---
The world was breaking apart.
Xander stood on an endless gray plain, his boots sinking into cracked ground that glowed faintly, like embers struggling to stay alive. Shadows coiled and writhed at the edges of his vision, teasing his focus but never solidifying. Ahead, a lone figure bathed in white light hovered, their silhouette radiant and unyielding.
He tried to move closer, but the ground beneath him crumbled, pieces of it floating upward like weightless debris. His steps faltered, his body suspended between determination and the pull of nothingness.
The figure's voice came, soft and distant, carried on an intangible wind.
"Choose..."
"What?" Xander shouted, his voice cracking against the void. "Choose what? Who are you?"
The figure didn't answer. Instead, it tilted its head—a gesture that felt both curious and foreboding. The word came again, a whisper that echoed in his chest more than his ears.
"Choose..."
Xander's pulse quickened. "What do you want from me?" he yelled, his voice trembling with frustration.
But the figure remained silent, its form blazing brighter until the light swallowed everything, leaving Xander weightless, breathless—
And falling.
---
Xander woke with a start, his chest heaving.
The faint hum of Kaelion's skyline filtered through his open window, the glow of neon lights slicing through the darkened room. On the walls, shifting patterns of blue and orange flickered like ghosts, reminding him that the city never slept.
He pressed a hand to his forehead, damp with sweat, and let out a shaky exhale. It was the same dream. Always the same dream. Its details danced just out of reach, but the unease it left behind was undeniable.
"3:47 AM," his neural HUD displayed, the time blinking in the corner of his vision.
Too early to start the day, too late to salvage sleep.
He groaned, dragging himself upright and letting his feet dangle over the edge of the bed. His muscles felt leaden, his mind restless.
"A walk," he muttered. "Maybe that'll help."
---
The city of Kaelion was alive, even in the dead of night.
Rain slicked the polished streets, neon reflections pooling in puddles beneath glass-and-steel towers. Skyrails hissed overhead, their lights carving sharp arcs through the perpetual haze. Drones buzzed like overgrown insects, their quiet hum blending with faint voices distorted by the visors passersby wore.
Xander stuffed his hands into the pockets of his worn leather jacket, his breath visible in the cold. The jacket had seen better days—a relic from when life felt more manageable, less heavy.
His legs carried him aimlessly through the Central District, the quiet hum of advertisements following him like an omnipresent spectator. He walked without direction, the city both familiar and alien.
Two years.
Two years since his mother's death had split their family apart. She had been their dreamer, their glue, the one who softened the sharp edges of his father's ambition. Her absence had hollowed out everything.
Victor Hawthorne, once a commanding presence tempered by compassion, had turned cold, his expectations more rigid than ever. Xander had tried to meet them, to honor the faith his mother had placed in him. But the weight of it—of her absence—had crushed him.
Elaine, His sister on the other hand, had thrived. She carried their family's name like a badge of honor, shouldering responsibilities Xander had long since abandoned. She was perfect—disciplined, composed, and endlessly reliable. Yet, despite her perfection, she'd never turned her back on him.
But that only made the guilt worse.
---
Xander stopped in front of a diner, the flickering neon sign casting his reflection in the rain-speckled glass.
Tall and lean, his athletic build betrayed the fact that he hadn't kept up with his training in months. His dark hair, tousled and unruly, framed a face sharper than he liked—a jawline and cheekbones that were unmistakably Hawthorne.
His eyes, though, were what drew his attention.
Gray and piercing, they stared back at him, carrying a weariness that no amount of walking could shake.
The night had begun to fade. The faintest traces of dawn painted the edges of the sky in pale orange, pushing back against the neon glow. Xander sighed and turned back, his hands curling into fists inside his jacket pockets.
The Hawthorne estate loomed ahead, a fortress of privilege nestled behind wrought-iron gates and immaculate gardens. Its towering silhouette reflected the perfection his father demanded—a perfection Xander had long since stopped aspiring to.
He pushed open the heavy front door, the warmth of the mansion spilling out. But it was a hollow warmth, perfunctory and uninviting. The faint hum of security drones echoed in the hall, accompanied by the rhythmic ticking of a grandfather clock.
---
The corridors of the estate were dimly lit, the silence broken only by Xander's footsteps muffled against the plush carpet.
He wasn't sure why he was wandering. The mansion felt suffocating, yet something about the quiet unsettled him.
As he neared his father's office, he noticed the door was ajar, spilling a thin line of golden light into the hallway.
Xander froze. His father was a man of rigid discipline—doors were either firmly shut or left wide open. This... this was unusual.
Pushing the door open just enough to peer inside, Xander scanned the room.
The shelves were as orderly as ever, lined with books on philosophy, business, and strategy. Every object on the desk was meticulously placed. Except for one.
A single book, bound in cracked leather, jutted out awkwardly from the shelf. Its faded spine and worn edges made it look out of place—an odd relic in an otherwise pristine collection.
Xander stepped closer, his hand hovering over the book before he pulled it free.
Click.
The sound was subtle, mechanical. He stepped back as the bookshelf shuddered and slid aside, revealing a hidden doorway.
A cold draft escaped, carrying the scent of dust and oil. The dim light from the office barely penetrated the darkness beyond.
Xander stared into the shadowy stairwell, his pulse quickening. He could turn back. Pretend he hadn't seen this.
But something compelled him forward.
Taking a deep breath, he gripped the edge of the doorway and stepped inside, the first creak of the stairs echoing into the darkness below.