I twirled the dagger in my hand, the warm hilt naturally clinging to my palm. My voice was barely above a whisper, "Where did you go, Dad? I need you…"
Uncontrollable tears wept into my hands, seeping between the cracks and falling onto the fluffy, fresh, light caramel carpet below. Eight months. That's how long my father's been missing. For six of the eight months, I have been buried in a never-ending stack of papers on my desk—filled with police reports, exhibition archives, private investigators, my father's scribbled rantings of research notes, and interviews with his colleagues. Yet, every clue leads to another dead end, as if there is no trace of his existence. Leaving only more questions and an uneasy feeling that refuses to fade.
I glanced around my room, my eyes gravitating towards the cluttered excuse of an investigation. Loose papers spilled from the desk onto the floor, the majority stained with random tear marks where I began to lose hope during late-night searches. Maps covered in red ink—circles, question marks, and his past exhibitions—hung along multiple bulletin boards, categorized by red and white threads. The red represents possible leads, while the white represents dead ends. The majority of the pictures and maps are strung and connected with white threads.
One remaining red thread stands, a single photograph, the edges frayed from tears: my father and his team, standing in front of the wreckage of Amelia Earhart's plane. It was his last exhibition. Over nine months ago, the one from which he never returned. I received this photograph a month after he left the exhibition. I believed the team continued to search for ruins on an island inside the Bermuda Triangle, the same island they found Amelia's plane. But now… I believe something unexpected may have occurred, and this picture is proof.
I traced my hand over the blade's edge, its surface inherently smooth, as if its gaze followed my fingers, grazing its cold exterior. At the tip of the blade, a small spark jolted my fingertip, warming both the blade and myself. I hesitated, wondering if the blade and I were somehow connected, just like the day he handed it to me; I felt a spark.
His voice resonated in my mind: "Always keep it close, Aurora. Maybe it will save you one day and let it remind you to be brave when times are at their hardest, just like it did for Cleopatra."
Cleopatra's dagger, the same one that went missing from The National Egyptian Museum in Cairo, was given to a 12-year-old for her birthday.
It's an artifact that was rumored to be cursed, said to be whispering to couples within the museums—as if Cleopatra herself was calling for Julius Caesar, her lover. My father laughed at the rumors, but as a young kid, it terrified me. To this day, I question if the rumors were true, even though it never called to me. He was the archaeologist who found and led an exhibition that searched Cleopatra's tomb, to everyone's dismay. Historians told the public a female would be the one to find Cleopatra's tomb, but they were mistaken.
I tilted the blade, watching the dim light from my curtain reflect the ancient engravings etched into its steel. My fingers tightened around the hilt, and for a moment, I envisioned the aura of my father, as if his hands were over mine. Back then, I was afraid of the blade, scared of the power it holds, its ability to cut. But, gradually, my father taught me martial arts and how to use the blade for self-defense.
Now, as the cold metal pressed against my palm, it was something else entirely. Not a curse, not a gift, but a promise. A daily reminder to uncover the truth and find out what happened to my father that day. As he always said, the truth hides where people are most afraid to look, and fear is what keeps them blind from achieving the impossible.
I stared at the photograph, the singular red thread taunting me as my father smiled back from within the picture. I whispered to the image from across my bedside, a slight quiver in my voice, "I just want to know if you're okay." Not knowing is worse than the worst-case scenario because you have hope. Hope that they are still alive, just lost, but over time others lose hope, making it harder to believe. Like my mom, who wants to host a funeral within the week to try and "heal."
Spontaneously, I shook my head repeatedly and sprang up from my bed, a new sense of determination filling my eyes. If there was even the faintest chance that someone in "The Masses," the labyrinth underbelly and salvation of each major city, knew what happened that day, I had to take it. Putting on my light jacket, I slipped the dagger into the leather sheath strapped to my side and grabbed the photograph from the bulletin board.
I reanalyzed the image, my grip tightening. My father stood in the center with a bright smile, his famed boonie hat slightly tipped to block the sun with both of his arms crossed. It was one of his many recognizable poses that surprisingly fit with every photo. This was one of the larger voyages, with seven other explorers accompanying him. Behind them were tangled vines and the wreckage of Amelia Earhart's plane, its remnants battered and rusted. It was stuck inside the heavy vines of a tree, allowing for a cinematic picture with the crew.
At first glance, the picture looked ordinary, just the happy celebration from an exploration crew. But something wasn't right, a feeling that made my stomach churn. My father's expression. It was as if he was overselling it; his smile seemed tense and forced.
I traced my finger over the faces of the crew, each face circled with red ink, while three were crossed off with a red X. With a slight gasp, I came to a realization that I overlooked before: each member had the same expression. Everyone looked at the camera with a glare in their eye; I can't place it.
Since the voyage, only four have returned. Two of which were married excavators, in charge of equipment, they stood holding hands on the far left of the photo. Their faces crossed out. A couple of weeks after their return, they were found murdered in the Masses by "The Wraith." No one knows who "The Wraith" is, but everyone believes they are an infamous bounty hunter, thanks to their calling card and the nature of the killings. Their calling card consists of a +1 engraved into the hand of their victims, which seem to be spontaneous and unconnectable.
The remaining two survivors had vanished shortly after their return, leaving no trace except for whispered rumors that they had gone into hiding deep within The Masses, in fear they would be next. However, another has resurfaced, a close friend of my father's: Reo Mapel. In the photo, Reo stood to the right of my father, like his right-hand man. He had a scar across his right eye from a previous expedition. When I was young, he would tell me stories about how he got the scar fighting a bear or mummies from an ancient tomb. My dad would laugh at him and tell me it was a thorn that snagged his face in a rainforest. In the photo, his eyes looked weary and distracted, like he was looking past the camera at someone. He might be my best lead to solving this once and for all.
One of my hired private investigators tracked him down on his way into KitPort's Mass district, one of the newly built congested cities in New York. I live with my mother and stepfather in KitPort's nobility district, secluded from the Heart and Mass districts. Every major city has been composed of these three districts since the Home-Addition Act in 2029, erasing homelessness.
With a deep sigh, I put the picture in my pocket and moved towards the window, staring out at the skyline of KitPort's Nobility District, the 1% life.
From here, everything seemed orderly, almost pristine. It was hard to imagine that the Mass District, just a few miles away, was the complete opposite, full of chaos, danger, and people fighting to survive.
My mother's voice echoed from the hallway, snapping me out of my thoughts. "Aurora! Come on, we have to start prepping for the funeral. We have nothing to wear." I chuckled, staring at my closet full of name-brand clothing. The nobility district is all about appearances and who can seem the most perfect.
I glanced towards my mirror, adjusting my lightweight, black leather jacket. She would say it looked very grotesque for a lady of nobility, but I don't care how people see me. It's practical with multiple pockets that hold small essentials for various occasions. Beneath it, I wore a dark tank top, something that wouldn't restrict me if I needed to move fast. Finally, to close the outfit, I wore a pair of charcoal utility pants with reinforced stitching and deep cargo pockets to complement my lightweight, jet-black tactical boots.
I grasped the dagger at my side, confirming I was ready to go. I shook my head and wiped the tears off my face. I had to do this in secret; my mom would just tell me to put the investigation to rest. But I have to find Reo; I have to know. He could be the last person who could tell me what happened to my father, the only connection I have to that expedition.
A sudden knock at the door made me jump, and I quickly tucked the photograph of my father into my jacket pocket. With a slight gulp, I stepped forward as I composed myself. Quietly, I opened the window and sat back onto the bed, my heart pounding.
"Come in," I called, trying to sound composed, despite my heart racing.
The door flung open to reveal my stepfather, Richard. Tall and well-groomed, he had a businesslike presence. No matter the situation, he always seemed oddly calm and collected. Surprisingly, he was against the funeral, telling my mother to give me more time. Really, he wanted everything to remain in its perfect order, without the hassle of events. I knew he was the last person I could talk to about my father's disappearance, saying, "Time will tell," or, "I'm busy at the moment, Aurora."
He gave me a quick nod, stepping into the room with his commanding authority. "Aurora," he said, his voice polished, "The car is ready. You need to leave the house; it's been weeks. Your mother is waiting in the car; we're going to pick out outfits for the funeral."
I hesitated, speechless. Has it really been weeks? I've been so worried about the investigation that I've lost track of time; some days I would forget to eat. My gaze flickered back to the photograph of my father. The man in the picture smiled at me, and I nodded, making up my mind.
"I'm not going with you today," I finally replied, my voice steadier than I expected. "But, I'll leave the house. I have to find someone. I won't be giving up on Dad."
Richard's expression hardened for a moment, his jaw tightening. "Aurora, we've been through this. Your father is gone. There's nothing to find."
I took a slow breath, sliding off the bed and walking toward the window once more. "You don't understand, Richard. If Reo knows something, anything, I have to know what happened. Sorry…"
For a moment, Richard hesitated, picking his words carefully. Then, his voice softened, a rare moment of vulnerability breaking through his stone persona. "Aurora, Just tell me, is this person… in the masses?"
I glanced back, met his eyes, and nodded. Immediately, he glanced towards the floor, and I knew exactly what he was thinking. For once, he looked worried, nothing like his self-absorbed self. My voice softened, and I smiled as he looked towards me. "Thanks for being worried.But I'll be fine," I said with more confidence than I felt. "I've been training for years. I can take care of myself."
I understood his worry; the masses can be a dangerous place; even the strongest men sometimes disappear. But I don't ever venture that deep into the mass district, just the outskirts.
He didn't argue, but I could see the worry in his eyes. With a long exhale, he turned and walked toward the door. "The Masses aren't the kind of place you want to visit alone. Don't do anything reckless, Aurora. Don't let this kill you. Your mom would never forgive me."
I watched as he closed the door behind him, the sound of the click echoing in the room. My mind started racing with the possibilities inside the masses. I used to venture along the outskirts of the district often before my dad went missing. Just to help the people and make their day a little easier, filling in for employees, volunteering at food stands, and much more. But today would be the furthest I have ever gone. When I volunteered, they could be "The Nobel Angel," a silly, corny title that stuck because I subdued a robber.
The people just accepted me in their community, telling me stories about the masses, hoping I would help in any way.
I stood still for a moment, letting Richard's words sink in. The masses were a place of survival. It wasn't just poverty and crime; it was a world of its own. With makeshift apartments that stacked on top of one another, a labyrinth of alleys, the constant eerie sound of awaiting disaster, and hundreds of shady people in cloaks.
I took a deep breath and took a step onto the roof. I had to do this. I'm not that kid who's afraid of the blade anymore, and plus I'm not going that deep, just a little further than my occasional visits.
I looked around my room, taking in one final glance. I felt a pang of guilt; everyone was trying their hardest in their own ways. My mother had to be struggling, rushing the funeral to put Dad behind her. My daily reminders of the possibility he was alive, the hope she lost, had to be weighing on her. I couldn't help her with that right now. I have to focus on finding Reo.
I jumped off the roof, rolling into the overly well-kept grass below. The grass was soft but firm under my boots, the mildew staining my kneecaps. I crept along the side of the two-story house, my adrenaline pumping, careful to stay hidden. I could faintly hear my mother yelling at Richard from the car. She was probably yelling about me; it'd be unlike her to accept "no." Yet, the only way past the nobility district is through the large gate, which is in the direction of my mother.
As I used the tall hedges and oak trees as cover, I began to overhear their conversation the closer I moved. My mom was furious, not at Richard, but at me. "She needs to give it up. She needs to move on..." I stopped dead in my tracks, crouching behind the closest hedge and just listened, taking in my mother's words. Her tone was sharp and laced with malice. "... this is ridiculous, Richard; it's been six months and not a word from her father. All because of some investigator fantasy."
Her words hit harder than I expected; she's always been direct, but this is a different side of her. I didn't dare to breathe, my lungs aching with the effort not to gasp or sob. If I did, I might say something I'd forever regret. I sat down, the hedge completely concealing my presence, intent on hearing what she might say next.
With a heavy exasperated sigh, she threw her hands into the air, her tone frustrated, "And what's worse is having a daughter holed up for weeks and being seen going into the masses, of all places. It's making us look bad. People are starting to talk. The neighbors are whispering about us, about her."
I froze, her words striking me in the face. "Making us look bad?" My blood began to boil as my fists tensed into a ball. My father's disappearance, my investigations, the countless hours I've poured into finding him, were only a matter of appearances to her?
Richard's voice came next, softer, apologizing. "I know this is hard on you," he muttered. "This is hard on me too. I'm sorry I should've put my foot down and told her to come."
My jaw clenched, tears welling in my eyes. I really can't trust anyone. I clutched the photo in my pocket tighter, the tears falling into my lap. I pressed my back further against the hedge, its cold, prickly twigs piercing my skin. The guilt I'd felt earlier melted away, replaced by a wave of anger and hurt. To her, my search for Dad wasn't about finding him, about hope or closure—it was about how it made her look.
If she doesn't believe in Dad or in me, then I don't need her approval. I don't need any of them. I will do this by myself, and once I'm gone, I won't return, no matter what I find.
I darted towards the main gate, my brisk steps pushing the gravel with ease. At this point, I don't care who sees. Let her confront me and try and stop me; I will make sure the nobility district hears.