Elyon
My voice trembled, yet remained controlled, as though each syllable were a shard of ice. Across the room he stood—the boy who had once been the living spark of my existence now reduced to emptiness. His eyes, once brimming with boundless curiosity, now reflected a cold indifference sharper than any blade.
He exhibited no anger, no fury, no hatred—only a distant gaze, as if I were merely a shadow from a past he could no longer recall.
"SPEAK," he commanded, his voice hoarse and emotionless, echoing in the silence that had settled between us.
His demand was brutal. In that moment, I knew I had irrevocably failed him. My chest tightened under the weight of guilt, each heartbeat a relentless reminder of my inability to protect him.
My hands trembled, and the room seemed to constrict around us. Dim light traced the contours of his impassive face, revealing neither love nor anger—only a void.
"I…" I began, but the words dissolved into silence. I stood before him—the last surviving fragment of my soul—now reduced to nothing.
"SPEAK!" he insisted once more, his command leaving no room for excuses.
The silence stretched on, louder than any scream. I recalled the days when Elyon had been my beacon, the tether that kept me whole. Now, he regarded me merely as a distant memory—an inconsequential stain amid the vast emptiness that consumed him.
"I... left you alone," I finally whispered, my voice cracking under sorrow's weight.
But he did not respond. His eyes revealed neither anger nor sorrow—only an icy detachment that made me feel as though I were dissolving, piece by piece.
The pain of losing the remnants of myself spread like a cold fire through my veins. In that moment, I understood: he did not hate me. He simply felt nothing.
Each second in that room was a silent hammer blow—a final farewell to the person I once was.
"SPEAK!" he repeated, the command reverberating as though it signified the end of all possibilities.
That hollow gaze, his absolute indifference, signaled the end. I realized that no matter how fiercely I fought to feel— to reclaim any fragment of my humanity—only shadows remained between us.
His emptiness was a mirror reflecting my own demise.
The Weight of Silence
Rain tapped softly against the asphalt outside as I watched her from the shadowed corridor, where darkness merged with the heavy silence of bygone days. She sat at the kitchen table, lost in thought, every wrinkle on her face etched with poignant memory. I need not have understood her torment; what mattered was the courage in her words—the remnants of herself she dared to share.
With a throat clenched in quiet desperation, she shattered the silence. Her words—rushed and trembling—pierced the air:
"You know, son... I never truly left that house, or that time. I have always been here—if not in body, then in soul. If I could, I would turn back time to reshape the future without altering the past. I know I lacked the strength to protect you back then. I do not expect your forgiveness or understanding; I merely beg you to allow me back into your life—to mend what I shattered. I want to be the mother you always deserved."
The intensity in her voice was palpable—a mix of desperation and hope, as if her words were a final attempt to bridge an abyss of past mistakes.
I met her gaze, cold and unyielding, and in a tone bordering on defiance, I replied:
"What if I refuse?"
The question hung heavy, as thick as midnight fog. I searched for even the slightest flicker of change in her battle-worn features.
She held my gaze, unwavering and solemn:
"Even if you deny me, nothing can sever the bond between us—neither you nor I can ever truly be apart. Even if you come to despise me, I will never abandon you. This is serious. I even find it somewhat endearing—it's almost ironic how, after all this time, someone who scrutinizes life so closely can transform into what others fear," she continued softly. "But for you, there will always be something. I would walk through hell for you."
Silence fell between us. I replied in a mechanical tone:
"Fine."
That single word acknowledged that the conversation had moved on, even as the weight of unspoken words rendered the air heavy as lead. Nervously, she pressed further:
"Do you have anything more to say?"
I stared at her, the frost in my voice mirroring the cold in my gaze, and stated:
"I can't move my legs. I will be confined to a wheelchair for the rest of my life. I need someone to serve as my legs now."
My words fell like an irrevocable sentence, laden with a pain I refused to acknowledge. I was painfully aware of my fragility, yet I maintained a ruthless focus. Moving forward demanded sacrifices—and I was prepared to endure them, even if the burden became unbearable.
As for her, I harbored no hatred. There was no resentment—only the inescapable weight of what we once were and what we might never be again. She was the echo of a person I might have become, bound to me by blood and fate. Deep down, I sensed that connection—a bond I had always denied, yet it seeped silently into the very core of my being.
Fragility and Focus
I was acutely aware of my weakness, but it was no excuse to lose focus. Every step was calculated, even if it meant shouldering a heavier burden.
As for my sister, I felt no hatred—only a cold acceptance that she performed as she had been conditioned. She was the echo of what I might have become, yet her presence endured—a blood tie that, no matter how much I tried to ignore, could never be severed. Perhaps even she hesitated to acknowledge it.
One gray morning, her eyes widened in surprise upon hearing me. There was no room for drama or confusion; I accepted things as they were without hesitation.
"So that's it?" she murmured, half-disbelieving.
"Exactly," I replied, my tone firm and devoid of emotion.
We spent days together in resigned silence before moving on to the next phase. The new dwelling was not merely a house but an imposing fortress—thick walls and iron gates safeguarding secrets and histories. There, I encountered the others: the girls and Eric.
Eric and I, bound by the unspoken kinship of men hardened by the same world, understood each other swiftly. No words were necessary—a nod, a glance, sufficed.
But Jenny… Jenny stirred memories I'd rather bury. I recognized her immediately—the woman who had nurtured me with near-maternal patience during my childhood.
"Hello, Nael," she greeted, her tone a blend of warmth and authority, as though I were her long-lost son.
Something in her penetrating gaze irked me deeply—she noticed even the slightest shifts in my posture, even as I struggled to maintain indifference. I did not wish to feel, yet every word she uttered brushed against old wounds I had desperately tried to seal.
"Are you alright?" she inquired, leaning forward slightly, her face etched with concern.
"I'm fine," I replied, my voice as flat as steel, betraying none of the turmoil she seemed intent on stirring.
And so, within walls steeped in secrets and cold corridors, I persevered—maintaining distance while accepting the unyielding blood tie with my sister and Jenny's intrusive presence. Despite my best efforts, something within me could still be reached. Every encounter, every exchanged glance, became a silent trial. No matter how I tried to shut myself off, the world discovered cracks in my armor. Reluctantly, I knew those very fissures were the only avenues through which something—however faint—could seep in and challenge the void I so desperately clung to.
The Laboratory
The rain outside seemed to conspire with my anguish as I awaited Mary's arrival. She was science incarnate—a biologist, a chemist—whose laboratory resembled a futuristic sanctuary more than a mere workspace. When Mary spoke of evolution, her voice brimming with conviction, something stirred within me—a slender hope for redemption.
"If there's a chance to transform myself, to restore my mobility…" my words faded into the ambient hum of machines and equipment.
"What if I can regain my mobility?" I ventured.
She hesitated, weighing the gravity of my question before nodding. Reluctantly, I requested that she take me to her lab. Her eyes flickered with doubt, yet she ultimately relented.
In the early days, as I walked neon-lit corridors, I observed staggering details: my mother had once traversed space and returned with technology beyond imagination. She carried fragments of the cosmos—meteorites composed of unknown metals, relics that defied earthly logic. These relics ignited my own pursuit.
"I need to enhance my regeneration," I declared clinically, poring over notes scattered across tables laden with formulas.
With my heightened intellect, my research accelerated. Within weeks, an idea crystallized: amplify regeneration. I immersed myself in the study of self-healing organisms, meticulously compiling data, formulas, and experiments. The first formula accelerated regeneration tenfold—insufficient. Three months later, I developed a serum capable of enhancing human regeneration a hundredfold.
"But I can't accept animal DNA," I thought, recalling a strange substance from a distant mission—a liquid capable of organic replication. It appeared to be the perfect complement.
I conducted experiments in secret, away from my mother's sporadic visits. Mary, ever silent, helped procure the substance without question. Though she occasionally probed for answers, I remained reticent, lost in calculations and promises of rebirth.
On that decisive night, the lab transformed into a shadowed sanctuary of both possibility and dread. With the substance in hand, I prepared for the final injection. The air thickened with the tension of a destiny forged in equations and ambition.
"It's time," I murmured.
"Now…" I whispered as agony surged within me.
The needle pierced my skin, and for a fleeting moment, silence reigned. Then, gradually, pain erupted. Every muscle, every nerve, seemed to tear as if shredded by a thousand blades. Time slowed; my heartbeat thundered within the void of my body as muscles unraveled and reformed.
Amid the maelstrom, I sensed it: a subtle movement. My feet trembled, my toes twitching in agonizing awakening.
The pain crescendoed, waves devouring me. The world blurred into a cacophony of heartbeats, ragged breaths, and the indifferent hum of machinery.
I could not endure it; darkness swallowed me.
In that moment of forced unconsciousness, I knew something irrevocable had begun—a new reality forged in pain, transformation, and, perhaps, the promise of rebirth.
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Author's Note:
To every reader who has wandered into these pages:
Writing is an inherently solitary pursuit, yet stories come alive only when shared. This book—a mosaic of fractured souls, silent battles, and fragile hope—was born from one compelling question: Can we rebuild what the world has shattered? Now, as I stand on the brink of unveiling it to you, I realize that I cannot answer this question alone.
If these characters have left an indelible mark on your thoughts, if their silences and struggles linger like half-remembered dreams, I humbly request your voice. Your feedback is the compass that guides this narrative forward. Whether it's a comment on what moved you (or what fell short), a shared passage that resonated, or even a fleeting message saying, "This mattered"—each word is a lifeline.
In the turbulent sea of publishing, debut authors like myself often drift unnoticed. Yet every endorsement—through reviews, social media tags, or a recommendation to a friend—shines like a beacon. It tells agents and publishers, "This story deserves to be heard." Your support might be the ripple that evolves into a wave, carrying these pages to the right eyes at the perfect moment.
To those who have already reached out, who have dissected scenes or speculated about Elyon's void or Nael's relentless resolve: thank you. You have reminded me why stories exist—to connect, provoke, and heal. And to those still hesitating: your voice matters, even if it trembles. Perfection is not our aim; participation is.
This book is a bridge between my heart and yours. Let's cross it together. Share your thoughts, critiques, or even your anger at unresolved endings. Tag me, email me, or simply speak up—I am listening.
With heartfelt gratitude,
NaelSupremium