Silas Creed lay motionless in his bed, the faint light of dawn creeping through the half-closed shutters, casting soft rays over the room. The mansion—his family's grand estate—was silent, save for the occasional creak of wood as the house settled into its age. The ceiling above him, once a thing of wonder with its ornate molding and intricate designs, had become just another detail in the endless monotony of his days. Irrelevant—like everything else. At seventeen, Silas's body had been strong, capable, vibrant. But two years had passed since the accident, two years since a cervical spinal cord injury stole everything from him, leaving him trapped in a shell of himself. His body was now a fragile, motionless shadow, ravaged by immobility and time.

His jet-black hair hung dull and uneven, lifeless strands framing a face that had lost all traces of youth. Sharp cheekbones and an angular jawline now jutted starkly beneath his pale, waxen skin, emphasizing the gauntness that had overtaken him. His green eyes, once piercing and vibrant, remained striking but sunken, shadowed by exhaustion, their brilliance dimmed. His lips, dry and cracked, rested in a faint grimace, while his neck, frail and wiry, showed faint veins beneath its paper-thin surface, completing the haunting portrait of a body undone. Beneath the thin sheets, his legs lay motionless, pale and withered, their muscles wasted into nothingness. The lean strength that had once carried him so effortlessly had long since faded, leaving behind little more than brittle, skeletal extensions. They seemed foreign to him now, disconnected not just in sensation but in identity, no longer a part of who he was.

His torso, once firm and athletic, had shrunk to a thin, fragile frame. His ribs, faintly visible beneath the pale skin, rose and fell with shallow, mechanical breaths—movements too weak and too small to reflect the sharpness of the mind still locked within. His arms lay limp at his sides, thin and skeletal, the veins on his forearms stark against the taut skin. His hands, once precise and strong, rested in unnatural stillness, fingers faintly curled as though frozen in time. His shoulders, which had once squared confidently, had collapsed into narrow, angular points, leaving his form shrunken and diminished.

Neuropathic pain seared through his motionless body, an unrelenting phantom fire in limbs he could no longer control. The agony was a cruel contradiction, mocking him with sensations in places that had long since ceased to obey him. His body's frailty betrayed the fragility of his existence, sustained by the shallow rhythm of his assisted breathing. Silas, once so full of vitality and promise, was now reduced to a haunting vision of stillness and suffering—a fragile form that bore the crushing weight of a mind that refused to fade, even as the body that housed it had already surrendered.

doctors had told his family there was no hope, that his paralysis was permanent, that he would never walk again. They had said it with pity in their voices, with the finality that comes with a death sentence. But they were wrong.

Because Silas Creed was still very much alive.

Silas's mind was never at rest. Even in his immobile state, in the quiet darkness of his room, he could hear everything. 

Silas often found himself drifting back to those dark days, a time when he had come so close to death. Three months after the accident, the doctors had given up on him. His father, Creedance, had wanted to pull the plug, to disconnect the life support and feeding tube. It was only his mother's desperate fight that had kept him alive. The memory still stirred something in him—a raw anger that he couldn't shake, a reminder of how close he had been to the end and how, in the end, he had been kept alive only as part of his mother's bargain.

"We need to face the facts, Alice," Creedance said, his voice flat, as though discussing business. "He's a shell. There's no coming back from this." There was a slight pause, a shift in the chair, as though Creedance had made his decision already. Creedance, tall and commanding, exuded the composed confidence of one of the world's most powerful bankers. His neatly maintained black hair, streaked with silver, and piercing dark brown eyes gave him an air of precision and authority, every movement deliberate and controlled. Across from him, Alice sat with quiet defiance, her hazel eyes sharp and unwavering despite the faint lines that worry had etched into her delicate features. Her wavy dark brown hair, streaked with the earliest hints of silver, framed her high cheekbones and gentle, elegant face, a stark contrast to Creedance's stoicism. Between them lay the impossible weight of their son's fate—a burden neither his father's pragmatic dominance nor his mother's quiet resilience could fully carry alone.

"You're wrong," Alice whispered, her voice trembling but determined.

"He's my son. He's still in there. He has to be."

"Alive?" Creedance scoffed. "What kind of life is this? He can't move. He can't even speak. He's a burden now, Alice. That's all he is. A dead weight." His voice was cold, as if it were merely a financial matter to be discussed, not the fate of his son.

"I won't let you do this," Alice's voice broke as she spoke, but she refused to back down. "I won't let you take him from me. He's my son. Please, Creedance, don't—don't make me lose him twice."

A heavy silence filled the room, and Silas could feel the tension crackling in the air. The sound of paper being shuffled, the deep inhale of his father—these were the only noises breaking the quiet.

"You want him to stay alive?" Creedance's voice was now sharper, more detached. "Then you'll have to make a choice. A hard one. No more hope. No more pretending things will get better."

Alice's breath quickened. "What do you mean?"

"Sign the divorce papers," Creedance's voice was ruthless, his words deliberate. "You give up everything. No claim to any of the family assets. No claim to his legacy. You'll get nothing. And you'll stay with him. As his caretaker. Nothing more. A small stipend to live on—housing, food, a thousand dollars a month. That's the deal. It's the only way he stays alive. You make that choice, Alice, and I'll honor it."

"No…" Alice's voice cracked, torn between the impossible choices being forced on her. "I can't… I can't do that to him. To myself. To us."

"You can't have it both ways," Creedance replied, his voice firm, cutting. "He's gone, Alice. Lucius is the future now. Everything—everything—we've built is his. The empire, the business, it's all his. We can't let Silas drag us down any longer."

The mention of Lucius's name always stirred something complicated in Silas. Lucius. His older brother. Their father's firstborn son. Both had been successful in their own rights, each meeting Creedance's unrelenting demand for results. But while Silas had always sought connection, Lucius remained aloof, distant in a way that felt impenetrable. Time and time again, Silas had tried to bridge the gap between them, reaching out only to find that Lucius always seemed just out of reach, as though he existed in a world apart. Yet, despite the distance and the countless failed attempts to truly connect, Silas could never see Lucius as anything less than his brother. For all the rivalry and unspoken tension between them, that bond—however tenuous—was something Silas couldn't deny.

Lucius had focused his efforts on R&D, manufacturing, pharmaceuticals, and government, mostly military, contracts. He had built his empire with the same ruthless determination that had driven Silas. But where Lucius thrived in the industries of their father's world, Silas had struck out in a different direction—dominating the world of digital media, building a billion-dollar empire with platforms like UNet, UConnect, Ushop, and UTv. The business had revolutionized social media, commerce, and entertainment, he was on pace to rival amazon, google, and facebook.

Both brothers had achieved incredible success, each carving out their own domains. Their father had been satisfied with both of them. There was no question that either Silas or Lucius could take over the family empire. But what made their rivalry so intense was that neither of them was willing to back down. Each wanted control, each saw themselves as the rightful heir to lead the family into the future. Creedance had never needed to choose between them; he simply needed results, and both sons had delivered. But as Silas lay here, immobilized, he realized how thin that line between success and failure had become.

"I won't lose him," Alice murmured, her voice barely audible, a mother's last plea for a son she had already begun to lose.

"Then this is what you choose," Creedance said coldly. "I'll get the paperwork ready."

The door clicked shut behind him, and Silas was left alone again, in the heavy silence. He had heard it all. Every word. Every cold, calculated decision.

They thought he was gone. They thought he couldn't hear. But Silas had heard it all. He had heard his father's plans, his dismissive tone, the way Lucius's name had been spoken with such finality. He had heard how the future would now belong to Lucius, how everything Silas had fought for would be taken away. His body, once capable, now useless, was a reminder of what he had lost. His mind, still sharp, still fully aware, remained a prison, a cage that he could never escape.

They had taken everything from him—his body, his legacy, his future—but they had not stolen his mind. They had not taken his awareness.

He could feel the weight of his own loss, the bitter truth that his life had been written off as a footnote in the family's grand plans. He was a burden now, a mistake to be hidden away, nothing more.

And still, Silas remained.

All that remained was rage.

Rage at the injustice of it all. Rage at his father's cold calculations, his disregard for everything Silas had worked for. Rage at his helplessness, trapped in a body that no longer obeyed. The anger smoldered inside him, burning bright. It was all he had left—the fire that refused to die.

What gnawed at him the most—what haunted him deeper than the rage itself—was the crushing realization that he would never be able to do anything about it. His body had betrayed him, his future had been stolen, and he was powerless to reclaim any of it. Or so he thought.