The street to the tower felt like a corridor between two worlds—on one side, the battered heart of Zeraph, pulsing with restless life; on the other, the looming monolith of the Control Tower, silent and absolute. It rose from the ground like it had been planted there by a god who had long since stopped explaining himself.
Kyron kept walking.
His boots clicked against the polished blackstone, every step echoing too loud in the silence, like the city itself was holding its breath. The air buzzed faintly—no, not just buzzed. It shimmered. That was the Plasmashield. You didn't see it, not exactly. You felt it, like walking into static or stepping through a ghost.
A faint hum grew louder as he approached. The Control Grid knew he was coming. Of course it did. Nothing got this close without being cataloged, profiled, dissected into risk levels and probability charts. It was Zeraph, after all.
Just before the final twenty meters, a flash of blue zipped past his shoulder.
Drone.
It hovered in front of him, rotating with surgical precision. Thin, spiderlike limbs unfolded as it scanned him from head to toe. There was a moment of stillness. Then another drone. And another. A trinity of glass eyes surrounding him like curious vultures.
"Identity request: Confirmed. Civilian ID Z-A19/hidden-class—access restricted. Override in progress."
Kyron didn't flinch. He just raised his left wrist. A sleek pulse-tag blinked twice, then went silent. That was all the confirmation they needed.
With a high-pitched chime, the drones retreated, vanishing into the sky like they'd never existed.
Then came the shield.
It didn't look like much—just empty space. But the moment he stepped through it, every hair on his body stood up. Like the world changed frequencies. Like reality had teeth.
He inhaled sharply.
"Same every time," he muttered, rubbing his arms. "Like being judged by the gods… and found tolerable."
Inside the gate, everything felt quieter. Too quiet. No distant traffic, no murmur of cities. Just the dull thrum of power beneath his feet.
This place wasn't for people. It was for scanning, for sorting, for deciding. Who got to rise. Who didn't.
He kept walking toward the black-glass doors that waited at the end of the corridor. They slid open without a sound.
The interior hit him like ice—clinical, bright, unnatural. A hall of white, intersected with glowing blue lines that pulsed like veins. Behind reinforced windows, workers monitored endless screens, none of them looking up.
He approached the registration terminal. A voice spoke—not from a speaker, but in the air.
"Name?"
He hesitated.
Then, coolly:"Kyron."
"Last name?"
Another pause."...Unlisted."
The system whirred, slower this time. Something was fighting it. Somewhere, someone was watching. Probably multiple someones. Probably armed.
"Bloodline authentication… Rehaven signal detected. Masked. Security clearance required."
That was it. He was in. Sort of. The doors ahead blinked yellow and welcomed him to walk through.
Kyron stepped forward. The second door hissed open—much slower than the first. Like it still had doubts. Beyond it, a stairwell curved downward, lit in moody blue. He took the first step. Behind him, the door slammed shut with a finality that told him: there's no going back now.