Kaelan sat on the edge of his bed, his hands clenching the coarse blanket beneath him. His gaze was fixed on the cracked ceiling, though his mind was elsewhere—deep in conversation with the voice that had been with him for as long as he could remember. It was a presence that lurked in the shadows of his thoughts, always watching, always waiting, like an old friend or a lingering parasite.
"Why did you keep this from me?" he muttered, his voice barely more than a whisper, as though speaking too loudly would shatter the fragile quiet in the room.
The voice responded, smooth and composed, each word carrying a dark weight that settled heavily within him. *"There are things you weren't ready to know, Kaelan. I waited until now, when you've finally broken free. Freedom has… responsibilities."*
"Responsibilities," Kaelan repeated, the word tasting foreign and strange on his tongue. He had spent his entire life being told what to do, how to act, and who to kill. Freedom was a concept he still didn't fully grasp, yet the voice spoke of it as if it were something he should instinctively understand.
But then it said something that made his blood run cold, snapping him out of his spiral of thought. *"Your mother left you something, Kaelan."*
"My… mother?" His voice cracked, and a shiver ran down his spine. Memories flashed—vague, distorted images of a woman's face, half-remembered smiles, the warmth of hands he barely remembered. He had long buried that part of himself, convinced that his family was just a fragment of a forgotten past. "You never mentioned her. Not once."
The voice was silent for a moment, as if considering his words, then responded with a measured calm. *"She left you something hidden away on an island—a legacy meant for you. A place where your true potential awaits."*
Kaelan's mind raced. He had seen so much darkness, experienced so much cruelty, yet the thought of his mother stirred something unfamiliar within him—a hollow ache, a curiosity that bordered on desperation. "Why now? Why wait until I escaped?"
*"Timing is everything, Kaelan,"* the voice replied, almost amused. *"The legacy was hidden to keep it safe… and to keep you safe, until you were strong enough to claim it. This is the start of your true path."*
A dark sense of purpose simmered within him, mingling with distrust. "What else haven't you told me? How many secrets are you still keeping?"
The voice laughed softly, a sound like the slither of shadows in a silent room. *"Trust me, Kaelan, some things are better left undisclosed. All you need to know is that what awaits you on that island is powerful… enough to change your fate."*
His hands clenched tighter, tension coiling through his muscles. Part of him was tempted to reject the voice, to shut it out. But the promise it offered was too tantalizing, too close to what he had yearned for in the darkest corners of his mind.
He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to focus. "I'll need money. A way to get there."
*"Conveniently, there's a warehouse not far from here,"* the voice purred, satisfaction curling through its tone. *"Local gangsters stash their cash there. Nothing a trained soldier like you can't handle. Infiltrate, take what you need, and be gone before they even realize."*
Kaelan's heartbeat quickened, a familiar thrill seeping into his veins. It was an old feeling, a cruel echo of the missions he had carried out so many times before—but this time, it was his choice. For the first time, he was seizing control.
"What about the island?" he asked, the eagerness in his voice barely concealed. "How do I reach it?"
*"You'll need a plane,"* the voice replied smoothly. *"Nothing luxurious—a small one will do. If the gang's stash is as generous as expected, it should be enough to get you there."*
Kaelan nodded, feeling the beginnings of a plan solidify in his mind. There was no turning back now, not when he had the tantalizing possibility of discovering something real about himself. His past, his mother, this legacy she'd left him—it was all just out of reach, waiting for him to claim it.
"Alright," he whispered to himself. "Tonight… I'll make my move."
The voice said nothing, but he felt its approval, a dark satisfaction that mirrored the quiet determination now steeling within him.
For now, he waited, mentally preparing himself for the night that lay ahead.
The warehouse loomed in the shadows of the dimly lit street, a forgotten structure tucked away behind crumbling brick walls and iron-barred windows. It was the kind of place most people would avoid—a relic of neglect and abandonment that had found new life in the hands of criminals. The faint hum of machinery inside mingled with the muffled sounds of laughter and the occasional clang of metal. Kaelan crouched in the darkness just outside, his body pressed against the damp concrete wall as he observed the building.
The moon was veiled behind thick clouds, casting the scene in a deep gloom that suited his intentions. He adjusted the collar of his coat, his breath forming small puffs in the cold night air. Shadows stretched and twisted around him, clinging to his every movement as he edged closer to the warehouse's side entrance. The voice inside his mind remained quiet, as if allowing him to focus fully on the task at hand.
Kaelan's fingers traced the worn steel of the door's handle, and he gave it a careful twist. Locked, of course. He took a small lockpick from his pocket, slipping it into the keyhole. The soft click of the lock disengaging was a sound that brought him back to all the training he had endured—an odd comfort in the face of the unknown. With one final glance over his shoulder, he eased the door open and slipped inside.
The air within was thick with the smell of sweat, oil, and the faint stench of something decaying. He moved silently, his steps soft and calculated, gliding along the rows of stacked crates and pallets. Dim yellow lights flickered above, casting long shadows that danced across the floor. The low hum of voices became clearer, punctuated by the occasional bark of laughter and the metallic scrape of machinery.
He edged closer to the source of the noise, his back pressed against a crate as he peered around the corner. A group of gangsters were gathered around a table, counting stacks of cash and loading weapons. They were an eclectic mix, rough and dangerous-looking, with tattoos that marked allegiances and scars that told stories. Kaelan studied them, noting their movements, the placement of their guns—mapping out their weaknesses, instinctively assessing every threat.
But then his gaze shifted, drawn to the figure standing at the center of it all. Tall and broad-shouldered, the man seemed almost statuesque, his presence commanding in a way that made the others instinctively defer to him. His skin had an unnatural sheen, as though carved from obsidian, and his eyes glowed faintly, a sickly green that cut through the dim light.
Kaelan's heart thudded as he realized the man wasn't just some gang leader. He was one of them—one of the powered. The way he moved was deliberate, almost lazy, exuding a quiet confidence that only came from someone who understood the extent of their own strength.
The man's voice was low, rumbling, like a distant thunderstorm. "Count it all again. Last time, someone got too clever with their math, and I had to fix it myself."
The gangsters around him muttered a chorus of "yes, boss," clearly wary of testing his patience. Kaelan watched, memorizing the layout, the positions of each guard, and more importantly, the location of the large, reinforced safe just beyond the table.
His target.
The voice in his head whispered, *"Move now. Quietly. You'll have a few seconds before anyone notices."*
Kaelan slipped away from his hiding spot, weaving through the maze of crates and boxes stacked high enough to obscure him. Every step was careful, measured, his senses tuned to every sound, every flicker of movement. He approached the safe, hidden behind a cluster of crates, and took a steadying breath.
The safe was massive, an industrial model built to withstand any attempt to break it open. But he wasn't here to play it safe. He pulled a crowbar from his bag, its metal surface cold and unforgiving in his grip.