The year was 2584.
The world had long changed governments merged into one, and freedom became a word people whispered but no longer understood. Somewhere above the clouds, in the heart of the World Government's United Sector, stood a glass tower that stretched endlessly into the sky. From a distance, it looked beautiful like crystal reaching for heaven. But inside, it was a prison.
Every floor gleamed with sterile light. The walls, made of reinforced glass, were so strong that not even a bullet could leave a mark. Cameras blinked in every corner, capturing the lives of those trapped inside. Dozens of people watched those screens day and night, making sure no one broke the rules.
And in one of those countless rooms, a boy no older than fifteen lay on his bed.
He had messy black hair, tired eyes, and a small pile of books beside him novels, comics, and old manga, all well-worn and folded at the corners. Reading was the only freedom he had left.
The boy flipped another page, lost in his story. In his mind, heroes fought monsters, saved worlds, and rescued people like him people who were trapped and forgotten. He often imagined that someday, someone like those heroes would come for him too. But every time he looked at the locked door, the cold collar around his neck reminded him of the truth. No one was coming.
It all began a few years ago.
One day, people around the world started awakening strange abilities powers they called the Sole Record. It wasn't magic. It was something deeper, something inside the soul. Those who had it could learn faster, grow stronger, and evolve in ways normal humans couldn't. Some could summon fire or heal wounds. Others moved like lightning or vanished into thin air.
At first, people thought it was a miracle a gift. But then power did what it always does. It corrupted.
A man appeared a warlord who believed the Sole Record made him chosen by destiny. He gathered followers and began conquering nations, claiming he would unite humanity under one rule. The world burned for a year. Cities fell, millions died, and humanity came to the edge of collapse.
When the warlord finally died, the world didn't feel relief—it felt fear.
The governments realized that as long as people with the Sole Record existed, another tyrant could rise again. So, they created something called the World Association a global force meant to "protect" society. But what they really did was build prisons like this tower.
Everyone who had the Sole Record was captured, collared, and caged. Families were torn apart. Children disappeared in the night. The collars around their necks controlled their power and their lives.
The boy didn't even remember the day he was brought here. Just flashes: his mother screaming, bright lights, and then silence. Now, the silence was all he knew.
He closed his book and stared at the ceiling. What's the world like now? he wondered. Do people still laugh? Does the wind still smell like rain?
His thoughts were interrupted by a deep rumble. The floor trembled under him, and the lights flickered. Then, a deafening alarm filled the room a harsh, red glow flashing across the walls.
His heart began to race. In all his years here, he had never heard the alarm go off.
"What's happening?" he whispered, stepping toward the glass door.
Outside, guards ran through the corridor, shouting orders. Then, the building shook again this time harder. The ceiling cracked. The air filled with dust. And then came the explosion.
The far end of the hallway erupted in fire and smoke. The glass walls shattered. Through the haze, figures emerged men and women in combat gear, carrying weapons and wearing symbols the boy didn't recognize.
"Resistance!" someone shouted.
The word echoed in his mind. He'd heard rumors of them a group fighting against the government—but no one believed they were real.
A tall man with a scar across his face broke through the smoke. "We're here to free you!" he shouted. "Move!"
He raised his weapon and fired at the guards, his team spreading out behind him. One of them rushed to the cells, pulling open the locks.
The boy froze. After years of silence and fear, he didn't know how to move. His body refused to believe it.
Then the door hissed open. A hand grabbed his arm and yanked him forward. "Come on, kid! You want to die here?
He stumbled out of the cell, eyes wide. People were crying, screaming, running in every direction. The Resistance soldiers moved fast, unlocking collars, shouting commands, returning fire.
When his collar finally fell off, the boy gasped—it felt like his lungs were breathing for the first time. The air, even filled with smoke and gunfire, felt alive.
"Stay close!" the scarred man ordered. "We're getting you out!"
They ran through the corridor. Bullets hit the walls, sparks flying. The boy ducked behind the soldier, his heart slamming in his chest. For the first time in years, he felt something he didn't recognize.
Hope.
But hope was cruel.
A sharp sting cut through his stomach. He froze, staring down. Blood bloomed across his shirt. For a second, he didn't even feel pain just shock. Then it hit, burning like fire.
He fell to his knees. The world spun.
"Kid!" the scarred man shouted, shooting the guard who had fired the bullet. He rushed back, lifted the boy into his arms, and kept running. "Hold on! Just a bit more we're almost outside!"
The boy tried to speak, but only blood filled his mouth. His vision blurred. His body felt heavy, cold. Every step the man took felt slower, like the world itself was fading away.
"I... can't..." he whispered.
"Don't you dare say that," the man said through gritted teeth. "We're getting you out. You hear me?"
But the boy's breathing was slowing. The pain grew distant, his body numb. The lights flickered above him, and then darkness began to swallow everything.
Maybe this is how it ends, he thought. Not a hero. Just... free.
And then, nothing.
Silence.
When his eyes opened again, he expected darkness. Instead, there was light—soft and warm, brushing against his face.
He blinked. The ceiling above him was carved with golden patterns. A chandelier shimmered faintly. He was lying on a massive bed, covered in silk sheets that smelled like flowers.
He sat up slowly, touching his stomach. The wound was gone. No scar, no blood. His collar—gone too.
He looked around. The room was luxurious, almost unreal. A glass wall revealed a city outside floating towers, bridges of light, and airships drifting between them. It looked like something out of one of his novels.
"Where... am I?" he whispered.