The museum hall buzzed with low conversation and the soft hum of climate control systems keeping the artifacts at optimal temperature. Mallory's heels clicked against the polished floor as she circled the cylindrical glass containment unit, her eyes never leaving Elijah's face. The core within pulsed gently, its reddish-black hues swirling like living ink in water, casting dancing shadows across her sharp features.
"I wonder," Mallory began, her voice carrying that particular tone of false curiosity that made Elijah's spine stiffen, "what type of raising one had to have to be able to get such an outstanding mind like yours, Elijah Marcus." She paused, letting her words hang in the air like a noose. "I doubt you got all that sophisticated talent in engineering and technology from your parents, for they are very busy folks, always travelling the world. Am I right, Elijah?"
The question landed like a stone in still water, sending ripples through the gathered crowd. Elijah felt the shift in atmosphere immediately—the way conversations died mid-sentence, the way bodies angled toward them, sensing blood in the water.
A woman stepped forward from behind Mallory, her face twisted in exaggerated sympathy. "Yes, Madam is right," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm thick enough to choke on. "It really boggles me and instills curiosity in me to know how such a guy was brought up to be this special and engineer such a craft."
She moved closer to the cylindrical containment unit, her manicured fingers hovering just above the glass. The core responded to her proximity, its pulsing intensifying slightly, the fluid around it shimmering with bioluminescent reactions. The light reflected in her eyes as she leaned in, studying the crystalline structure within.
"Mm," another voice hummed from the small crowd gathering behind Mallory. Several heads nodded in agreement.
A man in an expensive suit adjusted his glasses, his mouth curling into something between a smile and a sneer. "That's right, Elijah. Why don't you give us a bit of story of your upbringing to silence our curiosity?"
Elijah's gaze swept across the rest of the museum attendees. Most had fallen silent, their expressions a mixture of discomfort and pity. Some looked away when his eyes met theirs, unable to watch what was clearly becoming a public dissection of his character. A few faces showed genuine concern—people who recognized bullying when they saw it, regardless of the sophisticated setting and polished words.
Dr. Harrison from the Quantum Mechanics division shifted uncomfortably, opening his mouth as if to intervene, but thought better of it. Professor Chen stared at her champagne glass with intense focus, clearly wishing to be anywhere else. Even some of the board members present seemed to find the marble floor fascinating suddenly.
*Why am I getting the feeling like Mallory is trying to probe into my childhood or something?* Elijah's mind raced, his thoughts tumbling over each other in rapid succession. *It can't be that she knows I'm actually adopted or something. I doubt it—the Isley couple are very secretive, and all files on them... very little is given out publicly.*
His eyes flickered to Mallory's composed face, then to the woman who'd spoken so sarcastically, then to the man in the expensive suit.
*Mallory is playing mind games with me or something. Could it be that she has a bug on her which is secretly recording everything here—our conversation? Is that Genevieve chick part of it?*
The paranoia crept up his spine like cold fingers, and with it came a physical response he couldn't entirely control. His hands, which had been resting casually at his sides, began to tremble slightly. The tremor started in his fingers and worked its way up to his wrists. His breathing quickened, becoming shallow, and he felt a tightness in his chest like someone had wrapped steel bands around his ribs.
His left knee wanted to bounce—that nervous tick he'd had since childhood—and he had to consciously lock it in place. Sweat prickled at the back of his neck, despite the cool air conditioning. His jaw clenched involuntarily, and he could feel the muscle jumping beneath his skin.
*Get it together,* he commanded himself, but his body wasn't listening.
Mallory noticed. Of course she did. Her eyes—those sharp, calculating eyes that missed nothing—tracked the minute shake of his hands, the stiffness in his posture, the way his throat worked as he swallowed hard. A smile played at the corner of her lips, so subtle it might have been imagination, but it was there. Victorious. Satisfied.
The people around them noticed too. The pitying looks deepened. Whispers started, barely audible but present nonetheless. Someone behind him muttered something about "cracking under pressure."
Elijah caught his reflection in the glass of the containment unit. He looked pale, eyes too wide, shoulders hunched defensively. He looked exactly like what Mallory wanted him to look like—someone with something to hide, someone cornered and desperate.
*No.*
The word echoed in his mind with surprising force. He'd been through too much in the past months—survived a psychotic killer, protected people he cared about, created something revolutionary—to let this woman break him down in a museum hall over champagne and canapés.
He drew in a slow, deliberate breath through his nose, held it for a count of four, and released it just as slowly. An old technique his therapist had taught him years ago, before he'd stopped going to sessions. His shoulders dropped from where they'd been hunched up near his ears. His hands steadied, the tremors fading to nothing. The steel bands around his chest loosened, one notch at a time.
When he looked up again, his face had transformed. The anxiety had been carefully packaged and stored away, replaced with something cooler, more controlled. A slight smile touched his lips—not friendly, but not hostile either. Just... present.
He coughed lightly, a deliberate sound that drew all attention back to him. "You know," he said, his voice steady and clear, carrying across the space with surprising ease, "some of us had books to always read when we were young." He paused, letting his gaze settle pointedly on Mallory. "Unlike others who only loved pampers and playing with dolls when young."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Then, like a damn breaking, chuckles erupted from various corners of the room. Professor Chen choked on her champagne, her shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. Dr. Harrison barked out a surprised laugh before covering his mouth. Even some of the board members couldn't suppress their grins.
The dig was clear, sharp, and perfectly aimed. Elijah was suggesting that while he'd been intellectually curious and studious from a young age, Mallory had been... well, not. The implication that she'd been too lazy or frivolous to study hung in the air like perfume.
The reactions behind Mallory, however, were decidedly less amused.
The woman who'd spoken sarcastically earlier flushed red, her face contorting with rage. "Why you little—" She lunged forward, her hand raised to strike.
"Enough." Mallory's voice cut through the chaos like a blade. Her arm shot out, catching the woman's wrist mid-swing with surprising strength. "Control yourself, Diana."
Diana—still trembling with fury—allowed herself to be pulled back, but her eyes promised violence if given another opportunity.
Mallory slowly turned to face Elijah fully, her expression unreadable. When she spoke, her voice was soft, almost gentle, which somehow made her words more menacing. "You know, Mr. Isley, your bravado is so high that you should be careful not to cloud your judgment of knowing the place and person you always encounter and converse with."
The threat was unmistakable. It wasn't about this moment or this conversation—it was bigger, more encompassing. It was a reminder that Mallory had power, connections, influence. That she could make his life very difficult if she chose to. That he should remember his place.
Elijah simply smiled at her—not a smirk, not a grin, just a calm, knowing smile that acknowledged her threat and dismissed it simultaneously.
Mallory's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. She broke eye contact first, turning her attention to the containment unit. She crossed her arms over her chest, her posture becoming more businesslike, though the tension in her shoulders betrayed her irritation.
"You know," she said, her tone shifting to something more professional, "although you and I always appear as though we don't see eye to eye, I will congratulate you very well, Mr. Isley, on such an outstanding creation." She gestured to the pulsing core. "But I do have to ask—when did you start working on it, and how long did it take?"
She tilted her head, and now her voice took on that dangerous, probing quality again. "Because if I remember correctly, for the past months you've been caught up in the Azaqor murder cases, in which you and my niece were being hunted by that psycho killer. Hence, it means for literally the last four months you were not working on it." She tapped a finger against her arm thoughtfully. "And it means it could have been last year, but last year you were new here in the department. So I do wonder, and I want to really ask, Mr. Isley—when did you start working on that thing, and what exactly is it?"
The people behind Mallory shifted closer, their body language transforming from mere spectators to interrogators. Their eyes bore into Elijah with renewed suspicion.
"Yeah," someone muttered from the crowd, loud enough to be heard. "Even I look at this and something doesn't sound right."
Another voice joined in. "It's only here in Lare Biogenics that one can have the tools to build something like that, and not somewhere else. And when Elijah was supposedly building it, we weren't here, so how is it possible?"
The whispers grew, feeding off each other, building a narrative of doubt and suspicion. The timeline didn't add up. The resources required would have been noticed. The facility logs would have shown extended lab usage. Where had he really built it? How had he really built it?
Elijah stood silent, his earlier confidence wavering. Not because of their accusations, but because of something far more unsettling.
*Wait... when did I start working on it?*
He tried to remember—really remember—the beginning of the project. When he'd first conceptualized it, where he'd done the initial calculations, how he'd sourced the materials.
Nothing came. Just... nothing.
There was a blank space in his memory where there should have been months of work, of planning, of late nights and early mornings. He could remember having the completed blueprints, could remember certain moments of assembly, but the origin point was just... gone.
I don't even remember.
His gaze drifted to the core in its containment unit, and for the first time, he really looked at it. The reddish-black hues within seemed deeper than he remembered, more complex. The way they moved wasn't quite like any fluid dynamics he'd studied. There was something organic about it, something that felt almost...
*Alive.*
A sound reached his ears then—soft, almost imperceptible beneath the ambient noise of the museum. It was like the gentle rhythm of ocean waves lapping against a shore, or perhaps the steady thrum of a heartbeat. Soothing. Hypnotic. The sound seemed to emanate from the core itself, vibrating through the glass, through the air, directly into his skull.
Thrum-thrum... thrum-thrum... thrum-thrum...
The sound wrapped around his consciousness like a blanket, warm and encompassing. His muscles relaxed without his permission, his breathing slowing to match the rhythm. His eyes fixed on the swirling patterns within the core, watching the reddish-black tendrils dance and twist.
Thrum-thrum... thrum-thrum...
And then he couldn't move.
It wasn't paralysis exactly—he could still breathe, could still blink—but every other muscle in his body had locked in place. His arms hung at his sides, frozen mid-gesture. His lips were slightly parted, his expression blank. He was a statue, a mannequin, a puppet with cut strings.
What is happening? I can't move my muscles.
Panic should have set in, but even that emotional response was muted, distant, as if happening to someone else.
"Mr. Isley?" Mallory's voice sounded far away, muffled.
The man behind her leaned close to whisper, though Elijah could somehow still hear him perfectly. "Madam, perhaps your constant probing has caused the fellow's brain to malfunction or something."
"Elijah?" Another voice, concerned.
Mallory ignored them all, her eyes locked on Elijah's frozen form. For just a moment—a fraction of a second—something shifted in her expression. Her eyes widened slightly, her lips parted, and there was a flash of what looked like recognition or understanding. As if she knew exactly what was happening to him, had perhaps seen it before.
But then it was gone, her face smoothing back into professional concern so quickly that anyone watching might have thought they'd imagined it.
Elijah didn't see any of this. His vision was changing.
The museum hall began to crack. Not physically—the walls and floor remained solid—but visually, like he was looking at reality through a shattering window. Fracture lines spread across his field of vision, and through the gaps, he could see something else. Another space. Another reality.
The museum withered away like burned paper, curling at the edges, revealing what lay beneath.
He was standing in a room. No, not just any room—a laboratory. The surfaces were metallic and sterile, covered in equipment he recognized but couldn't name. The lighting was harsh and clinical, casting sharp shadows.
And there, in the center of the room, was a figure.
It wasn't human. Or if it had been once, it was so far removed from humanity that the connection was unrecognizable. Its form was composed of reddish-black whips or tendrils, constantly moving, writhing, never still. The tendrils wove together to suggest a humanoid shape—a head, a torso, limbs—but the edges were undefined, blurring and reforming moment by moment.
Where a face should have been, there was a grin. Not a mouth exactly, but the impression of one—a dark crescent slash that curved with malicious joy. No eyes, no nose, no other features. Just that grin, stretched too wide, too knowing.
The thing was looking at him. He could feel its attention like weight on his skin.
A curtain of weird light manifested beside the figure, rippling like heat waves rising from summer asphalt. The light coalesced, solidified, became something almost like a screen or window.
Through this window, Elijah could see a scene: himself, in the Lare Biogenics laboratory, working on something at the main bench. The him in the vision moved with purpose and concentration, his hands steady as they manipulated delicate instruments.
As Elijah watched, the perspective shifted, pulling him forward, through the curtain of light, into the scene itself.
Suddenly he was that Elijah, standing at the main bench, eyes fixed on the sphere hovering in front of him. It was small—no larger than a fist—but made of hundreds of layers of metal so thin they almost looked like threads of light. Each strand glowed faintly blue, weaving and shifting like it was alive, like it was breathing.
His—no, not his, but also his—hands moved across the wrist display, checking readings. Numbers scrolled past: energy output, containment integrity, quantum stability. All within acceptable parameters.
Stable. For now.
He—the Elijah experiencing this memory—knew what this was. The Aethernova Core. A project meant to change everything. Power that didn't decay, energy that renewed itself, a revolution in sustainable technology.
But he didn't remember this moment. Didn't remember standing here, making these adjustments, checking these readings. It was like watching a movie of his own life that he'd never seen before.
His body moved without his conscious input, reaching for tools, making micro-adjustments. His hands were confident, precise, moving with practiced ease. But how could they be practiced if he didn't remember practicing?
A blueprint was spread on the bench beside him, its edges held down with calibration weights. He found himself looking at it, studying the intricate design. And there, in the margin, written in his own handwriting, was a note:
"Ideas for it came in like flashes of memory or something—ideas that felt more like memories than thoughts."
He stared at those words. They were definitely his handwriting, the same slightly cramped print he'd used since high school. But he didn't remember writing them. Didn't remember having flashes of memory. Didn't remember where the inspiration for this design had come from at all.
His hands continued working, independent of his confusion. They guided the mechanical arms extending from the bench, positioning them with millimeter precision. A line of quantum titanium—so called because of its unique properties at the quantum level, not because it was actually related to the element—needed to be integrated into the next layer.
The mechanical arms, responding to his neural interface commands, lifted the titanium thread. It glowed softly in the lab's lighting, almost invisible against the brighter glow of the sphere. With careful, deliberate movements, the arms wove the thread into place, linking it with the existing structure.
He activated the neural-heat precision tools—instruments that used focused neural-electric fields to generate heat at the molecular level. A spark of brilliant white light flared as the connection was made, the quantum titanium bonding with the adjacent materials at the atomic level. The light reflected in his eyes, turning his irises briefly silver.
Every movement was perfect. Every connection seamless. He worked like a master craftsman, like someone who'd done this a thousand times before.
But he hadn't. He knew he hadn't. So why did his body know what to do?
Behind him, a transparent cylinder waited—a containment chamber he didn't remember requisitioning. It was made of reinforced glass, the kind used in deep-sea submersibles, capable of withstanding enormous pressure. Magnetic rings encircled it at regular intervals, currently dormant but ready to generate powerful fields to contain whatever was placed inside.
The interior was filled with a clear fluid that shimmered when light passed through it at certain angles. He didn't remember designing the containment system, didn't remember filling it with this specific fluid mixture. But there it was, ready and waiting.
He looked down at the sphere—no, the Core—in his hands. Even through the field gloves that protected him from its energy output, he could feel it humming, vibrating with contained power. It was beautiful in a way that transcended mere aesthetics. It was functional beauty, purposeful beauty, the kind that came from perfect form meeting perfect function.
With movements that felt both his and not-his, he carried the Core to the cylinder. The automatic systems registered his approach, and the lights in the laboratory dimmed automatically, reducing any potential interference with the Core's energy signature.
He placed the Core inside the cylinder, and immediately the containment system activated. The magnetic rings began to glow, establishing a stable field that would keep the Core suspended in the center of the chamber, never touching the walls, always maintained at optimal distance.
The coolant—because he realized now that's what the fluid was—stirred, circulating in complex patterns designed to dissipate heat and manage energy flows. Thin waves of color began to ripple through the liquid. Green first, like spring leaves.Then gold, like sunset. Then blue again, like the depths of the ocean.
He found himself placing one hand on the glass, and his body's movement felt compulsory, like following a script he didn't remember memorizing.
The chamber vibrated faintly beneath his palm. Not from the machinery—he knew machinery vibrations, had worked with them his entire career. This was different. Deeper. More organic.
Like a heartbeat.
The glow from the Core shifted with his touch, the colors changing intensity, the patterns altering their flow. It was responding to him, recognizing him, acknowledging his presence.
Almost as if it knew him.
For a moment, his reflection in the glass seemed wrong. He saw himself blink, but his reflection blinked a second later than he did, the timing just slightly off. And his eyes—his reflection's eyes—seemed brighter than they should be. Not just reflecting light, but filled with it, as if the light was coming from inside his skull rather than outside.
He rubbed his eyes with his free hand, breaking contact with the glass. When he looked again, his reflection was normal. Perfect synchronization. Normal eyes.
"Too long without sleep," he muttered to himself, his voice sounding distant even to his own ears.
A whisper reached him then, soft as silk, cold as winter: "Neural synchronization complete."
He froze. That voice hadn't come from any speaker, any communication device. It had sounded like it came from inside his head, or perhaps from the Core itself.
Slowly, every muscle tense, he turned around to see what had spoken.
The figure stood there in the laboratory with him—the thing made of reddish-black whips, the humanoid shape that wasn't human, that had never been human. The tendrils that formed its body writhed and twisted, some reaching toward him, others pulling back, all in constant motion.
And it was grinning.
That impossible mouth-that-wasn't-a-mouth stretched even wider than before, the crescent slash of darkness curving with such malevolent joy that Elijah's blood turned to ice in his veins.
The figure raised what might have been an arm, pointing at him—or at the Core behind him, or at both of them together.
And in that moment, as Elijah stared at this impossible, grinning horror that shouldn't exist but did, he understood with perfect, terrible clarity:
Whatever he'd built, he hadn't built it alone.
Whatever the Aethernova Core was, it was more than he'd believed.
And whatever this thing was—
The grin widened further, impossibly further, until it seemed like the figure's entire head was nothing but that smile full of malice and dark promise.
—it had been with him all along.