The morning light felt heavy.Not warm, not comforting — just there, like a quiet reminder that another meaningless day had arrived.
Inside a small room, the sunlight crawled through the dusty window and spilled across the floor, illuminating a desk buried under old papers, bottles, and scattered tools.
Aryan sat on the edge of his bed, staring at a single photograph propped on the table.
A family of five smiled back at him — his father's firm expression, his mother's gentle eyes, his little sister's bright grin, and beside him, his older brother, hand on his shoulder. They all looked so alive in that photo, so untouched by the tragedy that would soon erase them.
Aryan traced the glass with his fingers, his reflection overlapping theirs.
It's been two years… and I'm still here.
He whispered to himself, voice barely audible."Brother… that explosion… was it really an accident?"
No answer, of course. Just silence.
The same silence that had followed him since that night — when the news broadcasted the "mysterious explosion" that took his family and left only smoke, ash, and lies behind.
For a whole year, he'd searched for answers. He went to every record office, every restricted archive, every person connected to the investigation.
But every time—
"Case closed.""Officially ruled as an accident.""Stop digging, boy."
Every door shut, every truth buried deeper.
The room was quiet except for the faint ticking of a broken clock.On the desk, beside the photograph, a knife lay perfectly aligned, as if it had been waiting for him.
Aryan stared at it for a long time. The metal shimmered faintly in the morning light.
He reached for it slowly.
Maybe it's time. There's nothing left to find anyway…
The thought wasn't painful anymore. Just… calm. Empty.He lifted the blade, its reflection catching his tired eyes.
At least I'll finally see them again.
He pressed the tip against his wrist—
Knock. Knock.
The sound broke through the stillness like a blade to glass.
Aryan froze.His hand trembled slightly, the blade slipping from his grasp and clattering onto the floor.
Knock. Knock.
Again.Someone was at his door.
He frowned. Who would visit him this early? He didn't talk to anyone. The neighbors avoided him. Even the investigators had long forgotten his name.
Slowly, he stood up and walked toward the door. His footsteps echoed in the silence.
"…Who is it?"
No reply.
He opened the door halfway — and stopped.
A girl stood there.
Short white hair framed her face, glimmering faintly under the pale morning light. Her eyes were an unearthly silver, calm yet sharp enough to make him forget what he was about to say. She wore a simple coat with faint patterns stitched into the fabric — patterns that pulsed softly, almost like they were alive.
For a moment, Aryan thought he might still be dreaming.
"Are you Aryan?" she asked, her tone cool and direct.
He blinked. "Yeah. I am. Who are you?"
"I know how your family died."
The words hit like lightning.
Aryan's heartbeat spiked. "What… did you just say?"
"I said," she repeated, "I know what really happened two years ago."
He stared at her, unable to process it. His mouth opened, but no words came out.
"Who are you?" he finally managed. "And how do you know about that?"
"I'll tell you," she said, "but not standing out here. Let me in."
He hesitated.
This could be a trick. Someone playing on his desperation. He'd met people like that before — scavengers who promised information in exchange for money. But something about this girl felt different. Her presence was… heavy, like she didn't belong to the ordinary world.
"…Fine," he muttered, stepping aside. "Come in."
She entered quietly.
The first thing she noticed was the chaos.Papers scattered everywhere. Empty bottles on the floor. A blade lying by the chair.
Her eyes paused on it.
"You were going to kill yourself."
Aryan didn't respond.
She tilted her head slightly. "So that's what you've become after two years? Pathetic."
His eyes narrowed. "You have no idea what I've been through."
"No," she said coldly, "but I know what your family went through before they died."
Her words made his chest tighten.
He clenched his fists. "Then stop talking in riddles and tell me who did it!"
She crossed her arms, leaning against the wall. "Your family wasn't killed by a human. They were running from something… something that found them that night."
Aryan's voice cracked. "What do you mean something?"
"It wasn't an accident. It wasn't a random explosion. It was a cover-up. That thing — it killed them and made it look like one."
Aryan's breathing quickened. "Then why didn't the Council say anything?! I begged them to reopen the case!"
"The Council of Nations knew," she said simply.
His eyes widened. "They… what?"
"They were involved," she continued. "Your family had seen something they shouldn't have. They tried to run. The Council silenced it."
Aryan stepped back, disbelief twisting into anger. "You're lying."
"Am I?" Her gaze locked onto his. "You searched for a year and found nothing. Doesn't that tell you enough? They erased everything."
The room felt colder suddenly.
Aryan's thoughts spiraled. The Council of Nations — the ruling body of the world, above all governments, above all laws. The organization that decided who lived and who disappeared.
If they were behind his family's death… then everything he'd believed in was a lie.
He sank onto the edge of his bed, gripping his head.
"Why… why would they do that? My family wasn't important. We were just—"
"They were," the girl interrupted. "You just didn't know why."
He looked up. "What are you talking about?"
She walked closer, stopping in front of him. Her silver eyes glowed faintly.
"They were connected to something ancient — something the Council wants to find before anyone else."
"…Something?"
She nodded. "An object. Or rather, nine of them."
Aryan frowned. "What kind of object?"
She exhaled softly, as if saying the name carried weight.
"The Nine Core."