Beyond the horizon, dazzling rain escorted the moonlight that hid behind the wall of skyscrapers, illuminating the shimmering haze of pollution. Back in the labyrinth of noisy streets, Nion was on her way to the overground hub that would take her to the Southern Gate. Millions of lights made the dense mass of skyscrapers glitter like digital constellations. Despite the late after-hours, the city never came to a halt.
With barely any space to move or breathe, Nion slowly proceeded toward the gates, trying to avoid being crushed by the sluggishly advancing mass. Passing through the entrance, she made it just in time to slip into the crowded elevator that would take her to the top of the platform, a hundred meters above the ground. The wide, transparent glass offered a sprawling, vertiginous view of the megalopolis beneath her feet.
As the elevator ascended, the city noise began to fade into a low hum. Nion could hear distant police sirens echoing off the concrete caverns far below. A brisk wind blew through a nearby green patch, stirring caramel-colored leaves into motion. They tumbled to life, animated by the autumnal chill, performing a ghostly ballet through the chilled air—spinning and spiraling around dormant tree trunks to their own rustling rhythm.
High above, clouds drifted with glacial slowness. The boundaries between pollution and natural mist blurred, fusing into a single smoky veil. The sky's edge glowed with a sterile, marbled light that dimmed the last trace of dawn.
After several minutes waiting in line at the platform's summit, she finally boarded the train. It was packed to the corners—yet curiously silent. The sleek, mechanical carriage carried hundreds of passengers, but no voices rose among them. The only sounds came from station announcements and looping advertisements for new augmentations, cosmetics, and synthetic lifestyle services. Shoulder to shoulder, the riders were fused into a motionless grid, eyes locked on their personal displays.
The train accelerated with a whisper, reaching over 300 kilometers per hour, yet everything inside remained eerily still. In response to the long history of harassment complaints, all male passengers whose social credit score hovered near the minimum threshold were required to keep their hands above shoulder height during transit. Lacking anything to grip, many stood with arms stiffly raised—like prisoners lined up in a silent inspection. At times, the entire scene resembled a low-security detention unit in motion.
Nion leaned against the transparent window, scrolling through articles on parenting. She was trying to prepare—searching for words, for methods, for anything to help her face the child who had lost everything. The low, hypnotic rhythm of the train's vibration lulled her into brief reveries. Occasionally, she glanced toward the neon horizon, her face intermittently lit by massive billboards flashing cosmetic upgrades and societal slogans. One burst of light reminded her of Seànn, and the corner of her lips lifted into the shadow of a smile.
At last, the train reached its final stop. The doors hissed open, and the passengers spilled out like water from a shattered vessel. Within moments, the train stood empty, as did the station. An old man in a blue uniform—his shoulders marked by bright yellow stripes—began his slow walk from one end of the carriage to the other, gently shaking the shoulders of sleeping commuters and ushering them off into the night.
[Southern Gate Train Station — 10:15 PM]
En route to her final transfer toward Némless, Nion's journey continued with a fifteen-minute walk beyond the Southern Gate terminal. Unlike the stark, synthetic city she had just left behind, this place felt untouched—an oasis tucked away between the seams of modern civilization.
The narrow path led her along a field of fresh, dew-kissed grass that swayed gently under the caress of the night breeze. Soft pools of golden light fell from delicate, vine-wrapped lampposts, their gentle glow reflected in puddles from a recent drizzle. Crickets chirped quietly in the undergrowth, and every step she took was accompanied by the soft rustle of leaves or the distant call of a nightbird.
Night had descended quickly, but gently—like a curtain drawn across a tranquil stage. Just moments ago, the sky had been ablaze with streaks of crimson and tangerine, now softened into indigo and ink. Above her, the stars blinked quietly into view, scattered like secrets across a violet sky. The air smelled clean, earthy, with hints of moss and lavender carried from nearby wild groves.
The station itself looked like a page torn from an old photo album—weathered wooden beams, arched rooftops with curved eaves, and faded paint made it feel more like a shrine than a transit hub. Ivy crept lazily up the sides of the waiting room, where only a handful of passengers waited in quiet contemplation. There was no blaring music, no artificial announcements—just the occasional soft chime to signal a train's approach.
Nion welcomed the silence.
Gone were the sharp lines of skyscrapers and the suffocating density of the city. Here, her thoughts had room to breathe. The wind tousled her hair gently, and for the first time in what felt like days, her shoulders dropped from their tense height. She stood near the edge of the platform, breathing in the cool, damp air. A few trees lined the perimeter of the station, their branches lightly clinking with the sound of wind-swept leaves—an orchestra composed entirely by nature.
She reached out a hand, palm open, feeling the subtle shift in air pressure—the sign that her train was approaching. But instead of the roar of heavy engines, the arrival came like a sigh: the low hum of a magnetic rail gliding to a soft stop, its red lights warm and unintrusive.
And in that moment, Nion no longer felt like she was running away; she felt like she was walking toward something.
"Mitera?" she asked, her voice soft, but firm.
"Yes, how can I assist you?" the AI responded in its neutral cadence.
"Call Aleksithimia for me," Nion said.
"Connecting the call…"
A dozen seconds passed before he answered. "Good evening, Nion."
"Can I talk to you?" she asked, hesitating.
"I'm in the middle of something right now. Can you call me later?"
"No," she replied, her voice low but resolute. "It has to be now."
"…Alright. Hold on." She heard the shift of background noise as he stepped away from the crowd.
Once in a quieter space, he returned to the call.
"How are you?" he asked. "Is this about our last meeting, or are you finally ready to tell me what happened at the Elpida borders?"
"Yes… no… It's not about that," she murmured.
"Then what is it?"
Nion hesitated.
"…It's harder to say than I thought."
"Well, take your time," he said, his voice patient, measured.
"I…" She drew a shaky breath. "I've decided to leave the city for a while."
The words landed like stones dropped into deep water.
A silence followed.
"What do you mean, leave the city?" His voice was quiet, but the tension behind it was unmistakable.
"I need a break. A moment to breathe. To think," she said, struggling to keep her thoughts coherent. "I've been working as a Keeper for so long that I… I don't even remember who I was before. I know the role. I understand the responsibility you've entrusted to me. But something happened. The mask I wore to fulfill this duty—it's no longer a mask. It became my skin. And now, I don't know what's underneath anymore."
She took a breath, voice soft but steady.
"I've always believed my purpose was to protect. To serve. And I still want that… but I think I've strayed from the path I was meant to take. I've been following the orders of the Keepers, of the system, but I've never asked myself what I truly want. Until now."
"You do understand," he said at last, his tone hardening, "that you can't just walk away. You are not a civilian. You are a high-level security enforcer of this territory—arguably the most important one. You have duties, Nion. Obligations."
He paused, then added, with less formality and more curiosity, "But… duties aside. This isn't like you. You wouldn't say all this without something serious behind it. So—tell me. What happened to make you feel this way?"
Nion exhaled shakily, forcing the words past the tightness in her throat.
"For as long as I can remember, you've been like an older brother to me. You looked after me, protected me… treated me like family. And I'm grateful—truly, I am."
He let out a soft laugh, surprised by the vulnerability in her tone.
"That's not like you—getting sentimental. Did you get yourself into trouble? You know I can fix it, right?"
"You can fix a lot of things," she murmured. "But this time… It's different. It's not about someone else. It's about me."
A pause followed, heavy and static. Then his voice cut through the silence, sharper than before.
"Can you stop speaking in riddles and just tell me what happened at Elpida? Is someone blackmailing you? Did they hurt you?" His tone grew firm, almost commanding. "I need you to be explicit, Nion. What exactly is going on?"
"I've lived behind these walls my whole life," she said quietly. "Sometimes it doesn't even feel real—that I can just call someone like you, one of the four most powerful people in the world, as if it were nothing." She gave a faint, bitter smile. "But even with that privilege, I've realized something… I'm nothing on my own. I exist only through the roles others gave me. I'm just your shadow."
"Come on," he said, his voice softening. "You're not just a shadow. You're so much more than that, Nion."
In the background, she heard the faint clink of glass—liquid being poured.
"Still," he continued, tone shifting back to authority, "if you're asking for permission, I can't accept that. Not as a valid reason to leave. Come to HQ now. Let's talk face-to-face, and you can explain everything that's going on inside that head of yours."
"You don't understand," she said, voice trembling. "I'm not asking for permission. I just want you to understand—just once—how I feel."
She hesitated, the silence between them deep enough to hear her own heartbeat.
"All my life, I've followed every order—yours, Mitera's—without question. I did it because I believed it was right. But now... I'm twenty-four years old, and I've never felt more ignorant about the world—or about myself."
Aleksithimia's tone shifted again, now grounded and serious.
"Where are you right now? Should I come pick you up? It sounds like a lot's happened in the last few days, huh?"
She hesitated. "A lot. More than I can put into words. In just one week, my world flipped upside down. I did things… horrible things I'll regret for the rest of my life. Things that haunt me every time I close my eyes."
Her voice fell to a whisper.
"Sometimes I think I'm losing my mind. Because it all feels too real. Unbelievably real. And for the first time... I can't ignore it anymore."
"I understand that something… unpleasant happened to you," he said softly. "If you don't want to talk about it now, that's fine. I just want you to know—whatever you do, I'll be here to help. Because I want you to rely on me. This isn't about my position, it's about the trust between us, you understand? We've had disagreements before, and there'll be more, but that doesn't mean I love you any less."
"Perfect!" Nion exclaimed, bitterness spilling through her voice. "Then if you love me that much, why is my whole existence surrounded by secrets and lies?"
"What are you talking about? What lies?"
"You know exactly what I'm talking about!" she shot back.
"You really need to learn to express yourself more clearly," he countered, irritation rising. "I'm an emperor, not a magician—I can't read your mind, young woman."
"Oh, can't you?" she hissed. "Let's start with this: why did you never tell me the truth about my parents? You said yourself you knew them before they died.
"Again?" he snapped. "How many times do I have to explain this to you? There was a car accident—three of you were in it. Both your parents died. You were the only survivor. I used every piece of technology I had to help you recover what I could—but apparently that still isn't enough for you?"
"Why?" she demanded. "Why won't you tell me the truth? You keep repeating the same story as if I'm still a child. These pieces, the timing—they don't add up. If they really died in an accident, then explain to me why there's no record of it. No crash site, no morgue files, no photos, no names, no address—nothing! Whoever erased them made sure they were wiped from existence. And you know what's funny? I've heard another name—someone else who doesn't exist on any record either."
Her voice lowered to a whisper.
"Noah Von Sixth. Does that name ring a bell? Because apparently, he had something to do with their disappearance."
The line went silent. When Aleksithimia finally spoke, his voice was barely audible.
"…How do you know that name?"
"It doesn't matter how I know it." Her tone cracked with anger and disbelief. "You're hiding things from me."
"Enough of this nonsense!" he barked. "Who gave you that name?"
"I don't think it matters anymore," she replied coldly. "The situation's clear to me now. You want my trust, but you've never been honest with me."
A long silence stretched between them. When Aleksithimia spoke again, his voice was quieter—measured, almost weary.
"After your parents' deaths, I swore I'd protect you. And that's what I've done—and what I'll keep doing, no matter what."
"And by 'protecting me,' you mean what exactly?" Nion's voice trembled, caught between sorrow and rage. "Assigning me to kill innocent people? Is that really how you plan to protect me?"
"There's an important reason behind that," he insisted. "And I planned to tell you—when the time was right. The truth you're seeking… It's not what you think it is. So please, Nion, for your own sake—renounce this decision. Come back to me, and we'll figure everything out, like we always did."
"No, Aleksithimia…" she murmured, her voice growing distant, hollow. "I'm not coming back. Not this time."
A feminine voice echoed across the platform, announcing the next departure for Némless. A metallic shriek tore through the quiet as the decrepit train screeched into the station, its headlights slicing through the mist.
"I have to go," Nion said.
"Nion, please, listen to me," Aleksithimia urged, desperation breaking through his composure. "We'll sort this out—like we always do. I'll tell you everything, I promise. Just don't leave. Your place is here, with me. If you leave… I won't be able to protect you anymore."
"Then this is how it ends." Her voice was soft, final.
She pulled back her hood, fingers trembling slightly as she unclasped the Kanjöga from her neck.
"Goodbye, Aleksithimia," she whispered. "Please… don't look for me."
The connection died as she hurled the device from the platform, its small light tumbling into the dark.
Nion stood still for a moment, watching the city of light burning far beyond the horizon—distant, unreachable. Then she stepped onto the train.
The doors slid shut.
The engine exhaled a deep, mechanical groan.
And as the train crept forward into the dark, the grey city of Aleksithimia receded into the distance—slowly swallowed by the brilliance of its own artificial light.
[Same evening — Somewhere in the Metro area of the Grey City]
"Yo!"
The room he entered was wide and dimly lit, its once-avant-garde décor faded into something almost tragic. Crimson tapestry peeled from the walls, and the scent of aged leather and decay filled the air. At the center stood a vintage canapé flanked by two worn armchairs.
A young woman sat in one of them, long black hair cascading over her shoulders. Her green eyes glinted sharply as she tapped her nails against the armrest.
"About time, old man," she said, polishing her black nails.
Next to her, another young man reclined lazily on the canapé. He raised one hand in silent acknowledgment, then went back to reading his book, wholly uninterested in the tension that thickened the air.
Samuel exhaled, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it across the table. "Sorry it took me so long," he said to the man on the couch. "Had some business to clean up."
The girl didn't even glance up. "You think the world spins only around you, huh?" Her voice dripped with mockery. "Next time you're late, I'll carve your throat open with this thing." She lifted the nail file, pointing the metal glinting in the low light.
"Oh, calm down. It's been thirty minutes," Samuel protested, glancing toward the man on the couch for backup—but the man didn't even blink.
"Thirty fucken minutes," she repeated with a scoff. "You know how much I could've done in that time?" She stood abruptly, pacing toward him with the file still in hand. "You're the boss is here, or you'd be missing an eye right now."
"I'm reading," the man on the canapé said quietly. "Try to keep it down."
The command was so flat, so absolute, that the woman froze mid-step. Without another word, she returned to her chair.
From the corner came a soft, amused laugh. A slender man with long, dark, silky hair sat there, lazily twirling a strand around his finger. "Romelo, you talk too much," he murmured. "It's almost impressive."
She turned sharply. "And who the hell asked for your commentary?"
He only smiled. "You'd miss it if I stopped."
"Clown," she muttered, slumping into the armchair. "Stuck with a bunch of degenerates." Then, under her breath, "Of course, you're not one of them," her gaze flicked toward the man on the canapé.
"If you're here," the silver-haired man said at last, closing his book, "it means my plan has been set in motion."
He rose from the couch. His silver hair spilled loosely around his face, catching the faint light, and beneath it, his eyes glowed a deep violet hue—striking, unearthly.
Samuel straightened immediately. "Yes, boss."
"How did it go with my sister?" the man asked, then cut himself off with a knowing smile. "Actually—don't bother. I'll ask her myself."
He stepped past the armchair and placed a steady hand on the shoulder of the third man. "Shiraz. Romelo. My dear companions—the wait is over. The Keepers are out of the picture. We have twenty-four hours to do what needs to be done. But first…" A faint smirk curved his lips. "Let's pay our dear friend Aleksithimia a visit, shall we?"
"I've grown tired of waiting," Shiraz said, rising from his chair. His movements were smooth, deliberate, predatory. Without another word, he turned for the door.
"Oi, Shiraz!" Romelo barked. "Where the hell are you going? We've got orders!"
He didn't answer.
Romelo watched as her boss and Samuel disappeared into another room. "And they just ignore him…" she muttered, kicking at a broken bottle. The shards scattered across the floor like shards of frost. "Why am I always stuck with idiots like him… seriously?"
Her irritation echoed as she followed him out. "I hope you die and stay dead, you damn sadist!"
Her words vanished into the hum of the underground city.
Outside, beneath the flickering pallor of neon lights, Romelo finally caught up. "Hey! What the hell, man? Didn't you hear the boss?"
Shiraz stopped, unhurried. The yellow crest on his chest shimmered under the light like molten gold. For a moment, he said nothing. Then he pulled his hood up slowly, shadows swallowing his face.
"I've got some important business to handle," he said, his tone calm, almost polite. His eyes glimmered with manic delight. "Excuse me—I'll be back in time for the fun the boss promised."
"Excuse you?" Romelo scoffed, folding her arms. "What are you, some kind of deity now? Fucking weirdo."
He looked at her then, and that grin—thin, crooked, and quietly feral—spread across his face.
"I'm going to bully someone..."