The city of Venice, as they called it, had grown like a parasite over Ghaen. What had once been lush forests and the sandy, secluded beaches of his ancestors was now an island entirely built up with towering, old-world-styled architecture, canals, and tourist streets. Gyrin Windle sometimes looked at the city and barely recognized his own home. For generations, his family had lived on Ghaen, their way of life simple and connected to the sea and sand. But now, they were surrounded by the gleaming, fabricated vision of "Venice," apparently meant to honor Mark Lantrun, Eden's Supreme Leader, and Godly reincarnation of Jesus Christ himself. For some reason, though, Gyrin doubted the real Venice was built on quite so much concrete and vanity.
His surf shack had somehow survived the makeover, and in a strange twist of fate, it was thriving. The Edenites who visited Venice had deep pockets and little sense when it came to money. They tipped extravagantly and always seemed to need something new to distract them. Their faces shifted with each visit, sometimes subtly, sometimes dramatically—different hair, skin, and eye colors. Gyrin's wife called them "the dolls," and the term stuck. Most Edenites preferred pale, almost ghostly skin tones—something they said reflected the "purity" of Saint Clara and their divine Supreme Leader. Gyrin and his family, though darker-skinned like most Ghaenians, were on the lighter side. It was something that oddly made the Edenites trust them more. "At least you're almost pure," one particularly tipsy visitor had told him with a laugh. It was that kind of "almost" purity that kept his business booming.
While he and his family were lucky, most Ghaenians were trapped in menial jobs, ferrying Edenite tourists around the canals, working as hotel staff, or scraping by with small businesses that barely covered their basic needs. The cost of living was outrageous. Fresh food had to be imported from Londonium, and those who couldn't afford it were stuck with the cheap, processed stuff that contributed to the diabetes epidemic sweeping the island. Gyrin himself was fortunate enough to feed his family decently and keep them healthy. His two sons, Jakob and Mikal, even went to Saint Clara's Catholic Private Prep School, thanks to a scholarship. Tuition was steep, even with the scholarship, but he justified the expense by thinking about the connections his sons would make—connections he hoped would help them escape the fate of most Ghaenians.
It was a strange relief but also a creeping dread he felt as he saw his boys thrive among their Edenite classmates. They were getting high grades, racking up awards, and even making friends. But sometimes, those "friends" unnerved him. The Edenites were beautiful, with flawless faces and charming smiles. But there was a hollow quality in their eyes, an emptiness he couldn't quite put his finger on. They looked constantly happy, almost too happy, as if their smiles were painted on, masking something far darker underneath. He remembered the night he stumbled upon something that made him question every interaction his family had ever had with them.
One evening, on his way back from meeting a business partner, Gyrin took a shortcut through a narrow alley. There he spotted old man Rquirn, a fisherman turned beggar after losing both legs to diabetes. The man was slouched in the shadows, quietly asking passersby for a few Lantruns to buy food. Gyrin could see him trying to make himself small and unnoticeable—begging was technically illegal, and the authorities didn't take kindly to it. Standing across from Rquirn was a young Edenite, a well-dressed, clean-cut guy he recognized as Eric, one of his elder son Jakob's friends from school.
Rquirn was explaining his situation, his voice soft and pleading. He told Eric how he had once been a proud fisherman, how he'd provided for his family before his health failed him. As the old man spoke, Gyrin noticed a tear slipping down Eric's face. For a brief, fleeting moment, Eric seemed genuinely moved. But then, suddenly, his face contorted, his expression turning into something twisted, almost monstrous. Without warning, Eric let out a laugh that echoed through the alley—cold, hollow, and utterly chilling. His eyes gleamed with fury as he lunged at Rquirn, raining down blows with a strength that seemed impossible. Gyrin had heard that Edenites had bodies enhanced by technology, but seeing it firsthand was terrifying. Eric was like a machine, a perfectly smiling, merciless machine.
The sound of Eric's laughter filled the alley as he hit Rquirn over and over, a twisted melody that made Gyrin's stomach churn. Blood spattered onto Eric's face, and suddenly, as if snapped back to reality, Eric froze. His smile vanished, replaced by a look of horror. Trembling, he fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a small vial of pills—Soma, the wonder-drug every Edenite seemed to carry. With shaking hands, he popped one in his mouth, and within seconds, the serene, empty smile returned. His face wiped clean of blood, he straightened his clothes, adjusted his hair, and walked away, humming a catchy tune as if nothing had happened.
Shaken, Gyrin rushed to Rquirn's side, calling for an ambulance. But he learned the next day that it was too late—Rquirn had succumbed to his injuries. The hospital explained that brain damage was tricky to treat, especially for someone with no prior medical records, as was often the case for Ghaenian beggars. Rquirn was just another statistic, lost in a city that cared more about its aesthetics than its people.
The following day, Gyrin spotted Eric at school, laughing and chatting with Jakob as if nothing had happened. It chilled him to the bone. Eric had always seemed so kind, so polite—one of the "good" Edenites. But now Gyrin wondered how many of them were like Eric, hiding their fury and madness behind the carefully measured calm of Soma. His own son had started taking Soma as well, convinced it would help with his "stress." Gyrin worried what that tiny pill might turn him into.
And as he watched his sons interacting with their Edenite friends, part of him was proud of how well they fit in. But a deeper, nagging part of him wondered what they would become, and what it would cost to stay "almost pure" in a world built on a foundation as hollow as an Edenite's smile.