"The derivation holds to the fourth decimal." Red clasped his hands on the cold laminate table. He hoped they missed the tremor in his fingers. His suit, purchased second-hand three years ago, pinched tight under the arms. It smelled of mothballs and desperate preservation.
The interviewer, a man with a hairline receding in retreat from his forehead, tapped a pen against Red's resume. "Impressive scores. Top of the class at State."
"Thank you." Red forced the smile. He had practiced it in the cracked mirror of his room. "I believe my specialization in logistical supply chains would allow me to—"
"Wait." The second interviewer, a woman with glasses that magnified her indifference, flipped the folder to the background check section.
The oxygen in the room seemed to vanish. Red watched her eyes scan the header. He knew exactly which words sat there in bold ink. Parents executed. Espionage. Enemy combatants.
She looked up. She looked at his face, then back at the file. The boredom in her expression shifted to something sharper. Disgust.
"Is this accurate?" she asked.
"My parents died when I was twelve," Red said. His voice stayed flat. "I have no contact with any foreign entities. My record is clean."
"Your record," the man said, reading over her shoulder, "is a liability."
"I am not my father."
"We deal with sensitive government contracts, Mr. Vane." The woman closed the file. The slap of cardboard against paper echoed like a gunshot. "We can't have the son of a terrorist handling our logistics."
"I have a PhD," Red said. He didn't move. If he moved, he might shatter. "I need this job."
"Security." The man didn't even look at him anymore. He pressed a button on the desk. "Escort from conference room B."
"Please."
"Get out," the woman said. She turned her chair away.
This did not feel like a rejection. It felt like an eviction.
Red stood. His knees felt like water. He walked to the door, passing the security guard who already gripped a baton. The walk through the lobby stretched for miles. Glass walls exposed him to the world, a world that wanted him dead.
He pushed through the revolving doors and stepped onto the sidewalk. The city smog tasted like ash. His stomach cramped, a sharp reminder that he hadn't eaten a real meal in two days. He adjusted his collar, hiding the fraying fabric. A police drone buzzed overhead, its camera lens rotating to track him. Flight risk. That is what the visa denial letter called him. He could not leave. He could not work. He could only exist as a target.
The subway ride cost two credits, a luxury he calculated against the calories in a loaf of bread. He chose the walk. Rain slicked the pavement, mixing with the oil runoff from the traffic gridlock. Red kept his head down, shoulders hunched against the chill. His suit jacket, the armor of his failed interview, now felt like a damp shroud.
He reached his building, a concrete block stained with decades of grime. The elevator had been broken since he moved in. He climbed six flights, his empty stomach twisting with every step. The hallway smelled of boiled cabbage and the distinct, coppery scent of old pipes.
He unlocked unit 4B.
The smell of mold greeted him. It lived in the walls, a black rot spreading across the peeling wallpaper. He stripped off the wet suit, hanging it carefully on the shower rod to dry. It was the only thing of value he owned. He pulled on a stained t-shirt and sat on the edge of his mattress.
He checked his bank account on his cracked phone. The government "pity funds" had been deposited that morning. It was enough for rent and maybe a week of instant noodles. If he skipped lunch every day.
He stared at the window. The drop was six stories. A quick ride to end everything and gain eternal peace.
He closed his eyes and breathed through the tightness in his chest. No. If he jumped, he became a statistic. A headline: Traitor's Spawn Takes Coward's Way Out. He refused to give them the satisfaction. He would live just to spite the universe that wanted him erased.
The phone buzzed against the mattress.
He ignored it. Probably a collection agency or another automated check-in from his parole officer. A few seconds later, it buzzed again.
Red picked it up. An email notification lit the shattered screen.
Subject: You are Invited! Ten Year Reunion - Class of 2014.
His thumb hovered over the delete button. He didn't need to see them. He didn't need to see the people who had cheered when the police dragged his father away. He didn't need to see the classmates who had cheated off his tests and then spat on him in the hallway.
He opened the email anyway.
A glossy digital flyer filled the screen. Gold fonts, pictures of champagne, a venue in the High District. And there, at the bottom, a guest list.
Confirmed Guests:Marcus Thorne,Elena Ross. Chris Pitt...
He scanned down the list. And…stopped.
Red Vane.
They had listed him. They hadn't written "The Spy's Kid." They hadn't left him off. His name sat there, right next to the others, equal in font size, equal in placement.
A strange warmth bloomed in his gut. It was pathetic. He knew it was pathetic. He was a starving man staring at a picture of a feast. But for the first time in sixteen years, someone had acknowledged his existence without a sneer.
He thought of Elena. The girl he had watched from the back of the library. The symbol of everything good he couldn't touch. Would she be there? Would she look at him differently now that they were adults?
Maybe the high school hierarchy had dissolved. Maybe, just for one night, he could put on his suit, stand in a warm room, and be a person.
On the night of the reunion.
The double doors opened into a cavern of gold leaf and crystal that hurt to look at directly. Red stepped onto the floor, his cheap shoes squeaking against the polish. The smell of roasted duck and expensive perfume assaulted him immediately, a physical wall of wealth that he had to push through to enter the room. He pulled at his sleeves, attempting to hide the fraying threads that dangled from his cuffs.
The people around him were polished to a shine, their skin smooth and their clothes tailored to perfection. He recognized faces from a decade ago, but they were different now. The acne and awkwardness were gone, replaced by the heavy confidence of established careers and offshore bank accounts.
He navigated the perimeter of the room, keeping his back against the velvet wallpaper. He told himself he was just here to prove he existed, but his eyes kept drifting toward the buffet tables. He had not eaten a real meal in two days. The sight of the carving station, where a chef in a tall white hat sliced thick slabs of prime rib, made his stomach cramp violently.
"Well, look who finally decided to crawl out of his hole."
The voice was loud, cutting through the music like a dropped glass.
Red froze immediately.
He knew that tone. It belonged to the man who had made his sophomore year a misery. Red turned slowly to face the center of the room. Marcus Thorne stood there, holding a tumbler of amber liquid, surrounded by a court of sycophants. He looked exactly as Red feared he would: successful, broad-shouldered, and draped in a suit that cost more than Red's entire life earnings.
But it was the woman on Marcus's arm that made Red's heart hammer against his ribs.
Elena.
She was more beautiful than he remembered, wearing a dress that shimmered like liquid silver. She had been the one bright spot in his high school years, the girl he had watched from the back of the library. Now, she was clinging to Marcus like a prize won at a carnival.
Marcus grinned, his teeth white and predatory. "The Terrorist's Son. I didn't think they allowed people with your background into the High District".
The conversation in the nearby circle died instantly. Dozens of eyes turned to Red, pinning him in place. The heat rose up his neck, burning his skin.
"Hello, Marcus," Red said, struggling to keep his voice steady. "I received an invitation."
"Probably a clerical error," Marcus laughed, looking around at his friends for validation. "Or maybe we just needed a charity case."
The group chuckled, a low sound that vibrated through the floorboards. Red looked at Elena, silently begging for a shred of recognition. He wanted her to say something, anything, to stop this execution.
Elena met his gaze. Her eyes flickered over his worn shoes, traveled up his cheap suit, and landed on his desperate expression. Then, she looked away. She turned her head slightly, nestling closer into Marcus's shoulder, erasing Red from her view.
The rejection hit him harder than a physical blow. It was not just that they hated him; it was that they considered him beneath notice. The people who had cheated off his exams were now running the world, while he was starving in a room that smelled of mold.
"Go grab a drink, Vane," Marcus said, dismissing him with a wave of his glass. "Try not to steal the silverware on your way out."
Red stood there, paralyzed by the absolute humiliation of the moment. He had sought a shred of humanity, and found only wolves.
Red stared at the scuffs on his shoes. The black polish he had applied that morning failed to hide the cracks in the leather. It was a perfect metaphor. No matter how much he scrubbed, the rot underneath always showed through.
He had deluded himself. He believed that if he just worked harder, if he just endured the poverty and the isolation, the ledger would eventually balance . He thought merit mattered. But merit was a lie told by the rich to keep the poor working until they died. Marcus Thorne, a man who couldn't solve a basic calculus problem without a cheat sheet, held the world in his palm . Red, who had starved to pay for textbooks, held nothing but empty hands.
He looked at Elena's back. She laughed at something Marcus whispered, her hand resting easily on the suit jacket of the man who had tormented him. That touch severed the last thread of hope he had dragged into this room . She was not a victim of Marcus's orbit; she was a willing participant. She was one of them.
The hunger in his stomach twisted into something colder. It wasn't just the unfairness that suffocated him; it was the permanence of it . There was no redemption arc waiting for him. There was no justice. The cheaters won. The liars won. The ones with blood on their hands drank champagne, while the innocent were evicted from existence .
He clenched his fists until his nails cut into his palms. I hate you. The thought arrived fully formed, absolute and total. I hate every single one of you.
He took a step backward, intending to turn and leave, to crawl back to his room and wait for the end.
He felt his leg shaking. He thought he couldn't control his emotions, and his knees had gone weak. But it was the floor that violently lurched beneath his feet.
The floorboards under the buffet table turned to dust.
It happened without a rumble or a warning tremor. One second, the solid oak supported the weight of the carving station; the next, the wood disintegrated into violet particles. The chef fell first. His scream cut off as he vanished into the sudden dark.
Glass shattered across the room. The champagne pyramid exploded, sending shards and expensive alcohol spraying over the guests. The lights in the chandeliers flared white, brighter than the sun, before bursting.
Panic erupted.
Marcus scrambled back, shoving a waiter into a table to clear his own path. Elena screamed, clutching Marcus's jacket, her fingernails tearing the fabric.
Red stood still. He watched the cracks race across the marble like lightning strikes. They converged under the guests' feet. This was no tectonic shift. The ground did not shake; it opened .
A massive glyph, burning with a sickly purple light, ignited on the floor. The smell of oil and burning hair flooded the room .
Gravity reversed, then doubled. The floor vanished completely.
Red fell inside.
The darkness swallowed him. He tumbled through a void of swirling colors—bruised purples and necrotic greens. The wind roared in his ears, stripping the sound of his own scream from his throat.
Then, he hit a cold stone. The breath left his lungs in a painful wheeze. He rolled onto his side, coughing, his vision swimming with spots.
Groans echoed around him. Red pushed himself up on shaking arms. He was not in the ballroom.
They were in a hall large enough to house a cathedral. Pillars of white marble rose into darkness overhead. Banners of crimson silk hung from the walls, embroidered with a golden sun being devoured by a dragon. At the far end of the room, atop a dais of obsidian, sat a throne of gold .
A man sat upon it. He wore a crown that looked too heavy for his neck. His eyes were bored.
To his right stood a figure in flowing robes, holding a staff tipped with a cracked crystal. This man—the Royal Mage—was sweating. He looked frantically between a floating scroll and the twenty-nine people groaning on the floor.
"Twenty-nine," the Mage muttered, his voice amplified by the acoustics of the vast chamber. "The calculation... the variable was off."
"Where are we?" Marcus shouted. He stood up, dusting off his suit, trying to regain his composure. "Who are you people? I demand to speak to the manager!"
The King on the throne leaned forward. He did not look at Marcus as a person; he looked at him as a resource.
"Silence, vessel," the King said. His voice carried a weight that forced Marcus's knees to buckle.
"You are in the Kingdom of Aethelgard," the Royal Mage announced, stepping forward. He wiped sweat from his brow. "We have summoned you from your world because ours is dying. The Chaos eats our borders. Our mana is depleted."
"We didn't ask for this!" a classmate sobbed from the back.
"Your consent is irrelevant," the Mage snapped. He pointed his staff at them. "You are Earthlings. Your world has no magic. You are empty. That makes you perfect containers."
Red watched the Mage's hands. They were shaking.
"We did not summon heroes," the King said, resting his chin on his fist. "We summoned batteries. You will be filled with Divine Power to fight our war. You will serve until you break."
"The ritual," the Mage whispered to the King, his voice dropping, but in the silence of the room, Red heard every word. "Majesty, the link is unstable. I calculated for thirty souls to distribute the load. We have twenty-nine. The bio-energy is insufficient."
The King's eyes narrowed. "Fix it."
"I cannot create mass from nothing," the Mage hissed. "To stabilize the transfer for the group, we need a surge. A massive injection of soul mass. Immediately."
The King stood up. The boredom left his face, replaced by a cold pragmatism. He looked down at the group of confused, terrified party guests.
"Then reduce the headcount," the King said. "Give me one life to burn, or I kill you all."
The silence in the cathedral was not quiet; it was the holding of breath before a scream. The King tapped a finger against the gold armrest of his throne.
"Choose," the King said. "Or I burn the lot of you and summon a new batch."
Panic broke the paralysis. The classmates scrambled back, forming a tight, trembling circle. Eyes darted around, calculating value, weighing friendships against survival. They looked for the weak link. They looked for the one who mattered least.
"Him."
Marcus stepped forward. He pointed a finger straight at Red's chest.
"Take him," Marcus shouted, his voice cracking with desperation. "He's a traitor back home. He's the son of a terrorist. He has no family, no job, nobody waiting for him. He's practically dead already!"
Red stepped back, his heel hitting the stone step of the dais. "Marcus, what are you doing?"
"It's true!" A girl from the back—someone Red had tutored in math—shrieked. "He's bad luck! Everywhere he goes, things go wrong. He's the reason we're here!"
The herd mentality took hold instantly. The classmates, terrified and desperate to live, latched onto the excuse. It was easy to kill the outcast to save themselves.
"He's useless!"
"Take him! Let us go!"
"Do it! Just do it!"
Red looked at the faces screaming for his death. These were people he had grown up with. People he had envied. He turned his head, searching for the one person who might still possess a soul.
"Elena?" he whispered.
She stood behind Marcus, her hand clutching the back of his suit jacket. She saw Red's fraying cuffs. She saw the terror in his hungry eyes. He begged her, silently, to say he was human, to say he mattered.
Elena stepped back. She tucked her face into Marcus's shoulder, hiding her eyes. Her silence was the death sentence.
"Acceptable," the King said.
The Royal Mage did not hesitate. He slammed the butt of his staff against the obsidian floor. He did not cast a fireball or a lightning bolt. He cast Soul Flay.
Red's world turned white.
It felt like his blood was boiling into steam inside his veins. It was the physical sensation of being dissolved in acid while fully conscious. He tried to scream, but the sound tore his throat raw. He fell to his knees, clawing at his chest.
Glowing golden lights ripped out of his sternum. They floated up, swirling like a galaxy of stolen potential. Red watched through blurring vision as the lights drifted into his classmates.
Marcus gasped as the light hit him. His tuxedo shimmered and morphed into gleaming plate armor. A heavy broadsword materialized in his hand. The girl who had screamed felt the light touch her, and she straightened, her eyes glowing with newfound mana.
They were getting stronger because he was dying. They were eating his future to fuel their own.
Red collapsed onto his side. His skin was grey, his body a husk. The pain was beyond neurology; it was the unmaking of his self. But he did not die. The spite refused to let him fade.
He looked up at Marcus, who was admiring his new gauntlets. He looked at Elena, who was now glowing with the soft light of a healer.
"You feast on me?" Red rasped. Blood coated his teeth. "You take my life to become... heroes?"
Marcus looked down, a smirk playing on his lips as the power surged through his veins. He didn't even pity the thing on the floor.
Red forced his head up. His eyes burned with a hatred that eclipsed the pain.
"I'll remember this," Red snarled. "I'll remember every single face. When I crawl back from hell... I won't just kill you. I'll make you endure this. I curse your lands. I curse your crowns. I am the rot in your foundation!"
The King waved his hand, bored by the dying man's noise.
The floor beneath Red opened.
The King signaled the final blow. "Be gone, filth."
"I am Red!" he screamed as the floor opened up to drop his husk into the abyss. "And I will bury this whole fucking world!"
He fell into the dark, a drained and broken thing, tumbling down toward the trash heap of the gods.