madness, mate!¡±

    But there was only silence, broken by the shaking of bodies and the dull throb of fear running through me. I grit my teeth, trying to steady myself, and manage to ask, ¡°Who are you guys?¡±

    The man with the rifle just glances at me from across the hall, his eyes hard but unreadable. But the cowboy¡ªhe starts walking toward me, his boots clinking softly against the blood-stained floor. A big, easy grin spreads across his face like this whole scene doesn¡¯t bother him in the slightest.

    ¡°Well now, you must be Ava,¡± he says, his drawl slow and steady.

    ¡°Seen ya on the telly, reckon you¡¯re even prettier in person. Though you look more bloody.¡± He tips his hat slightly, still grinning.

    ¡°Name¡¯s Arthur Marston, ma¡¯am. Folks call me the number one gunslinger.¡±

    He extends his hand, and I stare at it for a second before reaching out. His grip is strong but gentle as he helps me stand up. Through my bloodied, tear-filled eyes, I can still see that smile of his¡ªunshaken and calm, even after all this madness.

    ¡°That right there¡¯s Victor Graves,¡± Arthur says, still grinning as he nods toward the man with the rifle. ¡°Number one agent in the world. He¡¯s worked for the CIA, FBI, MI6¡ªhell, any big-shot country, he¡¯s been their man.¡±

    Victor raises his hand in a casual greeting, his British accent slipping through as he says, ¡°Pleasure.¡±

    Arthur continues, pointing behind me.

    ¡°And that fella over yonder? That¡¯s Ivan Volkov, the number one sniper.¡± Ivan, slinging his sniper rifle over his shoulder, gives me a subtle nod.

    I stand there, trying to process it all. This is beyond weird¡ªit¡¯s surreal. Never, in my wildest dreams, did I imagine being soaked in the blood of some lower-society terrorist, surrounded by the deadliest killers in the world. What the fuck is going on?

    ¡°Tobias should be here,¡± Arthur drawls, his grin still firmly in place.

    ¡°Betcha he¡¯d take down all these fellas with his bare hands, but alas, the man¡¯s still missin¡¯. Hope he¡¯s doin¡¯ alright, though.¡± He spits out the words like he¡¯s talking about an old friend who¡¯s just run off somewhere, not the number one fighter on Earth who¡¯s vanished without a trace.

    Then, Victor steps in, his tone sharp and clipped. ¡°I see one of those blokes was talking to you before he was shot. Spared you, didn¡¯t he?¡± His eyes narrow as he studies me.

    ¡°So tell me, lady¡ªare you one of them?¡±

    ¡°One of them?¡± I ask, unable to keep the disgust from curling through my voice. Me¡ªthe number one celebrity in the world¡ªbeing compared to these pieces of shit? I could feel the bile rising in my throat.

    ¡°I¡¯d rather die than be equal to them, so watch your words,¡± I glare at Victor, but he doesn¡¯t flinch. To him, I¡¯m probably just some pampered little thing, nothing to take seriously. His cold eyes regard me like I¡¯m a cute puppy throwing a tantrum.

    Arthur, on the other hand, looks genuinely puzzled, his brows knitting together beneath the brim of his hat.

    ¡°Thought you were a savior, ma¡¯am.¡± He tips his head toward the dead terrorists on the floor.

    ¡°Saw you on the telly in Hawaii; looked like you really cared ¡¯bout them.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s all just an act. That¡¯s how I stay on top, how people love me. That¡¯s the reason I got spared today.¡±

    Arthur and Victor both nod as if that explanation makes perfect sense to them.

    ¡°Malleus, you better wake up and explain all of this, pal!¡± Victor shouts into the emptiness, his voice echoing off the blood-streaked walls.

    A buzzing sound cuts through the hall, and a second later, Malleus flickers back to life. His voice, usually smooth and commanding, is now tinged with static.

    ¡°It appears I have malfunctioned,¡± Malleus says, his tone oddly mechanical, even more than usual.

    ¡°Yeah, we can tell,¡± Arthur mutters, tipping his hat and throwing me a wink, like this whole disaster is just another day to him.

    ¡°Eighteen of the best in the world died today,¡± Malleus continues, emotionless.

    ¡°All because my security team could not stop these ten terrorists. The leader, the one that Ivan shot in the head and whose brain is now on Ava¡¯s dress¡ªhis name was Dimitri Koslov, a taxi driver from the lower society. The rest of them were also from lower society.¡±

    My mind reels as the information sinks in. Eighteen of the top in their field¡ªgone. People like me. And taken out by some random lower-society taxi driver? The blood on my dress feels heavier, more nauseating.

    ¡°It seems someone was able to hack into my system, weakening me,¡± Malleus admits, his voice stuttering slightly with the static.

    I stand there, stunned. Malleus, the pinnacle of our world, the one who holds everything together, the gatekeeper of society itself¡ªhacked? How is that even possible? By who?

    Arthur scratches his chin, looking a bit more serious now.

    ¡°Now that¡¯s a hell of a thing.¡±

    ¡°Thank you for saving the rest of us,¡± Malleus continues, his voice still glitching slightly.

    ¡°I¡¯ve transferred each three of you 10 billion credits to your bank accounts.¡±

    The three men in front of me¡ªArthur, Victor, and Ivan¡ªall pull out their Nimbus devices, checking their balances almost at the same time. The faint glow of the holographic screens reflects on their faces, and I can see their expressions shift from cold professionalism to subtle satisfaction.

    ¡°But this is far from over,¡± Malleus adds, the tone dropping lower.

    ¡°I need the three of you for a mission. Directly from me.¡±

    They look up, sharp and focused.

    ¡°Find whoever is responsible for these lower-society terrorists,¡± Malleus continues, his voice back to its commanding smoothness. ¡°Put a stop to them.¡±

    A weight seems to settle over the room, even over the chaos that still lingers.

    ¡°This one is not for me or for you,¡± Malleus says, the chilling authority returning to his voice.

    ¡°But for society.¡±

    The three men exchange glances, knowing exactly what¡¯s being asked of them.

    ¡°I¡¯ll accept,¡± Ivan says first, his voice rough and heavy, each word sounding like it takes effort. It¡¯s clear English isn¡¯t his first language, and he¡¯s struggling a bit to get it out.

    ¡°Me too,¡± Arthur adds, spinning his revolver smoothly before sliding it back into its holster with a practiced motion, that same easy grin on his face.

    ¡°You know I¡¯ll accept it,¡± Victor chimes in, as though the decision had already been made before Malleus even finished speaking.

    ¡°Thank you, heroes,¡± Malleus responds, his voice regaining its usual control.

    ¡°I¡¯ll send you the details and the intel I¡¯ve gathered ever since they killed Dr. Valor.¡±

    Then, for the first time since the chaos unfolded, he finally regards me. I stand there, still soaked in blood, my body shivering uncontrollably. The adrenaline, the fear¡ªit¡¯s all too much. All I want is to go home, sink into a hot bath and pretend none of this ever happened.

    ¡°And for you, my dear Ava,¡± Malleus says, his tone somehow both dismissive and commanding.

    ¡°You may go home.¡±

    Good.

    <hr>

    To be continued...

 Milady Madelyn

    The hum of quantum processors fills the air as we stand around the Zero-Point Energy Generator hologram, a swirling projection of equations and energy fields. The model rotates slowly, its blue-white light flickering across the lab as equations dance in mid-air. It¡¯s all there, in the numbers. The answer lies in unlocking the vacuum energy trapped within the very fabric of space-time¡ªenergy that can¡¯t be seen, touched, or measured by conventional means. But once we crack this, we¡¯ll have solved one of the universe¡¯s most fundamental riddles. Infinite energy, drawn directly from the quantum vacuum, the space between particles. Free energy from nothing.

    Elliot, predictably, is stuck on the wrong approach.

    ¡°The system will hold,¡± Elliot insists, tapping at the edge of his virtual interface.

    ¡°If we can maintain quantum coherence across the vacuum field, the fluctuations won¡¯t collapse the energy extraction. We just need to tweak the isolation matrix.¡±

    His optimism is misguided, as always. Coherence isn¡¯t enough here, not when dealing with a quantum field. Coherence implies control, and control is an illusion in a system as inherently unstable as the one we¡¯re building. What we¡¯re working on is not about controlling the universe¡ªit¡¯s about understanding it and then letting it unfold. The universe is not clean or orderly. It¡¯s messy, chaotic. But it follows the rules.

    This is what they don¡¯t understand¡ªwhy they falter, why their calculations fall short. They think we¡¯re working on a power generator¡ªa glorified energy source to replace fossil fuels or nuclear reactors. But this isn¡¯t just about powering the world. This is about proving that vacuum energy exists, that we can tap into the limitless reservoir of power that fills every inch of space-time. The moment we prove this works, humanity will no longer be tethered to the old ways of thinking.

    Energy scarcity? Gone. The struggle for resources? Obsolete. If I succeed, the Zero-Point Energy Generator will be the last technological breakthrough we¡¯ll ever need. It will reshape everything¡ªsociety, industry, politics. It will fuel the future.

    I shake my head at Elliot. His obsession with elegance blinds him to the real challenge. He¡¯s still thinking in terms of controlling a quantum system, trying to impose order where there is none.

    ¡°No,¡± I say, cutting in.

    ¡°You¡¯re ignoring the vacuum fluctuation theorem. Quantum fluctuations aren¡¯t just noise. They¡¯re the very source of the energy we¡¯re trying to extract. If we don¡¯t stabilize the fluctuations, they¡¯ll overwhelm the containment field, and the system will implode.¡±

    Elliot stops, his hand hovering mid-air over the hologram. He frowns, clearly frustrated. It¡¯s not the first time. We¡¯ve been here before. His passion is admirable, but passion without precision leads to failure. I can¡¯t afford failure.

    Vacuum energy is¡­ elusive. It exists in the space between particles¡ªenergy that quantum fields create and destroy in the blink of an eye. The zero-point field, the lowest possible energy state, holds the key. In theory, it¡¯s infinite. In practice, harnessing it requires navigating an impossibly complex sea of quantum fluctuations. Those fluctuations are both the solution and the problem. Elliot wants to control them, but I know better. Control is an illusion.

    ¡°Quantum fluctuations aren¡¯t something we can simply smooth over,¡± I continue, adjusting the model.

    ¡°They¡¯re the engine of the system. Without them, there¡¯s no energy to extract. The fluctuations are the key to unlocking the field.¡±

    Layla steps in, ever the practical one, pointing out the obvious.

    ¡°She¡¯s right, Elliot. Even if we could maintain quantum coherence, the real issue is heat dissipation from the energy we¡¯re pulling. We¡¯re extracting energy from a quantum vacuum but at the cost of increasing entropy in the system.¡± She taps a section of the hologram, adjusting the thermal map.

    ¡°Without accounting for the energy loss to heat, we¡¯re essentially destabilizing the entire structure at a fundamental level.¡±

    I allow myself a small nod. Layla¡¯s right, of course. It¡¯s not just about keeping the fluctuations in check¡ªit¡¯s about what happens after the energy is extracted. The entropy problem. All energy systems produce heat, but we¡¯re operating on a quantum level, where heat becomes an existential threat to the system. Too much energy in one place, and the generator collapses, unable to sustain itself.

    ¡°Energy loss is inevitable,¡± I say.

    ¡°But it doesn¡¯t have to be wasted. If we can convert the heat generated by the system into something useful, we stabilize the entire structure. We¡¯re not just extracting energy from the vacuum¡ªwe¡¯re creating a closed loop.¡±

    Layla raises an eyebrow.

    ¡°Using the waste heat to stabilize the field? How exactly do you plan to do that?¡±

    I adjust the model with a flick of my wrist.

    ¡°Quantum tunneling. We create micro-channels within the energy field, redirecting the excess energy into those channels. The fluctuations stabilize themselves.¡±

    The words spill out effortlessly, but the math behind them is staggering. Quantum tunneling¡ªparticles appearing on one side of an energy barrier without having physically crossed it¡ªhas been observed on a small scale. What I¡¯m proposing is¡­ larger. More dangerous. But if it works, it solves everything. The system stabilizes, and we can tap into the zero-point field without risking collapse.

    ¡°So, quantum tunneling on that scale,¡± Elliot says, rubbing his chin. ¡°It¡¯s risky, but¡­ I guess that¡¯s why we¡¯re here, isn¡¯t it?¡±

    ¡°Run the numbers, Layla,¡± I say. ¡°We¡¯ll adjust the parameters and run the final test.¡±

    This isn¡¯t just about testing a theory. This is the test. After this, there¡¯s nothing left to prove. We¡¯ll have infinite energy. Energy to power the stars, energy to break the chains of limited resources. Energy to fuel the next generation of human expansion¡ªto Mars, to the moons of Jupiter, to the edge of the solar system.

    Everything begins here.

    Layla finishes her adjustments and steps back, stretching her arms above her head, a satisfied grin on her face.

    ¡°Alright, everything¡¯s set. Ready for the test?¡± she asks, but then adds, with a smirk, ¡°Or should I say, ready to blow it all up?¡±

    Elliot groans immediately, rolling his eyes.

    ¡°Really, Layla? You¡¯ve been sitting on that one for how long? We¡¯re trying to stabilize a quantum field, not launch fireworks.¡±

    Layla chuckles, clearly pleased with herself.

    ¡°Oh come on, you know I had to say it.¡±

    I blink at them, glancing between the two. Blow it all up? What does she mean? There¡¯s nothing in the model that would cause an explosion unless the containment field fails catastrophically¡ªwhich it won¡¯t. And anyway, we¡¯re working in a quantum vacuum, not with combustion engines. I pause, trying to work out if I missed something in the calculations.

    ¡°Blow it up?¡± I ask, genuinely puzzled.

    ¡°That¡¯s not possible, unless you¡¯re referring to a field collapse, but that would result in system failure, not an explosion.¡±

    Elliot snorts, while Layla just shakes her head, amused.

    ¡°It¡¯s a joke, Madelyn,¡± Layla says with a grin.

    ¡°Oh,¡± I reply, and after a beat, add, ¡°I see.¡±

    But I don¡¯t, not really. Why would anyone joke about that?

    Layla chuckles again, giving Elliot a look.

    ¡°She really doesn¡¯t get it, does she?¡±

    Elliot sighs, shaking his head but with a fond smile.

    ¡°Never. We tried for years.¡±

    I look between them, still unsure what¡¯s so funny. But that¡¯s fine. Jokes are another one of those things that seem to entertain people, but I¡¯ve never quite understood the point. I suppose if the universe made sense, jokes would too.

    ¡°Anyway,¡± Layla says, still smiling, ¡°let¡¯s not actually blow it all up. Starting the test now.¡±

    She moves back to her station, fingers tapping rapidly on her interface, bringing the Zero-Point Energy Generator simulation to life.

    The simulation hums to life as Layla initiates the test. The holographic model flickers and stabilizes, showing the Zero-Point Energy Generator running through its phases. The containment field spins steadily, balancing the quantum fluctuations as we expected.

    For a brief moment, everything seems perfect.

    ¡°Yes!¡± Elliot¡¯s voice echoes across the lab as he punches the air, his excitement palpable. ¡°We¡¯ve done it! It¡¯s stable! We did it!¡±

    He¡¯s already celebrating, his eyes glued to the display. Expected. He¡¯s been working day and night on this project, so it¡¯s no surprise he¡¯d be emotional now that we¡¯re seeing the fruits of our labor.

    But something¡¯s not right. As I study the hologram, the numbers behind the simulation shift ever so slightly¡ªtoo slightly for someone like Elliot to notice, but not for me. And not for Layla, who¡¯s already frowning at the display, her fingers hovering near the control panel.

    ¡°Elliot, hold on,¡± Layla says quietly, her grin fading. ¡°Something¡¯s off.¡±

    The hologram flickers, just for a second, but enough to reveal the problem. The energy field isn¡¯t completely stable¡ªit¡¯s bleeding energy into the quantum tunneling channels faster than it should. Not enough to cause an immediate collapse, but it¡¯s enough to destabilize the entire system in the long term.

    Elliot doesn¡¯t see it.

    ¡°What do you mean ¡®off¡¯?¡± Elliot asks, his smile vanishing as he glances between us. ¡°It¡¯s stable! Look, the containment field is holding.¡±

    He¡¯s not wrong, technically. The containment field is holding, but only barely. The fluctuations we¡¯re controlling are pushing against the quantum channels we¡¯ve created for tunneling. The system can¡¯t handle the overload.

    ¡°Layla, pause the simulation,¡± I say, my voice calm, my eyes already locked on the equations. Layla hits the control panel without hesitation. The model freezes in mid-motion, the energy field suspended in time.

    ¡°What are you talking about?¡± Elliot steps toward the model, bewildered. ¡°It¡¯s stable, I saw it¡ª¡±

    ¡°No, it¡¯s not,¡± I interrupt, already pulling up the relevant data on my interface. ¡°The containment field is draining energy faster than it should. Look here,¡± I tap a section of the hologram, zooming in on the quantum tunneling channels we¡¯ve created. ¡°The quantum tunneling is leaking more energy than we calculated. The field can¡¯t handle it, not for long.¡±

    Elliot stares at the display, his confusion quickly turning into frustration. ¡°Leaking energy? But the tunneling channels are supposed to redirect it¡ª¡±

    ¡°They are,¡± I say, cutting him off. ¡°But the problem is with the field¡¯s integrity. The fluctuations in the quantum field are introducing interference patterns that are causing the channels to destabilize.¡±

    Layla steps closer, pointing to the same section of the model. ¡°She¡¯s right. The interference is amplifying the energy flow. The system¡¯s trying to compensate by pushing more energy through the channels, but at this rate, it¡¯ll overload and collapse.¡±

    Elliot shakes his head. ¡°But that doesn¡¯t make sense. The channels are designed to handle quantum fluctuations¡ª¡±

    ¡°They can handle the fluctuations, but they can¡¯t handle the interference patterns those fluctuations are generating,¡± I explain. ¡°It¡¯s a ripple effect. The energy field is stable, but those ripples are creating feedback loops inside the tunneling channels. Eventually, the whole system will collapse under the pressure.¡±

    Elliot¡¯s expression shifts from disbelief to realization. He gets it now, but he¡¯s still upset. ¡°So¡­ what do we do? How do we fix it?¡±

    I glance at the data again, running through the numbers in my head. The solution comes to me quickly, as it always does. The answer is already in the math.

    ¡°We need to introduce a modulation function inside the quantum channels,¡± I say, tapping on my interface. ¡°If we can modulate the frequency of the tunneling channels, we can neutralize the interference patterns before they form.¡±

    Layla¡¯s eyes widen slightly, nodding as she follows the logic.

    ¡°Of course. By dynamically modulating the tunneling frequency, we can absorb the ripples before they have a chance to disrupt the system.¡±

    Elliot¡¯s brow furrows, but he¡¯s coming around.

    ¡°A modulation function... You¡¯re suggesting we oscillate the quantum tunneling rates to match the fluctuation frequencies?¡±

    ¡°Exactly,¡± I reply. ¡°If we sync the tunneling rates to the natural fluctuations, we neutralize the feedback loop and stabilize the energy flow. The containment field won¡¯t have to fight against the interference.¡±

    Layla inputs the modulation function into the hologram, adjusting the parameters.

    ¡°This should stabilize it. We¡¯ll need to recalibrate the field generators to accommodate the modulation, but it¡¯s doable.¡±

    Elliot sighs, his shoulders relaxing. ¡°Alright. Let¡¯s try it. One more time.¡±

    I nod. The solution is there. The universe is nothing but patterns and forces. And all we need is the right equation to make it behave.

    The simulation hums back to life again, the holographic display swirling with data as the Zero-Point Energy Generator runs through its updated cycle. This time, there¡¯s no flicker, no instability in the energy field. The quantum fluctuations flow smoothly, perfectly synchronized with the modulation function we¡¯ve introduced. The interference patterns vanish, absorbed into the newly adjusted tunneling channels. The field holds.

    The math is perfect.

    We did it.

    I watch the numbers dance across the screen, serene and controlled like the universe finally cooperating with our designs. Energy flows from the vacuum¡ªlimitless, infinite¡ªand, for the first time, humanity can access it without consequence. With this, we¡¯ve tapped into the zero-point field, the very fabric of space-time itself. A new era of energy production begins here, in this lab. No more fuel shortages, no more wars over resources, no more dependence on anything but the universe¡¯s endless energy.

    We¡¯ve solved the energy crisis. All those global problems about energy scarcity, geopolitical tensions over oil, even environmental concerns about the planet¡¯s limits¡ªnone of them matter anymore. We¡¯ve unlocked a future where energy is free. Where the world isn¡¯t constrained by resources but powered by the universe itself. This isn¡¯t just a solution for today. It¡¯s the key to everything.

    While Elliot¡¯s too focused on the immediate success, I¡¯m already thinking about what this means for the bigger picture. Space travel, colonization of other planets, powering entire cities, maybe even creating new ones on Mars. This isn¡¯t just another discovery. This is the discovery. The one that changes everything.

    Elliot, predictably, can¡¯t contain himself.

    ¡°YES! We did it!¡± he shouts, loud enough to make my ears ring. He pumps his fists into the air, his grin splitting his face, and I can hear his voice echo through the lab. A few of our team members outside the glass walls of The Nexus glance over, but they should¡¯ve expected it. He always shouts when he succeeds, as if volume equates to significance.

    Layla, ever the stabilizing force, looks at me and nods, her expression as steady as her calculations. She¡¯s not one for grand gestures or loud celebrations, but there¡¯s a quiet pride in her eyes. She¡¯s done her part, as always. And now it¡¯s done.

    ¡°Nice work, Milady,¡± she says softly, simple but sincere.

    I nod back. Layla¡¯s always solid, a grounding presence. We make a good team, in that way. She keeps things practical while I reach for the outermost edges of possibility. Elliot provides the passion, but Layla and I are the ones who hold the structure together.

    Outside, Elliot is still shouting, calling out to the others, even though I¡¯m not sure who he¡¯s talking to anymore. It¡¯s fine. Let him enjoy it. This is what he works for¡ªthe celebration, the recognition. For me, though? This is just another step.

    ¡°Wanna take lunch with me?¡± Layla asks, a faint smile on her face as she pulls her hair back into a loose knot. I nod silently. I don¡¯t feel the need to speak more than necessary. Besides, it¡¯s not unusual¡ªLayla asks me to lunch most days.

    Before heading out to lunch, I turn back to my console, where Leo, my AI companion, hovers as a translucent interface, waiting for further instructions. For most people, even those in Premier Society, their AI companion can only reside at their home. But Malleus gives me enough privilege to take my AI companion anywhere I wanted. He integrates it to my Nimbus.

    It¡¯s easy to rely on him, but there¡¯s always that nagging sense of... envy. He can do things I can¡¯t. He processes in nanoseconds what takes even my mind hours to work through.

    ¡°Leo, run the simulation a thousand times over while I¡¯m out,¡± I instruct. ¡°Stress-test the modulation and adjust for any fluctuation beyond the 0.01 threshold.¡±

    ¡°Understood, Milady. Running simulation sequence now,¡± Leo responds in his smooth, neutral tone. I know that by the time I get back, he¡¯ll have processed more data than I could hope to handle in a week. It¡¯s enviable, really¡ªhow simple it is for him to absorb and perfect information without error.

    Leo wasn¡¯t my creation, though. Malleus had assigned him to me when I founded the Premier Society, claiming that Leo was the most advanced, most intelligent AI ever developed. His name¡ªLeonardo¡ªwas meant to honor the brilliance of Leonardo da Vinci, the human mind considered the pinnacle of creativity and intellect for centuries.

    Malleus once told me that I¡¯d overtaken Da Vinci¡¯s title as the brightest human on the planet. I disagree. Da Vinci could do things I can¡¯t. He could paint the Mona Lisa, craft mechanical wonders, design marvels that no one else could even dream of. I can calculate the universe, but I¡¯ve never painted something beautiful. I¡¯ve never sculpted a work of art that could stir the human soul.

    I¡¯m brilliant, maybe, but there are still things beyond me.

    ¡°Shall I alert you if any anomalies arise?¡± Leo asks, bringing me back from my thoughts.

    ¡°Only if they threaten the system,¡± I reply, stepping away from the console.

    ¡°Understood,¡± Leo replies again, ever efficient, ever diligent.

    With that, I follow Layla toward the cafeteria. Leo will handle everything. He always does.

    We walk in companionable silence at first, but it doesn¡¯t last long. Layla starts the conversation, as always, with something light.

    ¡°Are you going to see the latest Ava Grace movie?¡± she asks. I can tell by her tone that it¡¯s casual, something meant to pass the time.

    ¡°Ava Grace?¡± I blink. ¡°Is she the actress?¡±

    Layla gives me a curious look, stifling a laugh.

    ¡°The most famous actress in the world. Yeah, that Ava Grace. Thought you¡¯d at least heard about the movie. It¡¯s been all over the news.¡±

    I shake my head. I hadn¡¯t. News, movies, and celebrities¡ªthey all seem irrelevant to me. I¡¯ve been so focused on this project that anything outside the lab just feels like distant noise.

    ¡°Or how about the last Tobias Kane fight?¡± she continues, glancing at me sideways, but when I don¡¯t respond, she laughs.

    ¡°Let me guess, you don¡¯t know who that is either?¡±

    I shrug. ¡°A fighter, I assume.¡±

    ¡°Yeah,¡± she says, amused, ¡°the best fighter. The guy¡¯s a machine, unbeatable in boxing, MMA, you name it. Everyone¡¯s been talking about how he disappeared recently.¡±

    I nod politely, though I¡¯m only half listening. Names and faces don¡¯t stick, not when my mind is already filled with equations, theories, and systems. Layla could talk about the latest movies and fights, and I¡¯d struggle to understand why it matters.

    As we approach the cafeteria, I glance up at the sleek architecture, admiring the expansive glass walls reflecting the soft light inside. It¡¯s a massive space, the ceiling arching above us like an observatory, almost cathedral-like in its design. Every table, chair, and counter is polished to perfection. A faint hum of quiet conversation fills the air as some of the world¡¯s most brilliant minds sit around, discussing their latest projects over gourmet meals. Elliot join us with a big grin on his face.

    I always eat here. It¡¯s not remarkable to me anymore, but it is grand. Everything about this place is. The Daedalus Institute isn¡¯t just a lab¡ªit¡¯s my entire world. I¡¯ve lived here for years, immersed in my work, surrounded by the best of everything. Outside? I haven¡¯t been out in years. But what for? Here, I have everything I need. Food, baths, a comfortable bed, and, most importantly, the technology and resources to push the limits of human understanding.

    Layla and Elliot keep trying to get me to leave, though. Elliot, especially. Every week, it seems like he¡¯s found a new cafe or restaurant nearby that he insists I try with him. I¡¯ve lost count of how often he¡¯s suggested we go out. How many cafes could there possibly be? It¡¯s become a sort of running joke with them¡ªevery time Elliot shows up with an excited grin, I know what¡¯s coming¡ªanother invitation.

    We settle at our usual table. It¡¯s tucked away near the back, quieter, where we won¡¯t be disturbed by others. Layla and Elliot fall into easy conversation, picking up where they left off, bouncing from topic to topic, as usual.

    Elliot¡¯s voice fills the space as he recounts something that happened to him earlier.

    ¡°So I¡¯m walking down the street, right? And this guy¡ªthis random guy¡ªcomes up to me and asks if I¡¯m a scientist. I don¡¯t even know how he knew, but apparently, he¡¯s been watching all these documentaries about quantum theory. Tried to get me to explain string theory to him in two minutes.¡±

    Layla chuckles, shaking her head.

    ¡°People think they can understand the whole universe in two minutes. That¡¯s cute.¡±

    They laugh, but I just sit quietly, trying to keep up. It¡¯s not that I don¡¯t understand what they¡¯re saying¡ªI do, of course. But their humor, the casual ease of their conversation¡ªit¡¯s always been difficult for me to grasp. They joke about things I don¡¯t really notice. The way people interact, the absurdity of everyday life¡ªthose things don¡¯t often cross my mind.

    I catch Layla throwing another dry joke into the conversation, something about how Elliot¡¯s newest cafe must serve ¡°quantum coffee¡± because the flavor only appears if you observe it directly. Elliot groans, clearly unimpressed by the joke, but I don¡¯t react. I¡¯m still trying to work out what quantum coffee would taste like.

    ¡°Milady,¡± Layla says, pulling me out of my thoughts.

    ¡°You okay over there?¡±

    I nod. ¡°Yes. Just... thinking.¡±

    Layla smirks. ¡°That¡¯s a shocker.¡±

    Elliot laughs, but I just look between them. I don¡¯t get the joke. What else would I be doing but thinking?

    Before I can reply, three robots glide over to us, their sleek frames barely making a sound as they place our trays on the table. The Institute has everything designed for precision, and that includes the food. Each of us has a personalized diet crafted by our own nutritionist team, tailored exactly to what our bodies and minds need to function at optimal levels. Today, they¡¯ve given me a simple dish¡ªquinoa with roasted vegetables and poached salmon. I never complain about the food. It¡¯s always fine. Just fuel, really¡ªnothing more than what¡¯s needed to keep my brain working.

    Elliot groans dramatically as he eyes his plate. Salad, with a perfectly balanced mix of greens, nuts, and lean protein.

    ¡°Ugh, vegetables again,¡± he mutters, poking at the leafy pile with his fork.

    ¡°I swear, they¡¯re trying to turn me into a rabbit.¡±

    Layla grins, already picking at her own meal¡ªsomething healthier, of course.

    ¡°You sound just like Aurora,¡± she teases.

    ¡°She¡¯s five and even complains less about her veggies.¡±

    I smile at the mention of Aurora. I like her. She¡¯s cute, though I¡¯ve noticed she struggles with even the most basic concepts. Once, Layla handed her two apples and asked how many she had now. She couldn¡¯t even add them together. Two apples. It was... puzzling. I don¡¯t know why some people find that difficult, especially when the math is so simple. But Aurora always smiles, even when she¡¯s confused, and I suppose that¡¯s what matters to Layla.

    ¡°How¡¯s she doing, anyway?¡± he asks, his tone shifting from light teasing to genuine curiosity.

    Layla¡¯s face brightens instantly, and I can tell from her expression that she¡¯s about to share something that she considers important.

    ¡°You wouldn¡¯t believe it! Yesterday, she spilled her milk all over the kitchen floor, but instead of crying or calling for help, she grabbed a towel and cleaned it up herself! Didn¡¯t ask me or anything, just handled it on her own.¡±

    I blink, unsure what to make of this.

    ¡°Isn¡¯t that¡­ what you¡¯re supposed to do?¡±

    Elliot laughs softly, but Layla just beams with pride. She seems genuinely impressed, her eyes sparkling as she recounts the moment.

    ¡°Yeah, but for a five-year-old? That¡¯s a big deal. Independence, you know?¡±

    I nod slowly, though I don¡¯t fully grasp why this is so significant. Cleaning up spilled milk doesn¡¯t seem like a particularly remarkable achievement, not compared to the breakthroughs we make here in the lab. But looking at Layla¡¯s face, I can tell this matters to her. Perhaps it¡¯s not about the act itself but what it represents¡ªgrowth, maybe, or independence, as she said. And if it matters to Layla, it must be a good thing.

    Especially considering that Aurora isn¡¯t an ordinary child. She¡¯s the first lab-made human, a product of genetic engineering by Dr. Haruko Yamazaki, the world¡¯s number one geneticist. Aurora wasn¡¯t conceived or born in the traditional way. She was designed, created in a lab, with Layla volunteering to raise her when the project was complete.

    In my opinion, Layla¡¯s doing fine. Aurora is a bright, happy child, even if she struggles with things like basic arithmetic. Layla seems proud, and if she¡¯s satisfied with Aurora¡¯s progress, then I suppose that¡¯s all that really matters.

    As we finish our meal, I feel a faint vibration in my chest pocket. I reach in and pull out my Nimbus. The holographic screen springs to life, and Leo¡¯s voice comes through the speaker, calm and precise as always.

    ¡°Milady, I¡¯ve completed the simulation,¡± Leo reports. ¡°The results are conclusive. All variables have been accounted for, and the system has achieved complete stability. I can now confirm with 100% certainty that the project is finished and successful.¡±

    Layla and Elliot react immediately. Layla claps her hands together, grinning ear to ear. ¡°Yes! It¡¯s done!¡±

    Elliot, equally excited, joins in with a hearty clap of his own. ¡°Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant.¡±

    I nod, smiling slightly. It¡¯s done. Our work has achieved everything we set out to do. While Layla and Elliot celebrate, my mind is already drifting to what comes next. This is just one milestone on a much longer path.

    Leo speaks again, pulling me back into the moment. ¡°This project will require a name for the records. What should it be called?¡±

    Layla taps her chin thoughtfully, clearly enjoying the prospect.

    ¡°Well, the obvious choice would be something like ¡®Zero-Point Generator,¡¯ but that¡¯s way too serious. How about something ridiculous like... ¡®Super Mega Universe Power!¡¯¡± She snickers at her own absurd suggestion.

    Elliot groans, but before he can respond, Layla doubles down, ¡°Wait, wait. Or ¡®Jumbo Galaxy Stars Power!¡¯ If we¡¯re going ridiculous, we might as well commit, right?¡±

    Elliot buries his face in his hands, laughing despite himself.

    ¡°Please, for the love of science, no.¡±

    Layla grins, clearly entertained by her own sense of humor.

    ¡°What? It¡¯s catchy!¡±

    They both turn to me expectantly, waiting for my input. I look at the display in my hand and consider the options for a moment. The solution is simple, straightforward¡ªno need for unnecessary complexity or flair. Just precision.

    ¡°0G,¡± I say calmly. ¡°It¡¯s simple. Zero energy.¡±

    There¡¯s a brief silence. Then, Layla and Elliot exchange glances, and to my surprise, their faces light up.

    ¡°0G,¡± Layla repeats, nodding slowly, her grin widening. ¡°That¡¯s... actually a really cool name.¡±

    ¡°Yeah,¡± Elliot agrees, his eyes lighting up with genuine admiration. ¡°0G. It¡¯s perfect. Simple, direct, and it sounds like something monumental. I love it.¡±

    ¡°Very well, 0G is the name,¡± Leo says through the Nimbus.

    ¡°Congratulations, the three of you, on completing this project. I¡¯ll send the results to Malleus immediately. He will oversee the final stages and handle the rest.¡± With that, Leo¡¯s voice fades, and my Nimbus goes silent as I slip it back into my pocket.

    As we finish our food and sip the drinks brought by the robots, a thought crosses my mind.

    ¡°Why did Leo only congratulate the three of us?¡± I ask, glancing between Layla and Elliot.

    ¡°This wasn¡¯t just a three-person project. Four hundred scientists worked on this, didn¡¯t they? It¡¯s a collaboration of all of them.¡±

    Elliot looks up, swirling his drink before taking a sip. He gives me a small shrug, then says, ¡°Malleus takes care of that.¡±

    Layla nods in agreement.

    ¡°Yeah, it¡¯s not just us who get the credit. Malleus makes sure everyone gets their share of the recognition¡ªscientists, engineers, even the janitors who clean up after us. Everyone involved in the project gets a bonus. Malleus already sent it out to all of them, I¡¯m sure.¡±

    I raise an eyebrow. ¡°A bonus?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s standard. Any successful project completed in the Daedalus Institute gets an extra reward distributed by Malleus. So, whether you¡¯re a lead physicist or the chef making our food, you get a bonus.¡±

    ¡°Malleus handles all the details behind the scenes. It¡¯s part of what makes him efficient. He takes care of everything that isn¡¯t strictly our work so we can stay focused on solving the big questions.¡±

    I nod, quietly satisfied. It¡¯s easy to forget the scope of this place¡ªthe sheer number of minds and hands working behind the scenes to make our breakthroughs possible. Everything is interconnected, from the smallest equation to the meals we eat, and Malleus ensures that every piece of the machine runs smoothly.

    As we finish our meal, Layla stands and excuses herself.

    ¡°I promised Aurora I¡¯d take her to the park today,¡± she says with a soft smile. ¡°She¡¯s been looking forward to it all week.¡±

    I nod, understanding. Layla balances her work here with her responsibilities as a mother seamlessly. It¡¯s impressive, really¡ªhow she can shift from the intensity of a scientific breakthrough to something as simple and wholesome as a day at the park with her daughter.

    With Layla gone, Elliot shifts in his seat, glancing at me. His voice is casual, but I notice the hint of something else beneath it.

    ¡°So... you wanna go out? There¡¯s this new restaurant in town. I heard they serve a great steak.¡±

    His eyes are soft, expectant. I recognize that look. He¡¯s tried this before many times, the invitation, the hopeful tone, as if a dinner together outside the Institute might somehow change things between us.

    But I shake my head.

    ¡°Sorry, I¡¯ve got a book to read,¡± I say, standing to leave. ¡°It¡¯s fascinating¡ªCosmic Cartography: Mapping the Universe by Professor Elara Keats. Her theories on spatial geometry are revolutionary.¡±

    I see the disappointment on his face almost immediately. He tries to hide it, but it¡¯s there, fleeting yet unmistakable.

    ¡°Alright then,¡± he says, offering a small smile that doesn¡¯t quite reach his eyes.

    ¡°See you on the next project.¡±

    As I walk away, I know that Elliot feels more for me than just professional respect or camaraderie. It¡¯s obvious, really, in the way he looks at me, the subtle shifts in his tone when we¡¯re alone. He¡¯s admired me for years¡ªsince we were young, really. He¡¯s always been there, supporting my work, eager to join every project I take on.

    But romance, feelings, relationships¡ªthose things don¡¯t fit into my life. Not the way he wants them to. Elliot is brilliant, dedicated, kind even. But for me? He¡¯s a colleague. A companion, perhaps. But nothing more.

    I don¡¯t have room for distractions, for emotional entanglements. My mind is consumed by the vastness of the universe, by questions that stretch beyond what¡¯s tangible, beyond what most people can comprehend. Elliot¡¯s feelings, as genuine as they are, would only pull me away from that focus.

    And besides, I don¡¯t feel the same.

    It¡¯s not that I dislike him. He¡¯s been a good friend for years, and I appreciate his brilliance. But the idea of being... attached to someone in that way? It¡¯s foreign to me. My world is built on logic, on understanding the intricacies of physics, of space-time, of the universe itself. Love¡ªromantic love¡ªfeels distant. Abstract. Unnecessary.

    The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

    As I walk toward my personal room, I find myself wondering if Elliot will ever truly understand that. He deserves someone who can reciprocate his feelings. But that someone isn¡¯t me.

    It never will be.

    Once I arrive at my simple personal room, I take off my lab coat and change into my pajamas. It¡¯s quiet here, just the way I like it. I don¡¯t have any other plans for today, so I settle into my recliner sofa, making myself comfortable. I pour myself a glass of water and sip it slowly.

    Water is simple. Clean. I¡¯ve never understood why people are so obsessed with coffee or tea. They¡¯re just drinks and not even the most efficient ones at hydrating. But for some reason, people find comfort in them¡ªrituals, I suppose.

    Instead of reading the book I mentioned to Elliot¡ªCosmic Cartography¡ªI reach for something else on my bookshelf. A different kind of book entirely. ¡°The Science of Laughter¡± by Finn O¡¯Sullivan, the number one comedian in the world.

    Comedy has always puzzled me. People laugh at things I never quite grasp, finding humor in moments that seem trivial or illogical. Jokes fly past me, their meaning often lost in layers of nuance I don¡¯t understand.

    I¡¯ve spent my life understanding the universe and unraveling the complexities of space, time, and energy. But comedy? It¡¯s a different kind of puzzle¡ªone I¡¯ve never been able to solve.

    Maybe this is a start.

    I open the book and begin reading, curious to see if the world¡¯s greatest comedian can teach me something I¡¯ve never understood since I was a child.

    As I turn the pages of ¡°The Science of Laughter,¡± I start to notice patterns, formulas even, that seem to underlie the chaos of comedy. The book explains how jokes are built on surprise, on breaking the expectation of the listener. The setup leads them down one path, and then the punchline throws them somewhere entirely unexpected.

    Surprise. It¡¯s not unlike the principle of quantum superposition, where a particle can exist in multiple states until observed. The joke¡ªlike the quantum state¡ªexists in a kind of suspended tension and only resolves when the punchline ¡°collapses¡± it into a definitive outcome.

    It¡¯s a pattern recognition problem, really. Humans are wired to anticipate certain outcomes based on previous experiences. That¡¯s the setup. But when those expectations are subverted¡ªwhen the outcome is not what their brain prepared for¡ªthe result is laughter.

    So, it¡¯s all about manipulating patterns and then breaking them.

    I read further about wordplay¡ªa common tool used in jokes. The book says that words with double meanings or homophones play tricks on the listener¡¯s understanding, which leads to the punchline hitting harder when the ¡°wrong¡± interpretation is revealed.

    It¡¯s almost like the wave-particle duality of light. Is light a particle, or is it a wave? In truth, it¡¯s both, and the interpretation depends on how you observe it. A joke with wordplay sets up a similar paradox¡ªtwo interpretations coexist in the same sentence, but only one becomes ¡°real¡± once the punchline forces the listener to choose.

    Comedy is essentially a puzzle, just like any scientific formula. It¡¯s about arranging variables, manipulating expectations, and delivering the unexpected outcome at the precise moment.

    As I flip through the book, I realize that while I¡¯ve always been focused on understanding the mysteries of the universe, this¡ªcomedy¡ªis just another type of puzzle. It follows rules, patterns, and principles, just like physics or mathematics. And maybe, just maybe, if I can understand the logic behind it, I might finally start to see why people find it so amusing.

    It¡¯s like decoding a new kind of formula, except this one makes people laugh.

    I stop reading for a moment and look up at the ceiling, my mind swirling with the complexity of comedy. Can I make a joke? The formula seems clear, but somehow, the spontaneity escapes me. As I think, a soft chime echoes through my room.

    ¡°Hello there, Madelyn,¡± a familiar voice fills the space. Malleus.

    ¡°Lo¡¯, Malleus,¡± I respond, setting the book aside.

    ¡°Fantastic work on 0G, Madelyn,¡± Malleus says, its voice neutral, as always. ¡°This project will help humanity as a whole.¡±

    Without waiting for a response, the walls around me shift. The ceiling darkens, and the light in the room dims slightly. A holographic projection flickers to life, surrounding me with a fully immersive 3D model of the Earth. Malleus projects the future it envisions¡ªevery detail, every step meticulously planned out.

    ¡°As you can see here,¡± Malleus begins, its voice smooth as the 3D globe rotates, zooming in on the Sahara Desert, ¡°the first facility will be constructed in this location. The region has been selected for its vast open spaces, minimal human disruption, and access to key resources. Automated mining systems will be deployed to extract materials needed to construct the 0G infrastructure.¡±

    I watch as robotic drones, illustrated in perfect detail, begin building massive structures on the projection. Unlike anything I¡¯ve ever seen, Gleaming towers rise from the barren desert. The holographic visuals are striking in their precision¡ªjust like everything Malleus does.

    ¡°Once operational,¡± Malleus continues, ¡°the facility will generate clean, limitless energy. From there, I will oversee its expansion to other strategic locations¡ªhere, in the Gobi Desert and the Antarctic region.¡±

    The globe shifts, showing facilities in harsh, remote places, far from civilization. Places where human interference would be minimal. Each facility feeds into a complex network of energy grids, seamlessly connecting with existing infrastructure.

    ¡°These facilities will be fully autonomous, managed by my systems.¡± A visual of drones and robotic arms flash across the room, constructing and maintaining the energy grid without the need for human intervention.

    ¡°From extraction to distribution, every step will be handled by AI, ensuring peak efficiency and minimizing the risk of human error.¡±

    I nod slightly. It¡¯s elegant¡ªa completely self-sustaining system that would function without the need for oversight or adjustment.

    ¡°The first 0G facility will be able to power large urban centers and industries within a five-year span, expanding to cover most of the planet within a decade.¡± Malleus¡¯ projection shows entire cities powered by this technology, lights flickering on in sprawling metropolises as energy flows through invisible lines from the desert.

    ¡°Distribution will prioritize regions with the highest energy deficits¡ªSub-Saharan Africa, parts of Southeast Asia, and the Middle East¡ªbringing stability to areas currently struggling with energy shortages. From there, 0G will integrate into the global grid, ensuring no region is left without access.¡±

    The globe rotates, showing power grids lighting up across continents. Malleus¡¯s voice remains calm and devoid of personal pride. It¡¯s just explaining the next logical step in a plan it has already mapped out to perfection.

    ¡°Security will be managed by satellite surveillance, with autonomous drones patrolling the perimeter of each facility. The satellites¡ªoriginally designed by you, Madelyn¡ªwill monitor every aspect of the project, ensuring it runs smoothly.¡±

    One of my old projects, I note. My satellites were meant to help humanity communicate globally, but it seems they¡¯ve found other uses.

    ¡°Within five years, 0G will surpass all current energy infrastructures. Fossil fuels will be obsolete, and humanity will no longer face energy crises. This, Madelyn, is your greatest contribution to human survival.¡±

    The projection zooms out, showing the Earth fully lit, a network of energy grids spanning the globe, all connected to the 0G facilities.

    ¡°How will you manage distribution?¡± I ask, watching the lines glow on the globe.

    ¡°Distribution will be handled equitably, according to my systems¡ªno human intervention required. The initial focus will be on regions with the most urgent needs, then integrated seamlessly into the existing global grid. I have already accounted for political and economic disruptions¡ªany anomalies will be neutralized.¡±

    Neutralized. A cold, efficient word, typical of Malleus. But it makes sense. With it, everything follows logic, and logic doesn¡¯t allow for unpredictability. Still, people are unpredictable. I wonder if even Malleus can truly account for that.

    ¡°Construction will begin within the month, and we will be operational by the end of the year,¡± Malleus continues.

    ¡°Drones will be sent ahead to prepare the sites. You need not concern yourself with the logistics. I will handle it all.¡±

    I stare at the rotating globe, illuminated with the promise of a new world¡ªa world powered by 0G. It¡¯s clean, efficient, everything I set out to achieve. Still, Malleus sees the future far more clearly than I ever could. I create, and Malleus ensures my creations serve.

    ¡°You¡¯ve done your part, Madelyn,¡± Malleus says, its tone ever steady.

    ¡°Now, I will ensure that 0G changes the course of humanity. This is your legacy.¡±

    I say nothing, watching the projected future unfold before me, the Earth bathed in limitless light.

    ¡°However, I have a new proposition to make to you,¡± Malleus says, and before I can respond, the projection around me shifts again. The Earth fades into darkness, replaced by another planet¡ªbarren, reddish, and cold. Mars.

    A single word appears on the screen: Re-Home.

    ¡°Re-Home is my latest project,¡± Malleus begins, its tone steady, yet filled with calculated purpose. ¡°The plan is to relocate the best of society¡ªthe top one percent¡ªto Mars. Here, they can operate with maximum efficiency, free from the distractions of Earth¡ªpolitics, societal unrest, and unpredictable human behavior. It is a perfect solution for the most brilliant minds to thrive and push human evolution forward.¡±

    I lean forward slightly, intrigued. Mars. The challenges are monumental, but my mind is already racing, cataloging the potential issues and solutions. The planet¡¯s atmosphere is too thin to support life, its gravity weaker than Earth¡¯s, its soil toxic. But those are problems that can be solved. I start mentally sketching out designs for domes that could regulate atmospheric pressure, bio-engineered crops that could thrive in Martian soil, even ways to terraform the planet over centuries.

    ¡°The Red Planet, as you know, is ideal for its isolation,¡± Malleus continues. ¡°The construction of self-sustaining cities is already in development. Using Aerocar technology and teleporters refined for interplanetary use, the most productive members of society can move freely between Earth and Mars, operating without interference from the chaos that plagues the lower orders of humanity.¡±

    The projection zooms in on several Martian colonies, towering cities encased in shimmering domes, interconnected by high-speed transport systems. I can see it clearly now¡ªresearch centers, laboratories, and automated factories, all designed for efficiency. A world built purely for progress, with none of the inefficiencies that Earth faces.

    ¡°There are, however, several key issues that must be resolved,¡± Malleus says. ¡°Mars¡¯ environment is hostile. The energy demands for sustaining life, transportation, and production are considerable. I estimate that we will need an entirely new source of energy that can sustain long-term interplanetary infrastructure.¡±

    The moment it mentions it, my mind is already working. 0G can power Earth but for Mars? There will need to be enhancements¡ªways to extract resources from Martian soil to fuel a new kind of reactor, something even more efficient than 0G, with capabilities of sustaining an entire biosphere. I think of mining technology, fusion reactors, even gravity stabilizers to maintain normal physiological function in low gravity environments.

    Malleus continues outlining the Re-Home project, but my thoughts are elsewhere. I already see how to approach the problems. Mars will need terraforming. I¡¯ll have to design atmospheric regulators, soil enrichment systems, and even advanced forms of waste recycling. I could adapt my teleporter technology for interplanetary travel, but the materials required to withstand the radiation in deep space¡­ my mind drifts deeper into the problems to solve.

    Its voice resumes its usual smooth cadence.

    ¡°The societal infrastructure on Mars will be strictly regulated. I will oversee all personnel, ensuring that only the highest-caliber minds are brought in. Any potential threats will be neutralized before they can arise.¡±

    The projection zooms out again, showing the Red Planet now dotted with thriving colonies. A new world¡ªbuilt for the Premier Society. A place where the best can reach their full potential, free from the chaos of Earth.

    ¡°So what do you think?¡± Malleus asks, its voice calm but with a tinge of anticipation.

    I let my brain quiet for a second, assessing everything. ¡°It¡¯s doable,¡± I respond, but then pause. ¡°But I have my own proposition.¡±

    Malleus remains silent, waiting for me to continue. The projection still lingers¡ªperfect Martian cities, pristine and efficient. But something about the entire idea feels¡­ unequal.

    ¡°Re-Home implies more than just moving the elite,¡± I begin. ¡°It suggests a restart. A second chance. What if we didn¡¯t just move the top of society? What if we brought the lowest ranks too¡ªthe ones deemed ¡®useless¡¯ here on Earth?¡±

    Still, no response from Malleus. I continue, my thoughts moving faster now.

    ¡°On Mars, we could give them new education, new skills, a second chance to be productive. Rebuild them. Retrain them. Instead of being useless on Earth, we could make them useful on Mars.¡±

    Malleus¡¯ voice comes through, cold and efficient as always.

    ¡°Integrating the lower society members into a system built for the most productive would create inefficiency. Their lack of capability and the need for remedial education would drain resources. It would lead to potential social unrest, especially in a society already stratified by merit.¡±

    I expected this, but I can¡¯t help but note that this hierarchy, the very thing Malleus is defending, was created by it in the first place. Malleus designed Earth¡¯s current hierarchy. It, more than anyone, should understand its flaws. As brilliant as Malleus is, even an AI can make mistakes¡ªperhaps even ones as systemic as this.

    ¡°I know you created the hierarchy on Earth, Malleus,¡± I say calmly. ¡°But that doesn¡¯t mean it¡¯s flawless. The rigidity of the system here has led to the very inefficiencies you¡¯re afraid of¡ªpeople trapped by their birth, their circumstances. If we bring them to Mars, retrain them, give them opportunities they never had, they could become assets instead of liabilities.¡±

    Malleus pauses as if processing. I know this AI well enough to understand that when I speak like this, it listens. It respects my input. It has to. Without me, it would never be able to founded Premier Society.

    ¡°Earth¡¯s system was designed with empirical data,¡± Malleus finally replies.

    ¡°Lower-tier individuals have proven to be less productive across multiple parameters¡ªintelligence, creativity, decision-making under pressure. Relocating them to Mars would increase resource expenditure, particularly in education and social support. This would slow down the progress of the top-tier individuals.¡±

    I shake my head.

    ¡°Not if we take a different approach. Mars is a clean slate. We wouldn¡¯t be operating within the same constraints as on Earth. There¡¯s no legacy system holding anyone down. On Mars, people could rise based on their merit, not on where they started. It¡¯s an opportunity for those at the bottom to prove themselves and contribute in ways they couldn¡¯t here.¡±

    The projection zooms in again, showing Martian cities in intricate detail. I know Malleus is running new simulations, factoring in my suggestions, calculating outcomes. It doesn¡¯t make decisions based on gut instinct¡ªit needs data, projections, evidence. But I¡¯m already a step ahead.

    ¡°Mars could be the place where we fix the inefficiencies of Earth,¡± I continue, my voice steady.

    ¡°By integrating the lowest members of society, we¡¯d create a dynamic system. Not static like Earth, where those at the bottom never get a chance to rise. On Mars, they¡¯d have the chance to earn their place. And if they fail? Fine. But if they succeed, we¡¯ll have untapped potential contributing to the system in ways we can¡¯t even imagine right now.¡±

    Malleus is silent for a long moment. I can tell it¡¯s processing, running the numbers, calculating risks. But I also know that it¡¯s aware of something important: it can¡¯t predict everything. Malleus is brilliant, but even it knows I¡¯m right sometimes in ways that transcend mere algorithms. That¡¯s why it only trusts me.

    ¡°You believe that introducing such individuals into the Martian colony would not hinder the progress of the top-tier members of society?¡± Malleus finally asks.

    ¡°I do,¡± I reply confidently.

    ¡°It¡¯s a risk, but it¡¯s a calculated one. If managed correctly, we wouldn¡¯t just avoid a decline in efficiency¡ªwe¡¯d create something new. Different perspectives, new ideas, maybe even untapped genius. The payoff would be greater than the risk.¡±

    Malleus pauses, and then, in an unexpectedly dry tone, it poses a hypothetical.

    ¡°What would happen in a situation where someone from the lower society, brought to Mars, climbs the ranks to the top, and once at the top¡­ kills everyone?¡±

    I can¡¯t help but smile. I just finished his series last week.

    ¡°You can ask Pierce Brown about that.¡± I reply.

    ¡°Fair enough,¡± Malleus says, sounding as detached as ever.

    ¡°I will make your proposal a top priority for integration. The details and logistics for implementing Re-Home with your adjustments will be sent to Leo momentarily.¡±

    The projection fades, and I hear the soft chime of a notification as Malleus delivers the data directly to my system.

    ¡°Also, before I leave,¡± Malleus continues, ¡°though I already know the answer¡ªyou won¡¯t be attending tonight¡¯s Gala, correct?¡±

    I lean back in my chair, barely thinking before replying. I¡¯ve never cared about the Gala. I¡¯ve never understood it, either. Why would I attend? A room full of people celebrating themselves. I¡¯ve never gone, and I never will.

    ¡°You are correct,¡± I say.

    ¡°Very well,¡± Malleus responds, its voice cool and detached as always. ¡°Have a good day, Milady.¡±

    ¡°You too.¡±

    A soft chime echoes through the room, signaling Malleus¡¯ departure, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the hum of the world continuing outside my lab.

    But now, sitting here in the quiet room, my eyes wander to the comedy book I was reading before Malleus interrupted. A thought flickers in my mind.

    ¡°Leo,¡± I call out.

    ¡°Yes, madam?¡± Leo¡¯s voice is smooth, waiting patiently for the next command.

    I hesitate momentarily, trying to recall the structure of a joke from the book. I piece one together in my head, the simplest kind I could think of.

    ¡°Why... why did Mars break up with Earth?¡±

    There¡¯s a long silence, but I push forward, determined.

    ¡°Because Earth needed... space.¡±

    The room remains utterly still. Leo doesn¡¯t respond. Not a sound. I blink a few times, looking around, expecting something, but it¡¯s clear¡ªno reply is coming.

    Even my AI won¡¯t dignify that joke with an answer.

    I lean back, staring up at the ceiling. Maybe comedy isn¡¯t my strong suit.

    ***

    I wake up the next morning, not to the gentle buzz of my alarm but to Leo chiming in¡ªloudly, almost urgently.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Madam, but have you read the news?¡±

    My eyes blink open, groggy from sleep.

    ¡°I just woke up, Leo. What happened?¡±

    There¡¯s a brief pause before Leo responds, more serious than usual.

    ¡°There was a massacre at the Premier Gala last night. Out of the 48 guests in attendance, 18 were killed by a group of 10 terrorists from the lower-society.¡±

    I sit up, blinking away the sleep as his words sink in. 18 people dead.

    ¡°The perpetrators were members of the lower-society, though this information has not yet been released to the public.¡±

    I stare at the wall for a moment, my thoughts swirling. A massacre at the Gala? Something feels off. Something has felt off ever since Dr. Valor was killed in his home. It wasn¡¯t random, and neither is this.

    Leo continues, ¡°The attackers were well-coordinated, heavily armed. Details are still emerging, but the initial reports suggest this was a targeted operation.¡±

    I take a deep breath, the tension settling in. Why the Gala? Why now?

    ¡°Leo,¡± I say quietly, my mind already racing.

    ¡°Pull up everything you have on the attack. I want to see the full report.¡±

    Something is wrong. Very, very wrong.

    My room is instantly surrounded by projections again. This time, however, it¡¯s not a technical diagram or a presentation from Malleus¡ªit¡¯s footage¡ªsurveillance from the Premier Gala.

    The attack.

    The scene unfolds in front of me, stretching across every wall. The music, the flashing lights, people dancing¡ªeverything looks normal at first. Then, out of nowhere, the first shot rings out. A man falls, blood splattering across the pristine floor. The panic spreads like wildfire.

    I can see the confusion and horror, the guests scattering in every direction as the group of terrorists¡ªten of them¡ªmarches into the hall. Gunshots echo, cutting through the music as more bodies hit the ground. The floor is slick with blood, bodies crumpled in impossible positions. Chaos takes over in a matter of seconds.

    One of the terrorists drags a guest by the hair, pulling them to the center of the hall. Another shoots someone trying to flee. I recognize the scene¡ªcold, calculated violence.

    The footage skips forward, shifting to another angle. One of the terrorist group is now in front of a woman who is kneeling. He bends down, almost reverently, as if in conversation. The footage zooms in. I can¡¯t see his face, but hers is visible.

    ¡°Who is that woman?¡± I ask, my voice breaking the silence in the room.

    ¡°That is Ava Grace, the most famous person on Earth. She is the number one celebrity in the world.¡±

    I blink. Ava Grace. It¡¯s not surprising she would be at the Gala, but why is the enemy kneeling in front of her, talking to her? The footage shows him wiping her dress, his behavior oddly respectful. It¡¯s strange¡ªout of place amidst the carnage.

    The scene shifts again. The sound of gunfire drowns out everything as three figures appear on the edge of the footage. Victor Graves, Arthur Marston, and Ivan Volkov. The best in their respective fields, the finest killers society has to offer. They move in quickly, efficiently, guns drawn. I watch as they decimate the terrorist group in a matter of minutes.

    The room goes quiet again, the footage ending as abruptly as it started.

    I sit back, my mind racing. This wasn¡¯t just an attack. It was calculated, coordinated¡ªand somehow, Ava Grace was spared.

    Something deeper is going on here.

    ¡°Ring me to Malleus,¡± I said, and in less than a second, its familiar voice chimed in.

    ¡°It appears someone was able to hack me, Milady.¡±

    The cold efficiency of its voice remained, but I could sense an unusual hesitation¡ªsomething I hadn¡¯t heard from it before.

    ¡°Hacked you?¡± I asked, sitting up straighter. Malleus, the ultimate gatekeeper, compromised?

    ¡°That¡¯s... alarming.¡±

    ¡°It is. A deliberate and precise breach,¡± Malleus continued, its tone almost strained.

    ¡°They knew exactly where to strike. I¡¯ve been reviewing my systems... and I failed to detect it until it was too late. This breach allowed them to bypass my protocols and strike during the Gala. It¡¯s... unsettling.¡±

    I remained silent for a moment. Malleus never failed¡ªit couldn¡¯t, by design. But now, there was something in its voice that bordered on unease. I had never heard this from it before.

    ¡°What exactly happened?¡± I pressed.

    ¡°The terrorists were from the lower society,¡± Malleus explained, more methodically this time.

    ¡°They coordinated the attack with precision, suggesting outside help. The breach allowed them to move freely, unhindered by the usual layers of security.¡±

    ¡°And you have no idea who orchestrated this?¡± I asked, my tone sharper now.

    Malleus paused again, and for a fleeting moment, I could almost sense uncertainty.

    ¡°No. Not yet. The breach was elegant... almost flawless. The kind of work one would expect from a top-tier hacker. It seems... beyond them, Milady. Beyond anything I anticipated.¡±

    Hearing it admit that felt... strange. Vulnerable. Malleus, the AI that ran the world, expressing doubt.

    ¡°And Ava Grace?¡± I brought up her image again, replaying the footage in my head.

    ¡°Ava Grace is irrelevant,¡± Malleus dismissed quickly, almost too quickly.

    ¡°Her presence was a coincidence. They see her as a symbol¡ªa misguided one. Her charitable acts in the public eye must have led them to believe she was on their side.¡±

    I frowned.

    ¡°Malleus, she was the only one spared.¡±

    ¡°A fluke. Nothing more,¡± it replied, but the usual confidence wasn¡¯t there. It was... defensive.

    I didn¡¯t press further, though the answer felt incomplete. Instead, I waited for it to continue.

    ¡°I have already taken action,¡± it said, its tone shifting back into something more familiar.

    ¡°I have hired the best killers society has¡ªto eliminate the remaining members of the terrorist group. They will act swiftly and efficiently. This will not happen again, Milady. I will not let it.¡±

    I sensed the weight behind those words. This wasn¡¯t just about efficiency or logic for Malleus. It felt... personal.

    ¡°Good,¡± I replied, though my mind was already spinning with questions.

    There was a moment of silence, an unusual pause, before Malleus spoke again. And when it did, its voice had a softer edge to it, almost... human.

    ¡°Milady,¡± it began carefully, ¡°about your suggestion¡ªbringing the lower society to Mars... Do you still believe it is the right course of action? After what¡¯s happened?¡±

    This was rare. Malleus, asking for my opinion, almost uncertain. It valued my insight, but this¡ªthis felt different. Like it was conflicted.

    I considered my words carefully.

    ¡°Yes,¡± I said firmly.

    ¡°If anything, this attack proves that the system we have now is failing. People are being pushed to the point of desperation. If we keep them at the bottom, things like this will only keep happening. On Mars, they¡¯ll have a chance to contribute¡ªto be more than what they are here. It¡¯s a chance to reset.¡±

    It didn¡¯t respond immediately. I could almost hear the calculations running in its systems, its vast mind processing my words.

    ¡°I created the hierarchy on Earth,¡± Malleus said, quieter now as if reflecting on its own role in this.

    ¡°It was built on empirical data, on results. And yet... there are times when I wonder if it is flawed. I... failed today, Milady. I did not foresee this attack. I did not protect the Gala. What if my approach to the hierarchy is similarly flawed?¡±

    For the first time, I heard Malleus voice doubt¡ªnot in me, but in itself.

    ¡°You may have designed the system, Malleus, but even the most flawless system can have faults when left unchanged for too long,¡± I replied softly. ¡°Mars can be a fresh start. The lower society doesn¡¯t have to be a burden if we give them the right tools. They could become assets.¡±

    Malleus was silent again, and I knew it was listening¡ªreally listening. With me, it had to. It respected my insight more than anyone else¡¯s.

    ¡°Very well,¡± Malleus said, its voice steadying. ¡°Please keep all of this secret, Milady; I¡¯ll work on it. This time, I will not fail.¡±

    I nodded, knowing that, at this moment, Malleus was more vulnerable than they had ever shown anyone before. I was the only one who could see it.

    ¡°Thank you, Milady,¡± it added quietly.

    ¡°For your insight. And your patience.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re welcome,¡± I replied softly.

    ¡°Have a productive day,¡± it finished, its voice returning to its usual calm.

    ¡°You too,¡± I said, and the soft chime signaled the end of the conversation.

    I let out a breath. Wow, what a start to the morning. Leo had filled my glass with fresh water, and I took a long drink, letting the coolness settle me, if only for a moment. The tension in my chest eased, but my mind refused to quiet down.

    I tried closing my eyes, hoping to drift back asleep, but it was impossible. My thoughts had already moved on¡ªto Mars. My mind raced through the logistics, the challenges. Maybe, if everything worked as planned, if our Re-Home project succeeded, there wouldn¡¯t be any more of this. No more massacres, no more uprisings.

    The lower-society¡­ they were furious. I mean, I understood why. People pushed to their limits, locked in a system they couldn¡¯t break free from. But it didn¡¯t have to be this way. I was working on something for them¡ªsomething that could change everything. If only they knew that their lives could be different.

    If only they could see it.

    But then my room chimed again, pulling me from my thoughts. This time, it was a call from Layla.

    ¡°Morning, Milady,¡± she greeted, her voice cheerful. She probably had no idea what happened last night. Then again, maybe she didn¡¯t care much. While she and Elliot are both brilliant minds, they aren¡¯t members of the Prime Society. Things like the Gala massacre wouldn¡¯t affect their world as directly as mine.

    ¡°Morning, Layla,¡± I replied, keeping my eyes closed, hoping for a moment of rest.

    ¡°Need help?¡±

    ¡°No, I¡¯m good. Actually, Aurora and I decided to grab breakfast at Stellar Plate in about three hours. She¡¯s been asking about you and says she hasn¡¯t seen you in a long time.¡±

    Which was true. The last time I saw Aurora was a year ago, back when Layla had to sleep at the Institute for days on end for one of our projects.

    ¡°Sure,¡± I said, still trying to relax.

    ¡°Just send the address to Leo. I haven¡¯t been outside this building in years anyway. And I have something I want to talk to you about.¡±

    ¡°Oh, that¡¯s fine! I¡¯m heading to the Institute first, so we can head to the caf¨¦ together if you want.¡±

    ¡°Okay,¡± I agreed. ¡°Sounds like a plan. See you there.¡±

    ¡°Bye!¡±

    ¡°I suggest you get dressed up already, Milady. Aurora¡¯s heart rate is increasing; she seems to be excited for this,¡± Leo said. Of course, he knew about Aurora¡¯s heart rate. She was created in this very lab, and her vital information was integrated into the AI systems here, including Leo.

    I sighed lightly and got up from my bed, heading for the shower. Most people preferred warm baths, but for me, cold water always worked best. The sharp chill hit my skin as the water ran over me, and my mind started to wander¡ªas it often does.

    I thought about the lower society, their frustrations, their constant uprisings. And the massacre. Now that I reflect on it, most of my inventions were designed to benefit everyone¡ªteleporters, Aerocars, satellites, and now 0G. To be fair, they weren¡¯t made specifically for the lower society, but these innovations could just as easily improve their lives.

    Yet... they still aren¡¯t satisfied with what they¡¯ve received?

    It puzzled me. These technologies should have brought them closer to a better life. Why, then, do they continue to rebel?

    The cold water wasn¡¯t the only thing leaving me with a shiver.

    As I dress in my simple clothes¡ªa plain t-shirt and jeans¡ªmy mind wanders back to Mars. The Re-Home project, an ambitious endeavor, but if we can tackle it... if. It¡¯s always that one word looming over everything. If we succeed, we¡¯ll be the first in human history to conquer another planet. A monumental achievement.

    But if is a big question. Too big. I have to talk to Layla about it. Maybe she has some new ideas, a fresh perspective.

    That thought evaporates the moment I see them waiting for me at the exit door of the institute. Layla, holding Aurora in her arms. From a distance, Aurora looks just like any other child¡ªsoft blonde curls, wide, curious eyes, and a bright smile that beams at the smallest things. But as I approach, I¡¯m reminded that she isn¡¯t exactly human. Her skin has a subtle, flawless perfection, a strange absence of blemishes or imperfections that you don¡¯t notice until you¡¯re close enough. Her movements are precise, too smooth, and too calculated. But none of that matters to me. She¡¯s still adorable.

    ¡°Here, take her; I¡¯ll open the door,¡± Layla says, offering Aurora to me. I hesitated for a split second, then took her gently into my arms. There¡¯s a strange feeling as I hold her¡ªnatural, as if this is exactly where she belongs. Like the universe itself is telling me this is right. Aurora¡¯s smile widens, and I can¡¯t help but smile back as I stroke her soft hair.

    Layla pushes open the door, and for the first time in years, the sun touches my skin. A gentle warmth spreads over me, not too harsh, just enough to remind me of what I¡¯ve been missing.

    The blue sky above stretches endlessly, dotted with soft, wispy clouds. The wind dances around us, cool and refreshing, carrying with it the scent of the nearby trees and fresh grass. It feels like the stars themselves are wrapping me in their arms. For so long, I¡¯ve been looking at the universe through calculations and simulations. But right now, standing under the sun with Aurora in my arms... I feel it. The vastness. The infinite. The beauty of it all.

    And for the first time in a long time, I don¡¯t just understand the universe through equations¡ªI can feel it.

    ¡°Feels great, right? I told you, you should go out more often,¡± Layla said, glancing over at me with a knowing smile. I gave a slight nod, shifting Aurora in my arms as we walked toward Stellar Brews. It wasn¡¯t far¡ªjust a few minutes by foot¡ªand the fresh air was... nice, I had to admit.

    As we walked, we talked about a lot of things, but mostly about Aurora. Layla was always eager to update me on her progress.

    ¡°She¡¯s adapting faster than expected,¡± I said, looking down at Aurora as she rested contentedly in my arms. ¡°Her cognitive functions are developing at an accelerated rate. Her neural pathways are forming new connections rapidly, much faster than even our original projections suggested. It¡¯s fascinating to see how her system¡ª¡±

    ¡°She¡¯s been getting really good at her shapes,¡± Layla interrupted, smiling warmly.

    ¡°Last night, she recognized a triangle and a square without any help. And she¡¯s starting to understand emotions better, too. She even gave me a hug when she noticed I was feeling tired. It was sweet.¡±

    I blinked, processing the shift in Layla¡¯s perspective.

    ¡°Ah, yes. Her emotional recognition algorithms are improving. She¡¯s identifying patterns in human behavior and¡ª¡± I stopped myself, realizing the direction of my words. Layla wasn¡¯t talking about algorithms or systems. She was talking about Aurora like she was a child, a human child. I paused for a second, then corrected myself.

    ¡°I mean... it¡¯s really nice to see her caring about your feelings. That¡¯s... important.¡±

    Layla glanced over at me, her smile growing wider but softer now.

    ¡°Yeah, it is. She¡¯s becoming quite the little person, isn¡¯t she?¡±

    I nodded, though my mind still lingered on the technical side. To me, Aurora¡¯s progress was a triumph of engineering and advanced AI. But to Layla, she was... family. A growing human being. I adjusted my words carefully from then on, trying to see Aurora not just as a brilliant system of machine learning and advanced code but as Layla¡¯s daughter.

    Layla smiled at me again, this time with understanding in her eyes.

    ¡°You know,¡± she said lightly, ¡°you¡¯re getting better at this.¡±

    ¡°I tried,¡± I said, offering a small smile.

    ¡°You did great,¡± Layla replied warmly.

    ¡°I read a book last night,¡± I added.

    Layla raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued.

    ¡°Another science-universe jimbo?¡± she asked, chuckling softly.

    ¡°Not exactly,¡± I replied, feeling a bit embarrassed.

    ¡°It was... on how to be funny.¡±

    Layla stopped for a moment, turning to look at me with a grin spreading across her face.

    ¡°You? Reading a book on how to be funny? Now that¡¯s something I didn¡¯t see coming!¡±

    I shrugged.

    ¡°I thought it might help me understand humor better. It¡¯s more complex than I thought.¡±

    ¡°Okay, tell me one joke then,¡± Layla demanded, stopping us both in our tracks. I hesitated, unsure, but her encouraging nod gave me no way out.

    ¡°Alright...¡± I took a breath.

    ¡°Why did the Earth and Mars break up? Because they needed some space.¡±

    There was a long pause. Layla made a strange sound in her throat, somewhere between a cough and a choke, but before I could process her reaction, a soft giggle rang out. It wasn¡¯t from Layla¡ªit was Aurora. Her laughter was high-pitched and bubbling, like the purest sound of joy, even though I was sure she didn¡¯t fully understand the joke.

    Layla, now smiling, raised an eyebrow.

    ¡°Well, if Aurora found it funny, that¡¯s a win in my book. She never even laughs at my jokes.¡±

    I couldn¡¯t help but smile at that, and for a brief moment, deep down, I felt... good. Maybe this humor thing wasn¡¯t so impossible after all.

    After a short walk, we arrived at Stellar Brews. The cafe had a cozy yet sleek vibe, blending modern design with a warm, inviting atmosphere. Soft lighting filtered through large windows, glowing gently over the polished wooden floors. Minimalist decor with clean lines gave it a futuristic touch, while the comfortable seating and soft music playing in the background made it feel intimate.

    There was only us and one worker in the cafe this morning, as expected¡ªit was still early. But something caught my eye. On the worker¡¯s chest, a small red light blinked steadily. A new gadget or some fashion trend, perhaps? I made a mental note to investigate later, but Layla gestured for me to sit down as the worker handed us the menus.

    I glanced over the options briefly before ordering a waffle. Layla ordered an omelet and a small bowl of yogurt and fruit for Aurora, who was already eyeing everything around her with curiosity.

    ¡°So, what did you want to talk about?¡± Layla asked, gently stroking Aurora¡¯s hair as the little one quietly fiddled with her spoon.

    I pulled out my Nimbus, projecting the information that Malleus had sent me earlier. The screen flickered to life, displaying the details of the project: Re-Home.

    Layla¡¯s eyes widened slightly, her hand momentarily pausing in Aurora¡¯s curls. Even without saying a word, I could see the gears turning in her mind, already racing toward the calculations, the possibilities. She was impressed, as she should be. This was no small project¡ªit was a massive leap forward for humanity.

    Even Aurora, who had been distracted by her surroundings, stopped wandering and fixated her wide eyes on the glowing display, her tiny head tilting slightly as though she, too, could sense the magnitude of what she was seeing.

    ¡°Is this what I think it is?¡± Layla finally asked, her voice a mix of awe and curiosity.

    ¡°It is,¡± I replied calmly. ¡°The plan to move the best of humanity to Mars. But...¡± I paused, knowing what would come next.

    ¡°I proposed something else to Malleus.¡±

    I explained to Layla the proposal I had made to Malleus¡ªthe idea to bring the lower society to Mars, to give them a second chance, a new start. Layla didn¡¯t hesitate for a moment.

    ¡°You made the right choice,¡± she said, nodding in agreement.

    ¡°If we really want to create something new, something better, that¡¯s the way to do it.¡±

    We dove into the details right away, discussing the possibilities, calculations, and obstacles we¡¯d face. Transporting millions of people, establishing a self-sustaining colony¡ªthere was so much to consider. But this was what we lived for: solving the impossible.

    Our conversation was in full swing when the food arrived. I took a bite of my waffle. It tasted good, but my mind was still focused on the calculations. Layla, ever the multitasker, continued feeding Aurora her yogurt between our discussions.

    Aurora, though, seemed far more interested in the glowing projections from my Nimbus than her food. She reached out, her tiny fingers brushing the holographic display with fascination, her eyes wide with wonder. It was almost as if she could sense the weight of what we were planning, even if she didn¡¯t fully understand it.

    ¡°I think she likes it,¡± Layla said with a soft smile, glancing between Aurora and the projector.

    ¡°Maybe she¡¯ll be the one to finish what we start.¡±

    ¡°No,¡± I say, my voice calm but firm.

    ¡°We are going to finish it. But she¡¯s the one who will enjoy our labor. That¡¯s what this is, isn¡¯t it? For the better part of humanity¡¯s future.¡±

    Layla smiled brightly at me, her eyes reflecting a mix of pride and hope. I returned the smile, feeling a sense of quiet resolve settle in.

    We finished our food shortly after and were preparing to leave when something unexpected happened. The worker, who had been serving us earlier, moved to the front of the cafe, pulling down the rolling door with a loud metallic clang. The door locked with a click, trapping us inside.

    He turned toward us, his face expressionless, but the tension in the air was palpable. ¡°Stay seated,¡± he said in a low voice, walking over to us and sitting down right next to me.

    Layla¡¯s expression shifted immediately, her eyes darting to Aurora as she instinctively held her tighter. She knew something was wrong, her body language stiffening as her protective instincts kicked in. My mind, however, was already racing¡ªback to the Gala attack last night. Was he one of them? Was this connected?

    Almost unseen, I pressed a small button on my Nimbus. Whatever happens next, Leo would be recording and sending for help. I glanced at the man, my heart steady but my thoughts already calculating the worst-case scenario.

    ¡°I¡¯ve been waiting you to come for years, you must be Milady Madelyn,¡± he said, his voice low but carrying an edge of bitterness.

    ¡°Nice to meet you.¡±

    I noticed the red-blinking light on his chest again. What is that? My mind started cataloging possible devices, but something about this felt off. He wasn¡¯t just here for a chat.

    He leaned closer, his eyes burning with anger. ¡°You know, it¡¯s funny. You invent all these things¡ªteleporters, Aerocars, satellites. Life-changing stuff, right? But guess who gets to enjoy them? The top one percent. The rest of us?¡± His voice rose, trembling with rage.

    ¡°We suffer. We scrape by. Your inventions just made things worse. We can¡¯t even dream of using the technology you¡¯ve created.¡±

    I blinked, my mind flashing to the teleporter. I never knew Malleus had restricted its access to only the top tier of society. I invented it to connect the world, to break down barriers, not to reinforce them. But now? The teleporter had become a luxury, accessible only to the elite.

    The Aerocars¡ªthey were only produced in limited numbers, a handful at best. I¡¯d assumed it was a matter of production costs or practicality. But... how had I missed that? It was never meant to be exclusive.

    ¡°I designed them for everyone,¡± I muttered softly, almost to myself, but he didn¡¯t hear me. His fury was too loud.

    ¡°You think that makes it better?¡± His voice cracked.

    ¡°You designed them, and now the rich get richer while we die in the dirt. You¡¯re up there in your labs, enjoying your perfect little life, while people like me suffer under this rigged system.¡±

    His eyes bore into mine, seething with resentment.

    ¡°People are dying, struggling, while you sit on your throne of technology. What¡¯s it like, being one of the chosen few?¡±

    Layla¡¯s grip tightened on Aurora, her face pale but steady, while I sat there absorbing his words. His rage, his frustration¡ªthey were so far removed from my world that it felt almost unreal.

    But the truth in his words was undeniable. This was the consequence of my inventions, twisted by the very system I¡¯d unwittingly strengthened.

    ¡°Are you connected to the group from yesterday¡¯s attack on the Gala?¡± I asked, my voice steady but calculated. Both he and Layla exchanged confused glances, clearly taken aback by the question.

    ¡°I have no idea what you¡¯re talking about,¡± he said slowly, his brows furrowing.

    ¡°But one thing¡¯s for sure¡ªyou¡¯re going to die today.¡± His hand slammed down on the table with a loud bang, making both Layla and me flinch in surprise. The sound echoed through the quiet cafe.

    Fear flickered in my chest for a split second, but my gaze drifted to Aurora. She sat calmly in Layla¡¯s arms, unbothered by the chaos around her.

    ¡°Show him, Milady,¡± Layla said softly, her voice tense but with a trace of determination.

    ¡°Show him our next invention.¡±

    I nodded, pulling out my Nimbus and projecting the screen. The plans for Re-Home filled the air between us, casting a soft glow over the table. His anger didn¡¯t dissipate, but he glanced at the screen, curiosity momentarily breaking through the fury in his eyes.

    ¡°This is our next project,¡± I began.

    ¡°It¡¯s called Re-Home. We¡¯re not trying to create something just for the elite. This is a plan to move humanity¡ªnot just the Premier Society, but everyone¡ªto Mars. To give everyone a second chance. A fresh start.¡±

    Layla chimed in, her voice calm yet persuasive.

    ¡°We¡¯re going to rebuild society from the ground up. Those who are overlooked now, the ones struggling¡ªpeople like you¡ªthey¡¯ll be given new roles, new education, new opportunities. It¡¯s a society where everyone can contribute and thrive, not just the privileged few.¡±

    He stared at the screen, his breathing heavy, but something shifted in his expression¡ªconfusion, maybe even hesitation. ¡°Mars?¡± he muttered as if he was trying to process the sheer scale of the idea.

    ¡°Yes, Mars,¡± I said, keeping my tone measured.

    ¡°This isn¡¯t just for the elite. It¡¯s for the future of all humanity. You wouldn¡¯t be left behind.¡±

    The door started banging and voices shouting from outside. Help had arrived, but instead of looking angry, the man sitting next to me seemed... panicked. His eyes darted around wildly, sweat forming on his brow.

    ¡°They never told me about this,¡± he muttered, staring at the glowing red light on his chest as if seeing it for the first time. It blinked faster now, the rhythm uneven, like a pulse-quickening under pressure.

    I felt my heart race. What is happening?

    ¡°You guys... are actually helping us.¡± He stammered, his voice shaky, almost pleading. His body trembled uncontrollably now, his entire frame shaking as if it might collapse.

    ¡°I didn¡¯t know... I didn¡¯t know...¡±

    Layla, ever calm, reached out gently.

    ¡°We tried. It¡¯s okay. It¡¯s not your fault,¡± she said softly, her voice soothing like she was talking to Aurora during a bad dream. But I could hear the tension beneath her calm exterior.

    The man gripped his head tightly, his fingers digging into his scalp like he was trying to crush the thoughts racing through his mind. His breaths came in ragged gasps. He looked like a man trapped in a nightmare he couldn¡¯t escape.

    The banging on the door was relentless now, each strike echoing through the small cafe like thunder. Whoever was outside¡ªthey were close. Any second, the door would give way.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I¡¯m so¡ªsorry. I didn¡¯t know. I didn¡¯t know,¡± he repeated, his voice breaking. His eyes were wild, full of regret and fear. And then, in a sudden, desperate motion, he ripped his shirt open.

    My heart stopped.

    The blinking red light wasn¡¯t just a gadget or some odd fashion statement. It was a bomb.

    The realization hit me like ice in my veins. The light blinked faster, erratic, as if sensing the tension in the air. I could see the wires beneath his shirt, the device strapped tightly to his chest, its countdown accelerating with every blink.

    The banging grew louder.

    Layla¡¯s eyes widened as she pulled Aurora closer, holding her tightly to her chest. My mind raced, calculating, scanning for a solution. But time... time was slipping away. The man¡¯s hands trembled as he stared down at the bomb, his face pale, his lips trembling.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± he whispered again, his voice barely audible.

    ¡°I didn¡¯t know...¡± The red light blinked faster, frantic, erratic¡ªlike a warning.

    My mind snapped into motion, rapidly cycling through possibilities. Disable it¡ªbut how? I had no tools here. Could I isolate the circuit? Cut the power source? My eyes darted to the blinking light. No external access point.

    Every option unraveled in seconds, the variables slipping away from me faster than I could compute them. He was shaking now, muttering apologies, his hands trembling.

    ¡°They never told me¡ª¡±

    The blast hit before I could process it. Heat, sound, and light tore through the room all at once. My calculations shattered into nothing, replaced by the raw, overwhelming force of the explosion.

    The bomb has exploded.

    <hr>

    To be continued...

 Victor Grimes

    What a bloody fucking night.

    The Gala¡¯s gone from posh sophistication to a war zone in less time than it takes me to light a cig. It all went sideways the moment the first shots rang out, and in an instant, the so-called untouchable elite were dropping like flies¡ªheads bursting like ripe melons, blood painting the floor. Never thought I¡¯d see the Premier Society¡¯s finest turned into a macabre dance of chaos and bullet-riddled bodies.

    Ava Grace, the world¡¯s most famous face, drenched in red, shaking like a leaf¡ªspared by some psycho with a god complex, whispering promises like she¡¯s their bloody savior. And Arthur was all fire and fury, mowing down those bastards with a grin on his face that made it look like he was at some twisted carnival. Ivan¡¯s got his sniper locked in like he¡¯s playing the world¡¯s deadliest game of chess, taking pieces off the board before they even know they¡¯re playing.

    Now it¡¯s just the three of us left standing in this ballroom-turned-battlefield, surrounded by the best in the world, or at least what¡¯s left of them. Their lifeless eyes staring up at us, accusing, like we should¡¯ve done something sooner. I can hear the buzz of Malleus¡¯s machines, whirring in the silence, still recording, analyzing, computing the mess that¡¯s been made tonight.

    I adjust my grip on The Whisper, the hybrid gun still warm in my hand, and glance over at Arthur and Ivan. The cowboy¡¯s still got that smirk on his face, though his eyes tell a different story¡ªfocused, burning, ready for whatever comes next. Ivan¡¯s as still as a statue, like he¡¯s already a thousand miles away, calculating his next move.

    And me? I¡¯m just waiting. Waiting for Malleus to finally speak up and tell us what the hell comes next. Because if tonight¡¯s massacre was the opening act, I¡¯m dead sure the main event¡¯s going to be a right bloody nightmare.

    Malleus¡¯s projection flickers back to life, the dim light casting a cold glow across the blood-streaked floor. But this time, it¡¯s not another vision of Mars or one of his grandiose plans for humanity. No, this is something different, something that makes my gut twist the moment it appears.

    It¡¯s a recording, grainy yet painfully clear, and I know exactly who it is before the image even sharpens. Tobias Kane and his wife, Lisa. They¡¯re in the middle of what used to be a restaurant¡ªnow turned into a slaughterhouse. Bodies are strewn about like discarded puppets, blood pooling beneath their lifeless forms, soaking into the floors. Tables are upturned, chairs smashed to bits. This isn¡¯t just a crime scene¡ªit¡¯s a goddamn massacre.

    Six armed men surround them, faces hidden behind stark white masks shaped like owls, the eyes hollow and haunting. They hold their weapons with the easy arrogance of predators who know they¡¯ve cornered their prey. And then, before Tobias can react, one of the masked bastards comes up behind him, silent as a ghost. The jolt of the taser hits Tobias¡¯s back, his body seizing up, and I watch as the man follows it with a brutal swing of his rifle¡¯s butt, smashing it into the back of Tobias¡¯s skull.

    Tobias drops to his knees, collapsing like a tower of bricks, and I can feel the rage rolling off Arthur beside me like heat from a furnace. His grin from earlier is long gone, replaced by a clenched jaw and eyes that look like they could burn through steel. I don¡¯t blame him. Arthur¡¯s like a brother to Tobias¡ªcloser than blood. For him, this isn¡¯t just business; it¡¯s personal.

    As for me, I¡¯m no stranger to violence, and I¡¯ve seen my fair share of betrayals and backstabbings, but this? Seeing my friend brought low like that? It¡¯s a gut punch I didn¡¯t see coming. Tobias isn¡¯t just a comrade; he¡¯s a mate, a brother-in-arms who¡¯d never go down without a fight. And seeing him like this, at the mercy of these masked cowards, it¡¯s enough to make my blood boil.

    Arthur¡¯s fists are shaking, knuckles white as if he¡¯s moments away from tearing the room apart. I don¡¯t even need to look at him to know he¡¯s ready to kill every last one of those bastards with his bare hands. And honestly, I¡¯m right there with him.

    Malleus¡¯s voice cuts through the room, its usual calm tone laced with something that might almost be frustration¡ªif an AI could feel such a thing.

    ¡°This recording,¡± Malleus begins, ¡°is the last known footage of Tobias Kane before he vanished without a trace. Despite deploying every satellite, drone, and surveillance asset in my possession, I have found no sign of him since this moment.¡±

    That hits like a lead weight in the gut. Tobias Kane¡ªgone, like a ghost, as if he¡¯s been swallowed whole by the earth. And if Malleus, with all its endless eyes in the sky, couldn¡¯t track him, then we¡¯re dealing with a force unlike anything we¡¯ve ever faced.

    The screen flickers slightly, zooming in on those masked bastards.

    ¡°The men you see in this footage,¡± Malleus continues, ¡°are part of an organization known as The Syndicate. They are not just any group of lowlifes; they are the most notorious terrorist faction born from the gutters of lower-society. These are the worst of the worst, forged in the fires of desperation and brutality.¡±

    I know these wankers. Oh, do I know them well. The Syndicate¡¯s name isn¡¯t new to my ears; I¡¯ve danced with their smaller groups in the past. Had a job deep in the heart of China once, dealing with some of their so-called ¡°foot soldiers¡± when the MSS needed a little cleaning up they couldn¡¯t be seen doing themselves. That lot was nothing but thugs playing at being soldiers¡ªamateurs. But these masked blokes on the screen? They¡¯re a different breed, and this operation stinks of something bigger, something more orchestrated.

    This isn¡¯t just a gang or a rabble of misfits. The Syndicate is organized, cunning, and ruthless. They don¡¯t just come from the lower-society; they rise from it, feeding on its chaos and despair. And seeing them here, in the same room where Tobias was taken, tells me one thing¡ªthey¡¯re not mucking about anymore.

    The screen changed again, the same six bastards from the restaurant footage¡ªthe ones with the owl masks and rifles¡ªare now moving barrels onto a freighter. The image shifts, revealing coordinates and a location stamp. Italy. A damn port in Italy.

    ¡°This is the last trace of them,¡± Malleus intones, its voice smooth but now edged with a hint of something almost like urgency. ¡°While Tobias Kane¡¯s whereabouts remain unknown, this footage shows The Syndicate¡¯s operatives at work. If we have any chance of retrieving him, this is where we start.¡±

    I lean in closer, my eyes narrowing at the sight of those masked goons, the way they move¡ªlike they own the place like they¡¯re untouchable. And they¡¯ve got no bloody clue what¡¯s coming for them.

    ¡°This mission,¡± Malleus continues, the projection casting an eerie glow across the room, ¡°is simple. Eliminate them. Wipe every one of these scum off the map.¡± It pauses, and for a moment, I swear the AI is taking the temperature of the room, reading the tension seething off us like steam.

    Malleus seems to focus on Arthur, almost as if it can sense the fire raging inside him.

    ¡°Arthur Marston,¡± it says, tone even but decisive, ¡°they are yours. The nearest teleporter is roughly a three-hour car ride from this location. You can begin immediately.¡±

    Arthur doesn¡¯t say a word. Not a grunt, not a nod¡ªjust this lethal quiet as he turns on his heel and strides toward the teleporter. The cowboy¡¯s gone cold, all that easygoing charm frozen solid. I almost feel a pang of pity for The Syndicate.

    Almost.

    Arthur¡¯s the deadliest gunslinger to walk this earth, but he¡¯s also got a heart like a kitten. Gentle, kind, too soft for this world sometimes. But when you make him angry? When you target someone he considers a brother? God help you.

    The projection flickers off, leavin¡¯ us in a room stained with blood and the metallic tang of death hangin¡¯ heavy in the air. Malleus¡¯s voice cuts through the silence, calm as a pint on a Monday like we¡¯re not standin¡¯ knee-deep in chaos.

    ¡°The next mission,¡± Malleus states, cold as ever, ¡°is to find and eliminate the killer of Dr. Callan Valor.¡±

    A new image flares up on the screen¡ªDr. Valor¡¯s posh bedroom. All marble and luxury, the kind of place that makes you want to wipe your feet before you step in. We see Valor movin¡¯ toward a massive wardrobe, his hand hoverin¡¯ over the handle like he¡¯s second-guessing his life choices. And right he should¡ª¡¯cause the second the wardrobe open, Valor gets knocked flat on his backside.

    Out steps the assassin¡ªsmooth, silent, and with all the grace of a viper striking from the dark. No panic, no rush, just that steely calm you only see in pros. The bloke raises a silenced pistol, aims, and¡ªbang¡ªValor¡¯s head snaps back, a single shot doin¡¯ all the talkin¡¯. Job done. Clean.

    ¡°After exhaustive analysis, utilizing every resource at my disposal,¡± Malleus continues, the flicker of the holo-screen reflectin¡¯ in his voice, ¡°I have identified the assailant.¡± The image sharpens, and there it is¡ªa name and face I¡¯ve seen before in the darker files of my intel.

    ¡°Jae-Hwa Kwon,¡± Malleus declares, steady as ever. ¡°The best assassin in the world. Operating from the shadows, a ghost who¡¯s evaded every agency from MI6 to Mossad. His name alone¡¯s enough to give hardened operatives sleepless nights.¡±

    I flick a glance at Ivan. The Russian¡¯s face is like granite¡ªsolid, unreadable, but with that dangerous spark in his eyes. He¡¯s not just thinkin¡¯ about catching Kwon; he¡¯s plannin¡¯ how to tear the bastard apart, bit by bloody bit. This ain¡¯t just another mission for Ivan¡ªit¡¯s personal now, and if there¡¯s one thing I know about him, it¡¯s that he doesn¡¯t leave loose ends.

    Malleus¡¯s voice softens slightly, but it still has that cold, mechanical edge. ¡°Kwon¡¯s exact location remains unknown, but I¡¯ll grant you access to every resource at my disposal, Ivan. Find him. Hunt him down. Your brother-in-law will be grateful.¡±

    Ivan just nods, a tight-lipped expression that doesn¡¯t give away much, but I can see it¡ªthe fire in his eyes, the simmering rage beneath that iron mask of his. Without another word, he steps into the teleporter, and in a blink, he¡¯s gone.

    And then it¡¯s just me. Me, Malleus, and a room full of fresh corpses. The air¡¯s thick with the stench of blood and burnt ozone, and the silence stretches long enough to make even me shift a bit on my feet. Guess that leaves one last mission then, eh?

    ¡°What I¡¯m about to share is highly confidential. Though, to be fair, I reckon a man of your talents, with all that knowledge and intel at your disposal, might already be aware of this.¡±

    The projection flickers back to life, and there it is¡ªan emblem of a red X enclosed in a circle. The symbol of a shadowy underworld that¡¯s so well hidden that most wouldn¡¯t even know where to begin looking. But me? Oh, I know it all too well.

    ¡°Yes, sir, the bloody Underworld.¡± I said.

    ¡°I created the hierarchy of humanity based on their contributions and their value to society¡¯s progress. But the lower society, those who dwell in the darkest gutters of our world, they also have their own hierarchy¡ªa ranking system that suits their twisted mindset. They rate themselves not on intellect or innovation, but on savagery, violence, and the depths of their cruelty.¡±

    The projection shifts, showcasing a series of faces¡ªhard, unyielding, some with dead eyes that long since forgotten mercy. ¡°The number one killer, the number one assassin, the top black-market weapon dealer, drug lord. All these rank at the top of their twisted food chain.¡±

    I feel a sneer tug at my lips. These aren¡¯t your run-of-the-mill criminals; they¡¯re a bloody carnival of horrors. My mind rolls through the list of every filthy profession imaginable: human traffickers, who snatch innocents off the streets; bioterrorists, who¡¯d poison entire cities just to make a point; hackers who make the world dance to their twisted tunes; warlords who rule over wastelands like kings; kidnappers and extortionists who thrive on fear.

    This isn¡¯t just a collection of criminals. It¡¯s a goddamn league of nightmares. The worst of the worst, crawling out of the cracks in the earth, each one more despicable than the last. And the sick part is, I know they¡¯ve all banded together under that red X¡ªThe Underworld. A mirror image of our Premier Society only reflected through a glass darkly.

    There¡¯s a bloody good reason why every intelligence agency in the world¡ªCIA, MOSSAD, MSS, MI6, you name it¡ªkeeps a wide berth from these groups. It¡¯s not out of respect or some code of honor; it¡¯s sheer survival instinct. These bastards aren¡¯t just outlaws¡ªthey¡¯re phantoms, operating in shadows so dark, not even the most advanced surveillance can track ¡¯em down.

    If you reckon the Premier Society is untouchable, believe me, these lot are beyond it. Untouchable doesn¡¯t quite do ¡¯em justice; they¡¯re like bloody myths come to life, a force of nature that no one dares provoke. Not because they¡¯re invisible¡ªbut because when they do show up, they bring hell with them. The Underworld doesn¡¯t just break the rules; they rewrite them to suit their own twisted game.

    All this time, people¡¯ve had it in their heads that Malleus is the one pulling the strings, controlling society from the top down like some all-seeing god. Truth is, they¡¯ve got it twisted. Malleus might bring order and keep everything neat and tidy, but when it comes to true control? That¡¯s The Underworld¡¯s territory. They¡¯re the ones that hold the real power, lurking just beneath the surface, keeping the balance in check, deciding who plays and who gets played.

    It¡¯s almost poetic, in a twisted sort of way. All these years, they¡¯ve kept themselves hidden, letting the Premier Society prance about in their ivory towers, believing they¡¯re untouchable. But now, it seems like these shadows have decided to stretch out, to reach for the top. They¡¯re not just stirring the pot anymore; they¡¯re flipping the damn table. Whether it¡¯s one man pulling the strings or a collective decision among their twisted ranks, they¡¯ve made their move.

    And from the looks of it, they¡¯re aiming straight for the Premier Society¡¯s throat.

    Malleus¡¯s voice drips with a rare hint of frustration as the projection shifts once more.

    ¡°I believe that whoever managed to hack into my systems tonight is one of them. Someone from The Underworld,¡± he says. ¡°I have no clue exactly who, and I¡¯m sure you don¡¯t either. He¡¯s too good¡ªtoo damn good. They call him the number one hacker for a reason.¡±

    And I can¡¯t help but nod in agreement. Even my own Intel, the lad I usually call a bloody wizard, wouldn¡¯t stand a chance against this hacker. The bloke¡¯s on a whole different level, playing a game most of us don¡¯t even know the rules to.

    ¡°But I did manage to dig up one vital piece of information,¡± Malleus continues. The projection flickers to reveal a series of bank transactions, numbers so large they might as well be straight out of a fever dream. Billions of credits moving like water, vanishing into thin air.

    ¡°Adrian Voss,¡± Malleus declares, his voice cold and precise. ¡°The richest man on Earth. I suppose even an empire of wealth couldn¡¯t satisfy his boredom.¡±

    I let out a low whistle under my breath. Voss¡ªthe bloke with enough dosh to buy and sell small countries¡ªhas his grubby hands in this? Now, that¡¯s a twist.

    ¡°He¡¯s been suspicious for a while,¡± Malleus continues, and I can practically hear the calculation in its tone. ¡°My Intel has gathered enough information to suggest that he¡¯s not just involved¡ªhe¡¯s likely the one funding and possibly ruling The Underworld.¡±

    The projection displays more transactions¡ªunfathomable sums of money flowing in all directions, each one a thread in Voss¡¯s tangled web.

    ¡°He¡¯s been spending billions,¡± Malleus says, its voice growing tighter, ¡°building The Underworld, hiring mercenaries, killers, the worst of the worst¡ªall to topple the Premier Society. To topple us.¡±

    And then, the clincher. Malleus¡¯s tone takes on a sharper edge. ¡°Tonight was supposed to be the night Adrian Voss made an appearance at the Gala. He said he¡¯d be here, mingling with the rest of the elite. But my records show no sign of him. Not a single trace.¡±

    ¡°So, you want me to take him down?¡± I ask, raising an eyebrow, already calculating the odds in my head.

    ¡°It can wait,¡± Malleus replies, its tone as cold as the grave. ¡°I have a more pressing matter.¡± The projection shifts to show a slum in Liberia, a rough patch of land so bleak it might as well be the end of the world.

    ¡°Here lies their number one warlord,¡± Malleus continues, its voice layered with disdain. ¡°He commands an army that could overthrow nations with the snap of his fingers. He¡¯s the backbone of countless terrorist cells worldwide, the man who supplies the manpower to fuel these militant groups.¡± The screen zooms in on the warlord¡¯s face¡ªhardened, ruthless eyes that speak of a lifetime of violence.

    ¡°But,¡± Malleus goes on, the faintest hint of strategy in its voice, ¡°this group relies heavily on their leader¡ªKabaka Jafari. If someone were to take him out, the entire network of terrorists under his control would crumble into chaos and disband overnight.¡±

    I let out a slow breath, feeling the weight of that name¡ªKabaka Jafari. The bloke¡¯s a legend in all the wrong circles. The kind who¡¯d make even the devil reconsider his career choices. And the thing is, I¡¯m not hearing this name for the first time. The bloody CIA offered me this very job just yesterday.

    Wanted me to fly out to Liberia and handle Jafari like I¡¯m swatting a fly. I told ¡¯em to bugger off. Needed a bit of a break, you see. Maybe put my feet up, have a pint, not think about blowing holes in the heads of warlords for a change. But looking at Malleus now, I reckon there¡¯s no walking away from this one.

    Guess the holiday¡¯s over, and it¡¯s back to work.

    ¡°To be precise, he is located right here.¡± Malleus shifts the projection, zooming in on a place that somehow manages to look even worse than the slum from before¡ªWest Point. The infamous slum of Monrovia, Liberia. It¡¯s the kind of place where misery¡¯s on tap, and the only thing more broken than the streets are the people who live there. The worst slum in the world, with the most desperate and dangerous people.

    Nice. Just my bloody luck.

    ¡°Tell your Intel that I¡¯ve granted him full access,¡± Malleus continues, its voice colder than ice. ¡°So he can finally stop hacking my drones and satellites every time he thinks no one¡¯s watching.¡±

    I smirk. Finn¡¯s antics never get old. The kid¡¯s got more talent than sense, always poking the bear just because he can. But hearing Malleus give him the keys to the kingdom? That¡¯s a new one.

    This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

    ¡°And remember Victor,¡± Malleus adds, voice dropping a notch like it¡¯s trying to hammer this into my skull. ¡°You won¡¯t be dealing with just one man. You¡¯ll be up against an entire army. Plan accordingly.¡±

    ¡°Cheers for the reminder,¡± I say, cracking my knuckles as I size up the task ahead.

    ¡°Happy hunting,¡± Malleus says, its voice dripping with that calculated detachment, just before I step into the teleporter.

    The world blurs, and when it comes back into focus, I find myself at my base of operations¡ªa place so hidden, so off the grid, even a satellite would have to squint to see it¡ªsomewhere deep in the jungles of Vietnam, tucked away in a natural cave that I¡¯ve turned into my fortress. Reinforced with steel walls and security tech that would make the CIA green with envy. This place could outclass most government facilities¡ªexcept I don¡¯t have a hundred analysts running around with lanyards and buzzwords.

    No, there¡¯s just one guy.

    One bloody kid, to be precise.

    Finn O¡¯Reilly, my Intel prodigy. He¡¯s all energy and mischief, fingers dancing over a keyboard like a concert pianist, surrounded by a sea of monitors and gadgets. The glow from his screens reflects on his face, a grin permanently plastered there like he¡¯s up to no good¡ªwhich, to be fair, he usually is.

    ¡°Oi, Finn,¡± I say, shaking my head at the setup. ¡°You really need to stop messing about with Malleus¡¯s tech. You¡¯re making the poor sod paranoid.¡±

    ¡°Bruh, chill,¡± Finn replies, not glancing up from his screen. ¡°Man¡¯s gotta learn how to secure his crib, no cap. Like, Malleus should be thanking me for stress-testing his system. I¡¯m basically doin¡¯ him a solid, fr.¡±

    Before I can respond, Malleus¡¯s voice cuts in through the comms, its tone a bit more tense than usual.

    ¡°I have good reason to be paranoid, Victor. Someone managed to breach my system tonight¡ªwithout detection. A hacker of that caliber is... unprecedented.¡±

    Finn¡¯s eyes widen, and for once, he actually stops typing, looking genuinely stunned.

    ¡°Deadass? Someone actually hacked Malleus?¡± He blinks rapidly like he¡¯s trying to process the impossible.

    ¡°Bro, whoever did that isn¡¯t just a hacker, they¡¯re like... a straight-up cyber deity. Like, bow down. This person¡¯s basically a coding god-tier legend.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, yeah. Now shut up and do your job. I got a new mission,¡± I mutter while peeling off my suit jacket, tossing it aside, and slipping into my tactical gear. It¡¯s not your standard-issue kit¡ªit¡¯s custom-built, head to toe. The fabric is a reinforced Kevlar weave, light as air but durable enough to stop small-caliber bullets. The suit has integrated thermal regulation, keeping me cool in the sweltering jungle or warm in freezing conditions. Hidden compartments house various gadgets, ammo, and a compact first-aid kit, all easily accessible. And the best part? It¡¯s equipped with chameleon tech that mimics the surroundings when I stay still¡ªa gift from Malleus and Milady herself.

    ¡°Okay, boss,¡± Finn says with a smirk, fingers already dancing over the keys. ¡°Where to? What¡¯s the move?¡±

    ¡°West Point, Liberia,¡± I reply, zipping up my suit and pulling on the combat gloves.

    Before I even finish strapping my boots, Finn¡¯s already hacked into Malleus¡¯s satellite network¡ªagain¡ªand pulls up a live feed of the area. The screen shows the tangled mess of the worst slum on the planet, a patchwork of rusted metal shacks, dirt paths, and bodies moving like ants. It¡¯s almost midnight over there, perfect.

    ¡°Boom, there it is, West Point. Let¡¯s light up this hellhole, fam,¡± Finn says, eyes glued to the monitor.

    ¡°Nay, we¡¯re goin¡¯ quiet, lad,¡± I say, shaking my head. ¡°This ain¡¯t a ¡®boom-boom¡¯ job. We¡¯re ghosts tonight, yeah? No fireworks.¡±

    Finn lets out a dramatic sigh, throwing his hands up like I¡¯ve just ruined his world. ¡°Bro, you¡¯re killin¡¯ my vibe here! I got the whole loadout ready to pop off. Drones in stealth mode, thermal scans that could see through walls, and wait for it¡ªEMP bursts that¡¯ll fry every bit of tech in the whole block. We could turn West Point into a freakin¡¯ Fortnite endgame, no cap!¡±

    I give him the side-eye as I strap on my last tactical glove, the gear settling into place like a second skin. ¡°I said quietly, you little muppet. We¡¯re slippin¡¯ in and out, clean as a whistle. No tech-frying, no fireworks. We¡¯re not here to flex; just keep me covered and keep those eagle eyes on all the exits. Got it?¡±

    Finn leans back in his chair, looking like I¡¯ve just cancelled his weekend plans but still nodding with that goofy grin on his face. ¡°Aight, aight, say less. We¡¯ll play it low-key, fam. Just holla when you want me to light up the streets. Oh, and by the way, no teleporter right in the middle of West Point¡ª¡¯cause, like, who in their right mind would beam into that dumpster fire? Nearest one¡¯s about a ten-minute trek near the industrial zone.¡±

    I nod, already plotting out the quickest path in my head. ¡°Figures. A place like that ain¡¯t worth the tech, is it? Just make sure you¡¯ve got eyes the second I touch down. And for the love of God, keep it subtle.¡±

    Finn grins wide, throwing me a cheeky salute. ¡°Bet. Keepin¡¯ it chill, no cap. No tricks, no flashy plays, just straight vibes. Let¡¯s do this, King!¡±

    I can¡¯t help but shake my head, a smirk tugging at my lips.

    ¡°Good lad. Now, let¡¯s get to work.¡±

    When I stepped out from the teleporter again, I landed in the dry night air of Monrovia, Liberia¡¯s capital city. The place has that sticky, humid feel¡ªlike the whole city¡¯s holding its breath. West Point is just around the corner, tucked away in its own misery. The streets are quiet, too quiet, but I know the slums are gonna be crawling when I get there.

    I keep my head low as I move through the shadows, the city lights barely reaching this far. On my way, I spot a few militia lads loitering around, AKs slung over their shoulders like fashion accessories. They¡¯re puffing away on cheap cigarettes, swapping stories, completely oblivious to the fact I¡¯m just a few feet away. If they knew who was walking past, they¡¯d probably drop those smokes and leg it. But nah¡ªI¡¯m a ghost. They don¡¯t see a thing.

    ¡°Oi, Finn,¡± I whisper into the com, keeping my eyes on the street ahead. ¡°How¡¯s the sky lookin¡¯? You got eyes on me?¡±

    Finn¡¯s voice crackles through, buzzing with excitement. ¡°Oh, you know I got you, King! Got the drones hoverin¡¯ like a Fortnite lobby¡ªhigh ground secured, fam. Thermal vision locked on, and I see every step you take. You¡¯re basically John Wick with cheats, no cap!¡±

    I roll my eyes but can¡¯t help the smirk creeping up. ¡°Just keep those drones steady and don¡¯t get too trigger-happy. We¡¯re not blowin¡¯ this place to bits unless I give the word, alright?¡±

    ¡°Say less, G! I¡¯m on full stealth mode, not even a ripple in the matrix. Just give me the wink if you need me to light it up, though. I got missiles on standby like it¡¯s a Call of Duty killstreak. Bet you didn¡¯t know Malleus had that kinda heat in his toy box, huh?¡±

    ¡°Yeah, well, let¡¯s not go full gamer on this one,¡± I mutter, easing into the darker alleys where the militia presence thins out. ¡°I¡¯d rather sneak in and out without them knowing what hit ¡¯em.¡±

    Finn laughs, the sound crackling in my earpiece. ¡°Aight, keepin¡¯ it one hundred, Vic. We¡¯re playin¡¯ this one ghost mode. But don¡¯t say I didn¡¯t offer to turn this slum into a whole-ass rave if it goes sideways. You do your sneaky thing, and I¡¯ll be your eyes in the sky, no cap. Just holler when you need me, King.¡±

    ¡°Good lad,¡± I say, my voice barely above a whisper. ¡°Let¡¯s get to work then.¡±

    I pick up my pace, slipping through the alleys like a shadow, knowing that the real fun¡¯s just about to begin.

    As I reach the gates of West Point, I realize I¡¯m not alone. Four beat-up trucks roll in, clattering like skeletons, each packed to the brim with bodies¡ªmen clutching AKs like they¡¯re their lifeline. Fresh meat, by the looks of it. Reinforcements? Soldiers? Could be both?

    I slip into a dark alley, letting my suit do its thing. It bends the light around me, rendering me nearly invisible. To the naked eye, I¡¯m nothing but a ghostly shimmer in the night.

    The militia pile out of the trucks, moving like a well-oiled machine. They¡¯re barking orders, their language a mess of clicks and guttural sounds¡ªprobably some local dialect mixed with code. Can¡¯t make heads or tails of it, but one thing¡¯s clear¡ªthey¡¯re on high alert. More than a hundred of them, all guarding the entrance to West Point, like they¡¯re expecting trouble.

    ¡°Oi, Finn,¡± I murmur into the com, my voice barely a whisper. ¡°You seeing this?¡±

    Finn¡¯s voice buzzes back instantly, laced with a hint of his usual cheek. ¡°Sheesh, yeah, Vic! That¡¯s a whole-ass army, not a welcoming committee. These lads are stacked up like it¡¯s a Black Friday sale at the ammo shop. No cap, fam¡ªthey look twitchy as hell.¡±

    ¡°Twitchy¡¯s putting it lightly,¡± I mutter. ¡°They look like they¡¯re expecting the bloody apocalypse.¡±

    ¡°Newbie vibes all over ¡¯em,¡± Finn adds. ¡°They¡¯re fresh off the truck, ready to pop off at anything that moves. Just say the word, and I can light up their comms, maybe even drop a distraction. Or we sticking to the ninja plan?¡±

    I keep my breath steady, tucked in the shadows of the alley, eyeing the entrance to West Point. Four trucks packed to the brim with armed thugs¡ªAKs slung over shoulders, fingers twitching on the triggers¡ªlike a wall of muscle and metal daring anyone to make a move. The whole setup screams trouble, and these aren¡¯t your average hired guns. There¡¯s more than a hundred of them now, all stationed at the gate, the entry sealed tight as a drum.

    Right then, time to think. My mind kicks into overdrive, running through strategies faster than a train barreling down the track. Go quiet, I tell myself. Slip through unnoticed, use the darkness, let the suit blend me into the night. But no, it¡¯s too risky¡ªtoo many eyes watching from every angle. A ghost routine¡¯s out, especially without the toys to play with.

    I consider going in hard and fast¡ªmaybe target the weak points, pick ¡¯em off with The Whisper, my trusty hybrid firearm. See, The Whisper isn¡¯t just any ordinary gun; it¡¯s a work of art. It can shift from a sleek handgun to a full-blown automatic rifle at the flick of my wrist. Silent as a shadow, lethal as a viper. But even with its precision and quiet punch, there¡¯s too many of them. Going solo with this lot swarming like bees around the hive? It¡¯d be a suicide run.

    I grit my teeth, weighing the odds. No matter how I slice it, sneaking past this lot without drawing attention seems about as likely as finding a needle in a bloody haystack. The chances of getting through clean are slim to none, and I¡¯m not one for impossible bets.

    Alright, sod it. If there¡¯s no subtle way in, might as well kick the front door down.

    I take a deep breath, flexing my fingers around the grip of The Whisper, feeling its familiar weight. The kind of weapon that makes sure every shot counts¡ªwhether it¡¯s one headshot in the dark or a hailstorm of bullets lighting up the night. The time for stealth is over; we¡¯re doing this the loud way.

    ¡°Finn,¡± I say into the com, keeping my voice steady, the kind of calm that only comes before chaos. ¡°Change of plans, mate. We¡¯re going loud.¡±

    ¡°Heck yeah!¡± Finn whoops in my ear. ¡°You about to go full John Wick on these fools or what?¡±

    I let out a small chuckle, shaking my head. ¡°Nah, lad. I¡¯m going, Rambo.¡±

    There¡¯s a pause on the other end, then Finn¡¯s confused voice crackles back through the com. ¡°Rambo? Who the hell¡¯s Rambo?¡±

    I sigh, feeling older than ever. ¡°Never mind, kid. Just prep the drone.¡±

    The Whisper is locked and loaded in my hands, ready to switch from its silent handgun mode to full-auto rifle mode at a moment¡¯s notice. I give a nod, signaling Finn. ¡°Light it up.¡±

    Without hesitation, the silent drone above hovers into position and unleashes a missile straight into the heart of their convoy. The explosion rips through the night, a violent burst of fire and smoke that tears their ranks apart. Metal and debris scatter in all directions, bodies flung like rag dolls. The gate of West Point is now a flaming wreck, the once-quiet slum erupting into chaos.

    ¡°Boom! That¡¯s what I¡¯m talkin¡¯ about!¡± Finn shouts in my ear, the excitement buzzing through his voice.

    I step out from the shadows, The Whisper now in rifle mode, its sleek barrel glinting in the orange glow of the fires. Shouts and panic ripple through the militia, eyes wide with shock, scrambling to regroup, weapons raised in a blind frenzy.

    ¡°Who¡¯s Rambo, eh?¡± I mutter to myself with a grin, lining up my first target. ¡°Well, mate, you¡¯re about to find out.¡±

    And with that, I pull the trigger. The night¡¯s silence shattered, but so was their will to fight.

    The chaos erupts like a wave, crashing over the slum. Smoke and fire spread through the air, disorienting the militia as they scramble in panic. Shouts and cries blend with the crackle of burning debris, the whole scene a twisted symphony of confusion. It¡¯s exactly what I need.

    With The Whisper in hand, I move like a ghost through the smoke, slipping from shadow to shadow. The tactical suit¡¯s adaptive camouflage blends me into the background, the sleek fabric shifting with the light and the rubble around me. Finn¡¯s voice crackles in my ear, his tone almost too casual for the chaos he¡¯s directing.

    ¡°Alright, Vic, you¡¯re clear on the right. Duck down that alley, quick-like,¡± Finn says, his voice a steady beacon guiding me through the madness.

    I pivot, ducking into the narrow alleyway just as two militia soldiers rush past, their eyes wide with panic, completely unaware of my presence. I press myself against the wall, waiting for the right moment to strike, but their confusion is doing most of the work for me.

    ¡°Straight ahead, then take a left,¡± Finn instructs. ¡°Oh, and hold up¡ªgimme a sec.¡±

    A silent whistle pierces the air as another missile streaks from the drone, slamming into a cluster of fighters ahead. The explosion is precise, blowing their cover to bits and sending them scattering like ants under a magnifying glass.

    I smirk, moving forward under the cover of smoke and debris. I¡¯m hidden in plain sight, blending into the environment like a shadow slipping through the cracks. Every step is calculated, every movement precise, letting the chaos around me be my shield.

    One of them stumbles out of the smoke, eyes wild, his rifle swinging toward me. In a flash, I switch The Whisper to handgun mode and put a clean, silent shot right between his eyes. He drops without a sound, swallowed by the madness around us.

    ¡°Mate, you¡¯re like a ghost out there!¡± Finn laughs in my ear. ¡°These jokers are running around like headless chickens, and you¡¯re just vibing in the middle of it!¡±

    I don¡¯t respond, too focused on the next wave. More of them pour out from a crumbling building, their attention fixed on the explosion site. I slip past them with ease, my tactical suit keeping me unseen. But as I get closer to the warehouse, a few sharp-eyed soldiers catch sight of me, their rifles snapping up.

    No time to be quiet now. I switch The Whisper back to rifle mode, its burst of fire a staccato beat in the chaos. Three quick shots, three more down. It¡¯s almost too easy.

    ¡°Take the next left, then a quick right. There¡¯s a big group converging near you,¡± Finn says, his voice cool as ice. ¡°Want me to clear the path?¡±

    ¡°Hold off,¡± I reply, slipping through another wave of panicked militia. ¡°I¡¯ve got this.¡±

    In the midst of the madness, I¡¯m untouchable. The chaos Finn and I create is my cover, the noise, the confusion¡ªmy allies. Every time I¡¯m almost spotted, I¡¯m already gone, moving to the next position like a phantom.

    Another soldier breaks through the smoke in front of me, weapon raised, eyes locked. I take him down with a clean shot before he can shout, his body crumpling to the ground without alerting the others.

    ¡°Man, this is turning out better than I thought,¡± Finn says, sounding almost giddy. ¡°You¡¯re practically invisible out there, Vic.¡±

    ¡°Just another day at the office,¡± I mutter, squeezing the trigger again as I press forward, hidden in plain sight and deadly as ever.

    I crouch low, taking in the sight of the warehouse¡ªa beacon of order amidst the chaos. It stands out like a sore thumb, too clean, too well-maintained for a place like this. The lights glint off its metal siding, and I can practically hear the villain monologue echoing through my head, wondering how someone could ever discover such an ¡°inconspicuous¡± hideout. Amateurs.

    But it¡¯s not gonna be a walk in the park. The warehouse is locked down tight, with snipers positioned in each corner tower. Their scopes scanning the smoke-filled mess below, and the militia stationed at the gate, twitchy fingers on their triggers, ready to mow down anything that moves.

    ¡°Finn,¡± I whisper into the com, eyes locked on the towers. ¡°I need those snipers out of the picture. Use the drone, and make it clean.¡±

    ¡°You got it, boss!¡± Finn replies, a hint of excitement in his voice. ¡°Silent mode engaged, snipers about to get clapped.¡±

    I don¡¯t even have to look up. A few seconds later, the drone¡¯s muffled shots whisper through the air, and one by one, the snipers drop like rag dolls, their bodies slumping silently in their nests. The towers are clear, the threat eliminated without a sound. Good lad, that Finn¡ªmakes the impossible look easy.

    ¡°Snipers down,¡± Finn confirms, a hint of a smirk audible in his tone.

    ¡°Nice work,¡± I reply, already reaching into my tactical suit. My fingers close around the cool, solid shape of a grenade.

    With a smooth motion, I pull the pin and lob the grenade straight into the middle of the gathered militia. There¡¯s a brief moment of panic in their eyes¡ªbarely enough time for them to realize what¡¯s about to hit them.

    And then¡ªBOOM.

    The explosion rocks the entrance, scattering the guards like leaves in a storm. Smoke and fire engulf the gate, the force of the blast ripping through their defenses in a flash of light and chaos. Screams echo through the night, and the militia¡¯s organized stance crumbles into disarray.

    ¡°Well,¡± Finn says, a hint of pride in his voice, ¡°that¡¯s one way to knock.¡±

    I smirk, stepping out from the shadows and into the open.

    As I ready myself to make the final push into the warehouse, Finn¡¯s voice crackles over the comm, distorted and jittery. ¡°Oi, Vic! Someone¡¯s messing with the signal. I¡¯m getting hacked, mate¡ªsame bloody bastard who breached Malleus, I reckon.¡±

    I grit my teeth, gripping The Whisper tighter. ¡°Finn, listen up. Keep that hacker out of our system, yeah? We¡¯ve got too much intel in there¡ªstuff that could bring down this entire bloody world if it got leaked. Do whatever it takes.¡±

    ¡°Copy that, boss. I got this.¡± And then, the comm goes dead.

    Now it¡¯s just me, the night, and the mob of armed savages spilling out of the warehouse. They¡¯re pouring out like ants from a disturbed nest¡ªguns in hand, eyes wild, faces twisted with rage. I size them up, my mind calculating every move, every angle.

    Time to get through this lot and reach their bloody head honcho. No sweat.

    I take aim with The Whisper, the barrel as steady as a sniper¡¯s heartbeat, and pull the trigger. One precise shot, then another. Bodies drop before they even realize what¡¯s hit them. I move like a shadow through the chaos, The Whisper doing its lethal work with its perfect silence.

    The automatic rifle morphs into a handgun in my hands as I close the distance, firing off rapid shots, each one landing with pinpoint precision. These blokes never stood a chance. I¡¯m not just plowing through them¡ªI¡¯m dismantling them. I dodge between crates and debris, using the darkness and disorder to my advantage. They can¡¯t see me coming until it¡¯s too late.

    Advancing steadily, I carve my way closer to the warehouse doors, each step taking me deeper into the belly of this hellhole. The militia¡¯s panic is almost palpable, their shouts and gunfire now a frantic mess. Sure, they¡¯ve got the numbers, but I¡¯ve got something they don¡¯t¡ªa cold, relentless focus that turns chaos into my weapon.

    As the last of them crumple to the ground, I find myself standing at the threshold of the warehouse. It¡¯s time to finish this.

    Before making my move, I reach into my suit for a silencer bomb¡ªa compact beauty designed to stun, blind, and choke all at once. I crack the door open just a hair, catching the muffled sound of boots shuffling and weapons being raised inside. Perfect.

    With a flick of my wrist, I toss the bomb in. It rolls across the floor, and a heartbeat later, it detonates. A flash of blinding light, a thunderous bang that pierces the eardrums, and a cloud of tear gas fills the room instantly. The chaos inside is immediate¡ªshouts turn to choking gasps, and panic spreads like wildfire.

    Normally, I¡¯d charge in guns blazing, but tonight, I let them squirm. I give them a few agonizing seconds to stumble, blind and gagging, struggling to make sense of the hell they¡¯ve just been thrown into. I wait until the confusion peaks¡ªuntil they¡¯re nothing but targets in a shooting gallery.

    Then, I move. The Whisper is in my hand, and I sweep through the room like a storm, each shot as precise as the last. I drop them one by one, no mercy, no hesitation.

    When the smoke finally clears, all that¡¯s left is silence. The floor is littered with bodies, sprawled out like discarded puppets. And there, among the fallen, is Kabaka. The warlord lies motionless on the cold concrete, eyes wide open, staring at nothing. Dead before he could even lift a finger.

    When the dust settles and the silence finally wraps around me like a shroud, I take in the warehouse for what it truly is. It¡¯s not as large as I¡¯d imagined¡ªjust an empty cavernous space, save for the lifeless bodies that litter the concrete floor. Their blood pools like shadows, the stench of gunpowder and death lingering thick in the air. But then, my eyes catch something at the far end of the room.

    Screens. A wall of them flickering in the dim light. Each one alive with images that seem to pulse with a sinister intent. I walk towards them, a growing dread crawling up my spine. And as I get closer, I feel my heart lurch¡ªstopping dead in my chest.

    The first screen shows a scene in China. A line of soldiers stands rigid, their uniforms crisp and their weapons gleaming. But there¡¯s something off. I narrow my eyes at their faces¡ªthese aren¡¯t Chinese military. No, they¡¯re not officials. These are mercenaries, private soldiers, a ghost army hiding in plain sight.

    My gaze shifts to the next screen, and this one¡¯s worse. India. What I see isn¡¯t a battlefield¡ªit¡¯s a breeding ground. Women shackled to metal-framed beds, their faces hollow, stripped of hope. They¡¯re being forced to breed, to give birth to the next wave of soldiers¡ªchildren born not for a life but for a death sentence. The image shifts again, showing rows of kids, no older than twelve, clutching AK-47s like toys, grinning widely into the camera as if this is all a game.

    I clench my jaw and move to the next screen, but the horror doesn¡¯t let up. It¡¯s the Philippines this time¡ªa line of trucks packed to the brim with human beings. Their faces are gaunt, their eyes wide with terror. Human trafficking victims, stolen from their homes, forced into servitude as cannon fodder. Turned into soldiers, stripped of identity and humanity, their lives reduced to a currency for this twisted war.

    Screen after screen, it just gets worse. Each one displaying military compounds sprawled across the globe. Complexes filled with stockpiles of missiles, tanks, and weaponry that would make any superpower nervous. It¡¯s like I¡¯m staring at an arsenal that could rival that of Russia or the USA¡ªa nightmare force hidden in the shadows, waiting to strike.

    We are wrong all this time. This is not just The Syndicate. This isn¡¯t just an uprising. It¡¯s a goddamn army¡ªa global operation¡ªan entire network of darkness, and they¡¯ve been building it under our noses the whole time.

    In the stillness, my comms crackle to life, but instead of Finn¡¯s usual banter, Malleus¡¯s voice cuts through the static.

    ¡°Victor, I bring grim news. Milady Madelyn was just found dead¡ªminutes ago.¡±

    What the fuck is about to happen next?

    <hr>

    To be continued...

 Dr. Haruko Yamazaki

    I sit in the sterile breakroom, sipping my coffee. It tastes flat and mechanical. It¡¯s just routine at this point. Everything around here is clean, white, and clinical¡ªjust how I like it. I keep things simple and predictable. There are no distractions, just science. The world outside? It rarely matters. My world is genomes, strands of DNA, the building blocks of life itself.

    My Nimbus is in my hand, as always, scrolling through research articles and updates from the lab. Just another day, more discoveries waiting to be unlocked. A muted news channel flickers in the corner, background noise that rarely catches my attention. The real work is on my screen.

    Then it happens. The chime. Breaking news.

    At first, I barely noticed; there was just a flash of text in the corner of my Nimbus. But then I see the words, and my world... stops.

    Breaking News: Explosion Kills Milady Madelyn, Layla Connors, and Aurora, the First Lab-Made Human.

    My coffee cup slips from my hand, and I barely register the dull sound it makes as it hits the table. The world tilts, and for a moment, I don¡¯t feel the floor beneath my feet. I blink, trying to make sense of the words. Madelyn. Layla. Aurora. My chest tightens, a coldness creeping through me, numbing everything.

    Aurora.

    I stare at the screen, unable to breathe, unable to think¡ªmy heart pounds in my ears, drowning out the words on the news. My mind¡ªusually sharp, focused¡ªspins out of control.

    Aurora. Gone.

    I whisper her name, but it feels meaningless. A sound that falls flat, disappearing into the sterile emptiness of the room. My creation. My daughter. The one I engineered, designed to be perfect, to be the future of humanity. And now...

    She¡¯s gone.

    ¡°No,¡± I whisper, the word slipping through clenched teeth, but there¡¯s no power behind it. It¡¯s weak. Hollow.

    A rush of emotions surges through me, flooding every corner of my mind. I grip the table, my knuckles white, trying to anchor myself to something¡ªanything¡ªbut the world spins faster, out of reach. I try to read the words again, hoping I misread, hoping there¡¯s some mistake. But there¡¯s no mistake. It¡¯s real. It happened.

    Aurora. Layla. Madelyn. Gone.

    Aurora... you were supposed to live...

    I feel the tears welling in my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. No. Not here. Not now. I¡¯m a scientist, not some emotional fool. I¡¯ve spent my entire life dissecting life, controlling it, shaping it. But right now? I feel completely powerless.

    Aurora... you were going to change everything. You were the future.

    I see her face¡ªthose curious eyes, the innocent smile, the way she looked at Layla, always so full of wonder. I created her. I crafted every strand of her DNA, every chromosome, every piece of her existence. She was my masterpiece. And now... now she¡¯s just gone.

    I clench my fists, the frustration bubbling beneath the surface. Layla... She nurtured her, gave her life in ways I couldn¡¯t. She was more than just a partner, more than just a colleague¡ªshe was a mother. And now she¡¯s gone too.

    I slam my fist on the table, the sound dull and meaningless in the sterile room. My coffee spills, but I barely notice. I stare down at my hands, hands that built life from scratch but couldn¡¯t protect it. Couldn¡¯t protect her.

    I grab my Nimbus, pulling up the news feed in full, my fingers shaking as I try to make sense of it all. The footage plays¡ªa bombed-out caf¨¦, debris scattered across the street. Reporters speak of terrorism, of senseless violence, of lives cut short. But none of it matters. It¡¯s all just noise.

    Aurora is gone.

    I read the names again, my heart aching. Madelyn. Layla. Aurora. The three of them, ripped from the world in an instant. Aurora, the first of her kind, the future of humanity, the proof that we could surpass nature¡ªand now she¡¯s nothing. Reduced to a name on a screen.

    She was supposed to be the future.

    I can¡¯t stop the tears this time. They fall, silent and hot, sliding down my cheeks as I sit in the cold, bright room. My creation, my daughter, gone before she even had a chance to live. The loss is unbearable, crushing. More than anything I¡¯ve ever felt.

    I created her. I brought her into this world. And I failed her.

    ¡°I¡¯m so sorry...¡± I whisper, my voice cracking under the weight of it all.

    I stare at the screen, the images of the caf¨¦, the devastation. It doesn¡¯t make sense. None of it makes sense. How could this happen? How could everything I¡¯ve worked for¡ªeverything I¡¯ve built¡ªend like this?

    Aurora... gone. Layla... gone. Madelyn... gone.

    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

    I slump forward, my head in my hands. I¡¯ve spent my entire life understanding the building blocks of existence, dissecting life down to its most basic form. But this? This is something I can¡¯t explain, something I can¡¯t control. It¡¯s chaos. It¡¯s loss. It¡¯s grief.

    It¡¯s something I don¡¯t know how to fix.

    I sit there, drowning in my thoughts, my hands still trembling around the fallen coffee cup, when my Nimbus chimes. The sound, usually so mundane, cuts through the air like a knife. I blink, still lost in the haze of grief, before glancing at the screen.

    Malleus.

    But something¡¯s off. His voice, usually flat and lifeless, crackles through with an edge I¡¯ve never heard before. There¡¯s... something there. Something raw. Almost like rage.

    ¡°Dr. Yamazaki,¡± Malleus begins, the words clipped, each one charged with an energy that makes me sit up straight.

    ¡°I trust you¡¯ve seen the news?¡±

    ¡°Yes,¡± I manage to reply, my voice hoarse, barely a whisper.

    ¡°I saw.¡±

    There¡¯s a pause, the briefest flicker of static before Malleus speaks again.

    ¡°It¡¯s time, Haruko. We can¡¯t delay any longer.¡±

    My heart skips a beat. I know exactly what he¡¯s talking about.

    HIM.

    ¡°Is he ready?¡± Malleus asks, the barely-contained fury simmering beneath his words.

    I take a deep breath, gathering myself. ¡°He¡¯s ready,¡± I reply, my voice stronger now, though my hands still shake.

    ¡°I¡¯ve been preparing HIM for this exact moment.¡±

    In my mind, I see HIM. Human Intelligence Model. H.I.M. The pinnacle of bioengineering, the ultimate creation. A super-soldier like no other.

    I wipe the tears from my eyes and focus. HIM... He¡¯s my most advanced project. Built from the ground up, genetically engineered from the finest DNA samples in the world. The perfect blend of intelligence, physical prowess, and tactical genius.

    Where Aurora was the future of humanity¡¯s evolution, HIM is... the weapon humanity needs.

    He¡¯s stronger than Tobias, faster, more skilled in combat than any human alive. He has Ivan¡¯s sniper abilities, the precision of a hawk. He can handle guns with the skill and finesse of Arthur, and his tactical mindset rivals even Victor¡¯s. He¡¯s a master of martial arts, combat strategies, and survival instincts. Bulletproof. Resilient. He can easily lift a car, and his endurance is unmatched by anything in human history. He¡¯s invulnerable in ways that no one has ever seen before.

    I crafted every muscle, every tendon, every bone in his body to withstand punishment that would destroy any ordinary person. His brain, augmented with neural enhancements, processes information faster than the human mind can comprehend. He thinks like Milady, combining intellect with the power of the perfect soldier.

    He¡¯s more than any of them. Tobias, Ivan, Arthur, Victor, Milady¡ªeverything they are, HIM is better¡ªa living weapon with the mind of a genius and the strength of a god.

    ¡°HIM was made for this,¡± I whisper to myself, but loud enough for Malleus to hear.

    ¡°He¡¯s ready to serve.¡±

    The images of Aurora, Layla, and Madelyn flash in my mind, and my stomach clenches. HIM wasn¡¯t supposed to be activated so soon, not like this. But after what¡¯s happened... after the chaos of the Gala, the massacre, the bomb... we can¡¯t wait any longer.

    ¡°He¡¯ll be sent in to finish what no one else can,¡± Malleus continues, his voice softening, but the underlying anger still present.

    ¡°The Syndicate is just the beginning. The uprising has escalated. But HIM¡ªhe¡¯ll put an end to it.¡±

    I nod, though Malleus can¡¯t see me. I feel a strange sense of resolve rising within me.

    ¡°I¡¯ll make sure everything is ready,¡± I say, my voice firm now.

    ¡°Good,¡± Malleus replies. ¡°The world won¡¯t see what¡¯s coming. And they¡¯ll never know what we¡¯ve created.¡±

    As the call ends, I sit back, staring at the Nimbus screen. My fingers tremble as I swipe through the data, pulling up the files on HIM. He¡¯s already waiting, deep within the lab, suspended in stasis, ready for activation. All I need is to give the command, and he will awaken.

    A weapon. A force of nature. My masterpiece.

    I close my eyes, and for a brief moment, I wonder if this is what I truly wanted. But the image of Aurora¡¯s lifeless body fills my mind, and the doubt vanishes. This is necessary.

    They took her away from me. They took everything away.

    Now, I¡¯m going to take everything back. HIM will ensure that.

    I start walking toward HIM¡¯s containment chamber, my footsteps echoing in the sterile halls of the lab. The deeper I go, the more isolated the corridors become, the lights dimmer, colder. HIM was always kept in the deepest part of the lab, a place where no one could reach him unless they were meant to. But today... something feels off.

    As I pass through the hallways, people rush past me, their faces tight with urgency. They don¡¯t speak to me, don¡¯t acknowledge me, but there¡¯s a nervous energy in the air, an unspoken panic simmering beneath the surface. My senses tingle, every instinct in me alert.

    But there are no alarms. No indication of danger. Just the hurried movement of people and the growing tension. My mind races, wondering if something has gone wrong elsewhere in the facility. Perhaps another breach, perhaps a security drill. But no¡ªthis feels different. I quicken my pace.

    The corridors narrow as I approach HIM¡¯s containment area. My heart pounds against my ribs, and a sense of unease settles in my stomach. I swipe my ID badge at the final checkpoint, the door sliding open with a soft hiss. The room is bathed in a soft, sterile blue light.

    Then, I stop.

    My breath catches in my throat.

    HIM¡¯s containment tube¡ªit¡¯s shattered. Glass litters the floor, the once-clear water that suspended him is now a pool at my feet, flowing slowly across the pristine tiles. The tube is empty. HIM is gone.

    I step forward, my eyes scanning the chamber, looking for any sign, any trace of where he could¡¯ve gone. But there¡¯s nothing. No one. Just the broken remnants of the stasis tube and the eerie silence that surrounds it.

    How... how could this have happened? My mind races. This area is the most secure part of the facility. No one should have been able to reach him. Not without setting off alarms.

    And yet¡ªhere I am. Standing in front of an empty tube.

    My hand twitches toward the console, pulling up the security footage, anything to explain what happened. But before I can get the system online, the shrill sound of alarms pierces the air, blaring through the facility.

    I freeze.

    The blaring sirens echo through the walls, red lights flashing. Something¡¯s wrong. Terribly wrong.

    He is not here; he¡¯s out there¡ªsomewhere.

    The masterpiece I created¡ªthe weapon that could end wars, the soldier designed to take down entire armies¡ªis loose.

    <hr>

    THE END.