The city was still wet from the storm. Below, neon lights bled across asphalt, reflected in black pools that shimmered with passing headlights. The air carried the faint tang of rain, heavy and metallic, as if the night itself hadn't yet shaken off the storm's memory.
Orion's apartment rose high above it all, a place that was neither luxury nor neglect. The building was older than the glass-and-steel monuments of the financial district, its walls lined with brick that carried the weight of years. Inside, the apartment was spare: clean surfaces, straight lines, furniture functional rather than indulgent. A single lamp glowed warm in the corner, leaving shadows to claim the rest.
The door clicked shut behind him. He tossed his charcoal blazer onto the back of a chair, then pulled his tie loose, dropping it beside the lamp. The white shirt followed, sleeves peeled down from his arms, buttons undone until only the dark t-shirt beneath remained. His shoulders rolled once, loosening tension that had clung since the boardroom.
The faint hum of the city came through the sliding balcony doors. He crossed to them, whiskey bottle dangling from one hand, glass in the other. With a smooth motion, he pushed the door open, letting the night air sweep in. It was cool, damp, sharp against his skin.
He poured a measure of whiskey, the amber liquid catching what little light the room offered, and set the bottle aside. Then he leaned against the balcony railing, eyes sweeping across the sprawl of the city. In the distance, Ather Tower rose like a blade, its peak stabbing into the clouds, lights burning bright even at this hour.
For a long moment, Orion said nothing. He sipped, slow, the whiskey burning down his throat, grounding him. The storm outside was gone, but inside him it lingered.
Behind him, the apartment was almost silent. Only the faint tick of the clock on the wall and the shuffle of papers he'd left earlier filled the stillness. On the desk near the window, a thin folder lay open — pages marked in his handwriting, numbers and notes sharper than any boardroom draft. Tucked beneath was something older: a red-marked dossier, corners worn, filled with documents that didn't belong in Ather hands.
His silver eyes drifted back to the skyline. The memory of the rooftop lounge flickered in his head — Freya's laughter spilling like sunlight, wine glowing crimson, her words teasing and sharp. Behind that, Lunox's gaze in the boardroom, obsidian and unrelenting, the way her voice had cracked silence into obedience.
Sun and storm. Both circling him.
His jaw flexed once, slow, as the glass in his hand tilted. The whiskey caught the neon glow, rippling like fire.
Dangerous, he thought. Not because of them… but because of what they stir.
The phone buzzed on the table, screen glowing. One word: Unknown.
Orion didn't move at first. He stood still, staring at the tower piercing the night. Then, slowly, he turned, placed the glass down on the railing, and walked back inside. The whiskey's warmth lingered on his tongue.
The phone buzzed again.
This time, he picked it up.
The phone vibrated once more in his palm, the screen still glowing with that single word: Unknown.
Orion lowered himself into the chair by the desk, the leather creaking faintly beneath his weight. The red-marked dossier lay half-hidden beneath loose papers, a corner peeking out like a secret that refused to stay buried.
He let the phone buzz one more time before he swiped to answer.
Silence filled his ear. Not the kind of silence born of distance, but the heavy, watching kind — as though someone was measuring his breath before speaking.
Then a voice came. Low. Rough at the edges. Timeless in its weight.
"Orion Light."
The sound threaded the room like smoke, crawling into every corner.
He leaned back, eyes half-hooded, gaze fixed on the balcony door where the city's glow spilled in. "Still calling me that?" he asked, his tone flat, steady. "It's been years since anyone used both names."
The voice chuckled — humorless, metallic. "Names matter. Yours doubly so. A son carved from shadows. A blade pretending to be a man."
Orion's jaw flexed once, but his voice stayed calm. "You've been watching."
"You expected otherwise?" the voice replied, faint static threading each word. "We see every step you take. Every board you sit in. Every laugh you share with them."
For the first time, Orion's silver eyes narrowed. "Them?"
"Daughters of Ather," the voice spat, a hint of disdain beneath the neutrality. "You've walked too close. Don't forget who you are. Why you're there."
Orion swirled the whiskey glass in his free hand, liquid catching the faint lamp light. He let the silence linger, stretching the distance between words. "And why is that?"
The voice sharpened, slicing through. "Because you are not theirs. You are ours. Blood is memory. Memory is loyalty."
Orion's lips curved faintly, though it wasn't warmth. "Loyalty cuts both ways."
The phone hissed softly, as though the other end didn't appreciate the answer. Then the voice softened, almost coaxing now.
"You carve your path well. You've gained their eyes, their whispers. Good. But remember this—" A pause. "Empires are not homes. Families are not thrones. Survival is the only crown."
The line crackled, distant thunder echoing faintly in the static, as if even the storm had found its way into the call.
Orion leaned forward, forearms pressing against his knees, gaze locked on the red folder glowing under the lamplight. His reflection in the window beyond stared back, silver eyes cold.
"I hear you," he said softly.
But the smile that tugged at his mouth betrayed him.
The call did not end.
Orion placed the whiskey glass on the desk, the ring of amber left faint against polished wood. His free hand slid across the papers, pulling the red-marked dossier into the open. Its corners were worn, the spine creased from years of being opened and closed like a wound never healing.
The voice crackled again in his ear, colder now. "Open it."
Orion's silver eyes narrowed, but he obeyed. His fingers lifted the cover, slow, deliberate.
Inside: clipped reports. Financial data stripped to bare lines. Photographs — black-and-white, grainy, some of Ather factories, some of shipping docks, some of faces. Men in suits, board members with smiles frozen mid-shake. And at the center, a glossy photo newer than the rest: Lunox Ather, shoulders squared, eyes sharp as obsidian. Beside her, Freya, smile golden, hair loose, sunlight in human form.
The sisters.
He let the page linger beneath his hand.
The voice pressed on. "You see now. The empire rots from the inside. The twins are not saviors. They are distractions. Pawns raised in silk. Pretty faces masking cracks."
Orion didn't move. His thumb brushed the edge of Lunox's image, then Freya's, silent as stone.
"You are not here to admire them," the voice hissed. "You are here to cut. To remind them that power bends only to blood — and yours is not theirs."
A muscle in Orion's jaw flexed. His eyes remained fixed on the photo, but his voice was low, steady. "And if the blade cuts deeper than you intended?"
The silence on the other end was sharp, broken only by static. Then the voice hardened, unyielding.
"Then carve anyway. Carve until nothing remains. That is your purpose. You are not a man, Orion. You are a blade."
Orion leaned back in his chair, the dossier still open before him. He let the words sink in, though his eyes betrayed nothing. He had been told this before. Repeated like scripture. But tonight, with the photo staring back at him, the command sounded hollow.
He exhaled, slow. "Blades cut both ways."
The voice snapped back. "Do not forget who sharpens you."
Thunder rumbled faint outside, a low growl crawling across the skyline. The city lights shimmered in the glass, Ather Tower glowing like a challenge against the storm.
Orion closed the dossier with a soft thud, the sound final. His reflection stared back at him in the window — dark shirt clinging to his frame, silver eyes lit with something dangerous.
The call continued a moment longer, the voice lingering. "You will carve, Orion. Or you will be broken."
Then the line went dead.
The silence that followed was heavier than the storm.
Orion set the phone down beside the dossier. His fingers lingered on the cover, then pulled away as though the file burned. He reached for the whiskey instead, swallowing the burn in one sharp breath.
His lips curved into a faint smile, humorless, dangerous.
"I am a blade," he murmured to the night. "But no one tells me where to cut."
The silence after the call was heavier than any words.
Orion stood, the chair groaning faintly against the hardwood, and walked toward the balcony doors. His steps were steady, though something tighter coiled inside his chest with each one. He slid the glass open, and the city's breath rushed in — cool, damp, smelling faintly of rain and exhaust.
He stepped out barefoot onto the concrete, the railing cool beneath his palms.
Below, the city sprawled alive — rivers of red taillights, the glitter of towers stabbing at the clouds, voices of a million strangers carried in the night air. And far beyond it all, Ather Tower loomed: tall, unyielding, its crown still lit against the dark like a star forged of steel.
Orion's silver eyes fixed on it, unblinking.
The whiskey burned faintly in his veins, but it wasn't the liquor that stirred the heat under his skin. It was memory.
Lunoxin the boardroom — frost carved into human form, her voice cutting through chaos, her obsidian eyes steady enough to silence a room full of trembling men. The way her pulse had betrayed her, though she tried to hide it, when his words had steadied the storm.
Freyaat the lounge — laughter golden, reckless, spilling into the night like fire. The playful spark in her eyes, the way she leaned across the glass table, daring him with every word.
Sun and storm. Both circling him.
His jaw flexed, the muscles sharp beneath the city glow.
I should remember why I'm here, he thought, his hands tightening against the railing. Not for them. Not for their empire. For the mission. For survival.
But the thought rang hollow.
Because when he closed his eyes, he didn't see dossiers or bloodlines. He saw Lunox's steady glare — sharp but trembling under the surface. He saw Freya's golden smile — daring the world to burn with her.
He exhaled, breath slow, misting faint in the night air.
They unsettle me. Both of them. In different ways. One pulls me into fire, the other into ice. And me— He smirked faintly, humorless. I was meant to carve them apart, not get caught between them.
A gust of wind swept his hair across his forehead, the city's hum louder now, as if answering his turmoil. The storm had moved further out, but lightning still flickered at the horizon, silent and distant, reminding him that storms never disappear — they only wait.
He tipped his head back, staring into the fractured sky.
Maybe I'm not the blade they think I am. Maybe I'm carving something else.
His lips curved, faint but certain, the kind of smile that carried both defiance and promise.
And if that means betraying the hand that sharpened me… so be it.
The city lights glimmered against his eyes, silver turning to steel.
The balcony wind pressed cooler now, carrying the faint scent of wet concrete and street food stalls far below. Orion stood unmoving, fingers curled against the railing, eyes fixed on Ather Tower gleaming like a blade against the dusk.
Inside, the phone still lay on the desk where he had dropped it. Its screen had gone dark, but the echo of that voice lingered in his head, heavy as chains.
"You are not theirs. You are ours. A blade does not choose — it cuts where commanded. Do not forget, Orion. Family is blood. Loyalty is survival."
The words replayed, slower this time, as if the city itself was whispering them back at him. The hum of traffic, the distant blare of a horn, even the faint flicker of lightning on the horizon seemed to sync with the warning.
His chest rose, fell.
A blade. That was what they had always called him. A thing forged, not born. Sharpened, not nurtured. Something to wield. Something to discard.
And yet—
His reflection shimmered faint in the glass wall beside him: a man in a plain black t-shirt, hair damp from the shower, veins alive beneath bare forearms. A man who had locked eyes with the Ice Queen and hadn't flinched. A man who had sat across from the Sunshine Rebel and matched her fire with storm.
Not a blade.
Not tonight.
Orion's hand left the railing. He stepped back inside, the shift of temperature brushing his skin — cooler air conditioning replacing the damp breath of the city. The apartment felt heavier now, the dossier glaring red on the desk, the phone still dark beside it.
He poured another measure of whiskey, slower this time. The liquid glinted amber before sliding smooth into the glass. He raised it to his lips, took a steady sip, let the burn linger on his tongue before sinking deep into his chest.
The voice's final words still echoed, but softer now, diluted by the whiskey's fire.
"Family is blood. Loyalty is survival."
Orion set the glass down with deliberate care. His silver eyes narrowed, reflecting the faint neon bleeding through the window. His lips curved into that faint, dangerous smile — the one that unsettled boardrooms, that made storms feel like background noise.
"Family is chains," he murmured, voice low but certain. "And survival is just another word for fear."
He reached out, tapped the phone once with his fingertip, screen blinking awake, still marked Unknown. He let it glow, then pushed it aside.
The dossier remained open, photos of Lunox and Freya staring up from the pages. He looked at them one more time, his smile lingering, sharper now.
"I remember," he whispered, echoing what he had said before. His voice shifted, softer, almost amused. "But maybe… I don't care."
The city outside pulsed alive, oblivious to the storm gathering in one apartment's silence. Lightning flared once at the horizon, painting the skyline silver. It caught in Orion's eyes, turning them into steel.
And in that flicker of light, the blade chose itself.