"Everyone can see the shadow of the light—yet most choose to ignore it."
Slivspire.
A city that glitters in neon but rots beneath its shine. Silver towers rise like spears into the night sky, their glass facades reflecting the endless electric glow. To the west lies a wide, beautiful ocean, but tourists never come. To the north, south, and east, the jungle presses close, thick and unyielding.
How, then, does Slivspire connect to the rest of the world? Look up.
Flying cars thread the skies like swarms of fireflies, but most people in the high-rises never ride them. For all its dazzling skyline, the city is a slum—a vertical labyrinth of laborers bound to their corporate masters.
Every morning, the people shuffle to the factories. Every night, they return to their cells of steel and glass, clutching the same reward: a single ration pack of tasteless nutrient paste. That is survival. That is life.
The true wealthy live above even this. Eastward, hovering in the sky, floats a city of impossible beauty—gleaming islands with courtyards, gardens, and mansions, all drifting like gods' playgrounds. Some whisper that the technology keeping them afloat does not belong to humanity at all, but to higher dimensions, or to aliens. No one dares ask too loudly.
The companies are not without their own logic of mercy. Education is mandatory. Workers and their children must study—though for the poor, even "free" schooling carries hidden costs. Knowledge isn't a gift here. It's another form of control.
---
Keiron sat on the cold floor of his narrow apartment, his face wet with tears.
A message had just arrived: his father was dead. An accident at the factory. The company had rushed him to the hospital but could not save him.
And then came the second blow. The bills. Every coin his father had saved—along with Keiron's own modest earnings—was gone, seized automatically as payment. He had not even been given the dignity of choosing.
By morning, he would be evicted. By law, a student without funds was expelled. By blood, he had no one left. His mother had died when he was young; now his father too was gone. He was nineteen, and once again, utterly alone.
Alone—yet not entirely. Keiron was a reincarnate. Three years ago, fragments of his past life on Earth had returned to him. It was no great blessing; he possessed no special powers, no miraculous advantage. But the memories had hardened him, made him think like someone older. At least he would never starve—he had a skill.
The old man who ran the Ers' computer repair shop had once told him: "You're better with machines than any student I've seen. If you ever need work, come to me." That was before. Before loss, before grief.
Now, sitting in silence with an empty stomach and heavier heart, Keiron could not yet summon hope. He had no food for tomorrow, no money for even a ration pack.
That night he did not sleep. He was not permitted to see his father's body before cremation. By dawn, he had only a small bag of belongings, packed neatly, clutched tightly. He paused once at the door of the apartment—the only home he had ever known.
He whispered into the empty air:
"Goodbye… my childhood."
Then he stepped into the neon morning, carrying nothing but sorrow and the faint memory of another life.
The streets of Slivspire were merciless that morning. Neon signs still burned from the night before, casting garish colors on cracked pavement and tired faces. Keiron's steps were heavy, his bag light. His stomach growled, but he pressed on until, at last, he reached the Ers' computer repair shop.
The little storefront was wedged between two towers, its sign half-broken, its holos flickering. Inside, the smell of solder and old plastics greeted him. The old man was at his usual place, bent over a circuit board, magnifier lenses strapped over his eyes.
The bell above the door jingled softly.
The old man looked up. His eyes—still sharp despite his years—narrowed when they met Keiron's. He took in the hollow cheeks, the dark circles under his eyes, the way the boy's shoulders sagged under an invisible weight.
"What happened to you?" he asked quietly.
Keiron's lips trembled. For a moment, no sound came out. Then, with a broken breath, he forced the words:
"My father… he's gone. An accident at the factory. They took everything. His savings, mine… even my place at school. I—I have nowhere to go."
The tears he had held back all morning burned his eyes. His voice cracked as he bowed his head.
"Please… let me work here. You said before… Please. I don't have anywhere else."
The shop was silent, save for the faint hum of dormant consoles.
The old man removed the magnifier and rubbed a hand over his lined face. His gaze lingered on Keiron, and something in it softened—not pity, but recognition.
"Life hasn't changed much," he murmured, almost to himself. "Different age, different tools… but it still chews people up the same way."
He sighed, shaking his head.
Keiron looked up, his eyes wet but determined. "old....man...."
The old man's answer came .
"I already told you once, boy—your hands are better than mine these days. This shop has room. And so do I. You'll work here, and you'll stay here. That's settled."
Keiron's throat tightened again, but this time the tears that came carried relief instead of despair. He nodded, wiping his face quickly as though ashamed to show weakness.
The old man turned back to his workbench, but his voice carried warmth now. "Well, don't just stand there. Roll up your sleeves. I gotta take a vacation these days..Can't keep up with these old bones"
And so Keiron did.
For hours, he worked until his hand aching , the rhythm of repair easing the raw edges of his grief. When the old man eventually pressed a pack of nutrients paste, Keiron ate it without hesitation. It felt so good even though the paste are generally tasteless it was his first hard earned food.
By late afternoon, exhaustion claimed him. He sank into the narrow cot in the back room, eyes closing almost before his head touched the thin pillow.
And then—
Ding.
The sound echoed, sharp and mechanical.
Keiron's eyes opened. The shop was gone. The cot was gone.
He stood in a boundless, white room. The floor gleamed like polished glass, the air impossibly still.
Ding-dong.
A voice rang out, clear and metallic:
[Welcome, User.]
Keiron's breath caught. His heart pounded.
The system had arrived.