It's evening when Elara returns. Her face is pale, her movements stiff, and she doesn't meet my eyes as she places a thick envelope on the table.
"Elara," I say, alarmed. "What's going on?"
She hesitates, her hand lingering on the envelope. "I need you to listen to me, Adam," she says finally, her voice quiet but firm.
I sit, my chest tightening. "What is it?"
She takes a deep breath, sitting across from me. "A noble approached me today. He made... an offer."
Her words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating.
"What kind of offer?" I ask, my voice low.
She looks down, avoiding my gaze. "He's willing to pay a fortune for me. Enough to get you out of this place, Adam. Enough to give you a real chance."
I feel the blood drain from my face. "What do you mean, 'for you'? Elara, you're not—"
"It's already done," she says, cutting me off. Her voice is steady, but I can see the cracks in her resolve. "The money is here. It's enough to keep you safe, to get you out of the slums."
I slam my hands on the table, standing abruptly. "You can't do this, Elara! You know what they'll do to you!"
She flinches but doesn't look away. "I'm doing this for you, Adam. For us. Don't you understand? This is the only way."
"No, it's not!" I shout, my voice breaking. "I don't care about the money! I don't care about the tower or the nobles or any of it! I just want you to be safe!"
Her expression softens, and for a moment, I see the sister I've always known—the one who's always put my needs above her own.
"I'll be fine," she says quietly, though we both know it's a lie.
"Elara, please," I beg, my voice trembling. "Don't do this."
She reaches across the table, placing a hand on mine. "I have to, Adam. For you. You're my little brother, and I'll do whatever it takes to protect you."
The finality in her voice leaves me speechless.
That night, she doesn't sleep. She sits by the window, staring out at the endless maze of the slums, her silhouette framed by the faint, flickering light outside. I lie awake, the weight of her decision pressing down on me like a heavy shroud. Neither of us speaks, the silence thick and unbroken.
By morning, she's gone. Her phone is still on the table, untouched, which only deepens the pit in my stomach. At first, I try to convince myself it's nothing—she often stays out late—but this feels different. Something is wrong.
The gnawing unease in my chest grows heavier as the hours drag on, the emptiness of our small room suffocating. Eventually, I can't stand it anymore.
I step out into the slums, the stale, metallic air hitting me like a wall. The dim lights flicker overhead, casting uneven shadows across the damp streets. The usual chaos of the lower levels churns around me—haggling, shouting, the occasional sound of a scuffle—but it all feels muted, distant.
I make my way through the labyrinth of alleyways, asking anyone who will listen if they've seen her. Most people avoid my gaze, unwilling to get involved. A few shake their heads, their expressions pitying.
"Sorry, kid," an older man says, his voice gruff. "Haven't seen her."
My stomach tightens. Elara is cautious—careful in ways I'm still learning to be. She wouldn't just vanish.
I search everywhere I can think of: the dingy marketplace where she sometimes trades, the decrepit factories that churn out cheap goods, even the back alleys where desperate deals are made.
Nothing.
As the day wears on, my unease turns to dread. My thoughts spiral, each one darker than the last. Did someone hurt her? Did she cross the wrong person? The image of her pale face, so full of determination, flashes in my mind, and I push the thoughts away.
I return home as night falls, my steps heavy with exhaustion and frustration. The door creaks as I push it open, and the silence inside is deafening. The small table is empty, the room untouched since I left.
She's still not back.
I sit on the edge of the bed, my head in my hands. Every possibility I've been trying to ignore crashes over me. My fists clench, nails digging into my palms. I should have stopped her. I should have protected her.
I'm about to head out again, to keep searching, when the knock comes.
It's sharp, deliberate, and wrong.
My breath catches as I stand and approach the door, my movements slow and cautious. My heart pounds in my chest, each beat louder than the last.
When I open the door, the sight before me stops me cold.
I'm about to head out again, to keep searching, when the knock comes.
It's sharp, deliberate, and wrong.
My breath catches as I stand and approach the door, my movements slow and cautious. My heart pounds in my chest, each beat louder than the last.
When I open the door, the sight before me stops me cold.
A man stands there, tall and composed, his butler's uniform pristine and unwrinkled. His face is a mask of cold superiority, his sharp eyes filled with disdain. Behind him, a hover-stretcher floats silently, carrying a broken, lifeless form.
Elara.
Her body is burned and broken, her white hair scorched and matted with blood. The burns across her skin are so severe I barely recognize her, but I know it's her. The delicate necklace around her neck, the one she never took off, glints faintly in the dim light.
The world narrows, everything fading except for her lifeless form. A cold, searing rage begins to boil beneath my skin, but I force myself to stay still, my expression carefully blank.
The butler steps forward, his posture rigid, his voice smooth and detached. "Adam, I presume. Your sister served her purpose. My master no longer has use for her."
The words hit me like a knife to the gut, but I don't flinch. My rage burns, threatening to consume me, but I bury it deep, letting only a cold calm rise to the surface.
"I see," I say evenly, my voice steady despite the storm raging inside me.
The butler raises an eyebrow, clearly surprised by my composure. He gestures to the hover-stretcher, his movements precise and calculated. "My master was generous enough to return her body. And the payment remains as promised. Consider it a kindness."
My gaze flickers to the envelope still on the table, thick with blood money.
I meet his eyes. "Generous," I repeat, my tone flat.
He smirks, mistaking my calm for submission. "Indeed. It's more than your kind deserves. You should be grateful."
The insult lands, but I don't let it show. Instead, I step forward, my movements deliberate, and kneel beside Elara's body. My hands tremble as I reach out to touch her, but I force them to steady. Her skin is cold, her once-bright eyes closed forever.
A wave of grief washes over me, but I suppress it, locking it away with the rest of my emotions. I will mourn her later. Now is not the time.
"Is there anything else?" I ask, standing and facing the butler.
He tilts his head, clearly intrigued by my lack of reaction. "No. My task is complete."
I step closer to him, my expression calm but my mind racing. Every detail about him—the sharp lines of his uniform, the faint hum of energy emanating from his genetically enhanced body—is burned into my memory. I study him like a predator watching its prey, calculating every move, every weakness.
As I approach, something strange happens. When I'm within arm's reach, a faint sensation courses through me—a flicker of connection, like a thread tying us together. It's subtle, almost imperceptible, but undeniable.
The butler doesn't react. He doesn't feel it.
"What are you?" I ask, my voice calm, my eyes locked on his.
He sneers, taking a step back. "You're not in a position to ask questions, vermin."
The word stings, but I let it roll off me. I nod slightly, as though conceding, and step aside, clearing his path to the door.
"Thank you," I say quietly, my tone devoid of emotion.
The butler pauses, clearly unnerved by my composure. For a moment, I see something flicker in his eyes—hesitation, confusion—but it's gone as quickly as it appeared.
"Remember your place," he says, his voice cold and commanding. Then, in a blur of motion too fast for me to follow, he's gone, leaving me alone with Elara's body.
When the door clicks shut, the mask slips.
I sink to my knees beside her, the grief I've held back crashing over me like a tidal wave. My hands tremble as I cradle her lifeless form, my tears falling freely onto her charred skin.
"Elara," I whisper, my voice breaking. "I'm so sorry."
For a moment, I let myself grieve. I let the pain and despair consume me, my sobs echoing through the small room. But as the minutes pass, the sorrow gives way to something else.
Rage.
It burns deep within me, hotter and more powerful than anything I've ever felt. My hands clench into fists, my teeth grinding as I force myself to my feet.
I look at the envelope on the table, its presence mocking me. The blood money Elara died for.
I pick it up, weighing it in my hand. It's enough to buy a better life—to escape the slums, to climb the tower. But the thought of using it feels like a betrayal.
I set it down carefully, my mind already working.
The butler. The noble. The entire twisted system that created this world—they're all responsible. They think they're untouchable, that people like me are nothing more than dirt beneath their feet.
But they're wrong.
I don't know what that flicker of connection was, but I felt it. And I'll use it. I'll find out what it means, and I'll turn it against them.
Elara gave her life to protect me. I won't let that sacrifice be in vain.
I will climb this tower. I will find the noble who did this. And I will destroy him.