19 YEARS EARLIER • YEAR 328

The two young men freeze, staring down the barrel aimed at them. Renegade studies them from the floor—both less than half his age, maybe not even twenty. They’re gaunt, malnourished, their clothes threadbare, their hair unwashed. A sour odor hangs around them.

“Hands!” Renegade barks.

They raise them instantly. Keeping his gun trained on them, he pushes himself to his feet, brushing the dust from his knees with his free hand. He expects fear—terror even—but one of them meets his gaze, bold.

“Who are you?” the young man says, his voice carrying only a slight quiver.

“I think we’re supposed to remain quiet,” the taller one mutters, glancing sideways.

“Identification” the first says, louder now, his voice cracking.

Renegade’s gun clicks, safety off. The sound snaps through the silence. Both swallow, trembling.

“How about I shoot both of you straight through your tiny skulls?” he growls.

Their knees quake, hands twitching in the air.

The taller one speaks, voice brittle. “How’d you find this place?”

Renegade bites the inside of his cheek, thinking. After a moment, he slips a hand into his pocket and opens his palm. The coin gleams faintly. Both young men gape.

“Where’d you get that?” the shorter one forces out.

Renegade lowers the gun, though the safety stays off. “Let’s do a trade,” he says evenly. “You tell me the origin of this coin, and I’ll tell you how I got it. Fair?”

They exchange wary looks, each waiting for the other to speak.

Renegade holsters his weapon. “See? A friendly exchange.”

“It’s been here for generations,” the taller one finally says.

Renegade waits for more, but silence stretches between them. “I just happened to find the coin one day.”

The shorter man frowns, not liking the answer. “It’s not just a coin. It’s an ancient document, smuggled into Penumbra since the first century. The knowledge it carries is dangerous—still dangerous. The original makers hid it as currency to keep it from discovery. But once physical money went extinct within the first fifty years, the disguise lost its use.”

Renegade narrows his eyes. “What makes it dangerous?”

The taller one starts to answer—“You said—”

But the shorter man elbows him hard, silencing him “The Verum has been preserved with great caution,” he goes on. “Every attempt to reveal its teachings has led to persecution and near extinction. Secrecy has become a painful necessity.”

“Why would a coin—a mere document—provoke such hostility?”

“Information is powerful,” the short man replies.

Renegade smirks. “Looks to me like the persecution’s well earned. You’re spreading grand counterclaims, challenging everything this city’s built on. Who could fault anyone for stamping out a conspiracy that seeks to upend Penumbra itself?”

“It’s not a cons-spiracy,” the tall one stammers. “I-it’s the truth.”

Renegade scoffs. “All I see in front of me is madness.”

“That’s called obedience,” the other man forces out. “Something you wouldn’t know. There is nothing in Penumbra that can stop the Verum. Not even the Anima Project. It will fall and be swept away like every empire that tried to usurp Yahweh. But the Verum will endure.”

The tall one flinches as Renegade’s gun jerks up, the muzzle aimed squarely at them. Even the short one shudders.

The tall one trembles, eyes shut tight. The shorter man whispers, “I-it would be an honor to die like our Savior.”

Renegade’s finger settles on the trigger. His breath deepens.

“Oh, God!” the taller one cries, eyes lifted upward. “If You want us with You, how can we protest? I only ask that You forgive this man. Show him mercy as You’ve shown us. We have all shed innocent blood!”

Something in Renegade falters. The fury drains from his face, replaced by a sudden, quiet fear. Every word grips him. He lowers the gun, though his gaze stays fixed.

The tall one still refuses to open his eyes, but the shorter man watches as Renegade backs down.

Renegade nods toward the other room. “That monitor. Where’s it recording?”

The man hesitates, chest heaving.

“Take me there.”

“W-we can’t,” he stammers. “If we let you in, we put everyone at risk.”

Renegade slides the gun aside again. “Miles gave me this coin.”

The tall one’s eyes snap open.

“Where is he?” the shorter man asks, voice trembling.

Renegade takes a long breath. “He couldn’t make it. So he sent me. I’m his partner—Renegade.”

At the name, both men recoil, breath catching.

“Why couldn’t he come?” asks one of them.

“He’s sick. Really sick. He can’t even get out of bed. He didn’t know if he’d make it, so he called me over and gave me this coin. He told me I needed to come here, but he said little else.”

The tall one glances at his companion, who eyes Renegade with weary suspicion, gaze dragging up and down his frame. “No weapons,” he mutters.

Renegade’s hand hovers near his holster. He considers, then unclips the gun and passes it over.

“Anything else?” the short one presses.

“No.”

A quick nod, and the taller man steps forward to search him. His touch is timid, almost twitching. Renegade feels a flush of humiliation crawl up his neck as the boy pats him down, thorough but clumsy.

The young man steps back and shakes his head. “He’s clean.”

The short man clears his throat. “Follow us.”

The three descend inside a narrow, rust-bitten shaft that moans all the way down. No one speaks. The tall one keeps his eyes fixed ahead, avoiding Renegade entirely.

At the bottom, the metal lattice slides open with a groan. Faint murmurs drift through the rough, echoing corridor. Everything is raw—unfinished walls, jagged seams of cement, no polish, no color. Only a dim, tawny light emits from somewhere beyond the bend.

“This way,” the short one says, turning sharply.

A honeyed glow spills out from a hemmed in mess hall ahead. Children are the first to spot Renegade. They keep playing, but their laughters taper off into whispers. Then the adults turn, one by one. Conversations die. The whirr of life collapses into silence. Even the babies quiet.

Renegade stops, staring back at the roomful of eyes fixed on him.

“Over here,” the short man breathes, rapping lightly on a door tucked to the side.

Renegade turns toward it, feeling the crowd’s stares burning through the corners of his vision. He waits, motionless.

A minute drags by. Then the hatch slides open, and shadowed hands from within seize the two young men, yanking them inside. Renegade hesitates, then steps forward, crossing the threshold of the control room.

The door slams behind him, locking shut with a series of hard brassy clicks. Instantly, seven guns snap up, aimed dead at his chest. Renegade raises both hands slowly.

“What in the world are you thinking?!” a man with a silver flattop barks, voice cutting through the tense air.

Renegade starts to speak, but the short one interjects. “It’s Renegade, sir.”

“I don’t care who he says he is!” the older man snaps. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“We disarmed him,” the tall one splutters, barely keeping his voice steady.

“The Elders don’t need guns, you fools! You’ve just exposed us all!”

“He was already inside the bunker, sir,” the short one pleads.

The man’s fury spikes. “I told you never—absolutely never—to bring anyone in without verification!”

Neither of the young men answers. The room falls into a thick, punishing silence.

The older man fixes his glare on Renegade. “For all we know, he could be an anima.”

“I’m human,” Renegade says flatly. “Shoot me. You’ll see.”

“Don’t test me,” the man warns, voice cold and steady, his finger grazing the trigger. “I’ve no problem putting a bullet through wires.”

Without breaking eye contact, he addresses the others. “Send us into Code Blue. If he’s a spy, hit the evacuation switch without hesitation. If the Elders are truly behind this, we’re probably too late.” Then, quieter, almost under his breath: “Help us, Yehshua.”

One of the men lowers his weapon and slams a blue button on the console. Alarms blare from beyond the sealed door.

Renegade doesn’t feel full, but he doesn’t ask for seconds. He knows there are no seconds to give. He leans back in his chair and listens to the room.

Children start to drift up from their tables. A five-year-old boy runs to Mara and plants his hands on her lap.

“Can I go play now, Mama?” he asks.

“Show me your plate,” she says.

He sprints back to his table, grabs his metal plate, and holds it up for inspection.

“Finish your carrot,” she tells him.

He frowns, then eats the rest without arguing.

“Wash your plate first,” she says. “Then you can play.”

He nods. As he turns to run, she calls him back. “Give your mama a hug. She hasn’t gotten one yet today.”

The boy sets the plate down. Mara lifts him onto her lap and rocks him there. Renegade watches her tickle him until he laughs. They press foreheads and grin at each other.

“I love you,” she whispers.

“Love you, Mama,” he says.

She kisses him a few times, sets him down, and he takes off.

“So,” Puck says from across the table, “what are you thinking?”

Renegade looks over. He notices the adults quieting, listening in. “About what?”

“You look lost in thought.”

Renegade swallows. “I just… I think it’s time for me to go back.”

Puck checks his watch. “You know, I think you’re right.” He looks to Mara. “Hold down the fort?”

“Always,” she says, smiling, waiting for a kiss.

Puck gives it to her without ceremony, like it is part of the routine.

Then he turns to Renegade. “Come on. I’ll walk you out.”

They stand. People around the table offer final greetings as Renegade follows Puck out of the mess hall.

“We aren’t going up the shaft?” Renegade asks when they pass the turn.

“The storefront is too exposed, especially at this time of day,” Puck says. “Miles always used this route. It’s safer.”

They take another corner, descend a flight of stairs, and stop at what looks like a blank wall. Puck pulls out his coin and sets it into a small notch. The wall releases with a quiet shift, opening onto a vaulted door.

“Sorry about Laurie, by the way,” Puck says. “Before VITA, she lived in the city and got pregnant. Then she received notice that her baby was selected.”

“Selected for what?” Renegade asks.

“They never told her exactly. But it had to do with the Anima Project.” Puck’s voice tightens. “Miles didn’t have the heart to tell her that her baby was probably used in experimentation. But she pieced it together on her own.”

Renegade doesn’t answer.

“Well,” Puck says, “here we are.”

He slides his coin into a slot in the door. The lock clicks, and the door swings open. Beyond it is pitch-black and echoing.

“Underground tunnels,” Puck says. “Did you know about them?”

Renegade shakes his head.

“I guess those in power don’t know everything.” Puck steps aside. “This is how Miles came undetected. The network runs under Anima Corp.” He pulls out a paper map and unfolds it. “Here. Follow the red line. That will get you back. Destroy this once you make it out. And keep the coin with you when you return. That’s your key.”

Puck waits until Renegade meets his eyes. “We look forward to seeing you again.” He offers his hand.

Renegade studies it for a beat, then takes it. The grip is firm.

“One more thing,” Puck adds. “I don’t mean to be brash, but I need to be clear. I risked everyone’s lives by letting you in. I chose to trust you, and you told me I could. So I expect that trust to hold.”

Puck doesn’t let go.

“Otherwise, me—and all those men, women, and children—we’re done. We’re helpless. We’re at your mercy.” His eyes don’t blink. “Please don’t let us down. Our lives are in your hands.”

Renegade feels Puck’s grip tighten.

“I promise… I promise I’ll be back.”

“Promise me we’re safe.”

“Of course. You’re safe. Yes.”

The grip tightens again. “Thank you.”

Renegade nods. They let go.

“I do hope we get to see you again,” Puck says.

They trade one last look as Puck starts to swing the vault door shut.

“Wait!” Renegade calls out.

The door opens wide again.

They stare at each other.

“What about Auggie?”

“What about your son?” Puck asks, and he catches the worry in Renegade’s eyes.

“He’s… going to be resurrected one day, right? Like Yeshua?” Renegade holds his breath.

“Well… he will be resurrected one day. Yes. That’s true.”

“Is that the hope you were trying to give me? Because that’s what I’m hoping for.”

Puck opens his mouth, but nothing comes.

“I just need to know,” Renegade says, pleading now. “I just need to know he’s okay.”

Puck’s silence lands heavy. It steals a beat from his chest.

“Renegade—Auggie…” Puck swallows. “VITA exists to spread the verum. We’re here to share Yeshua and the hope of eternal life that he brings. That’s why we’re on mission. That’s why we haven’t left Penumbra. People need to hear this message.”

“Yes, but what if they don’t?”

Puck swallows. “That’s why the verum matters, Renegade. Without it, no one has any reason to believe there’s hope at all.”

“But there is hope. There is.” Renegade’s voice tightens. “You told me. I saw it. I believe it.”

“Renegade, I’m—encouraged—to hear you say that.” Puck chooses the word carefully. “But this hope is for those who actually believe.”

“Are you saying my son didn’t have hope?” Renegade’s brow knots. “Because I saw it. He was hopeful. He believed in a future—believed we’d be together. Believed it wouldn’t end.”

Tears slip down Renegade’s face.

“But did he believe in the One who can give that hope?” Puck asks.

“He believed I could.” Renegade’s voice breaks. “Auggie believed in me. He trusted me. And I tried. I really tried. And I’m still trying.”

“Renegade, I’m sorry.” Puck’s eyes hold steady. “All you’ve done is work and work. You thought that was the solution, but it’s the problem. The hope of the verum isn’t about working. It’s about resting. And those who never stop working for their salvation die without it.”

“So what are you saying?” Renegade snaps. “Auggie’s a goner? There’s no hope for him? It’s too late?”

Puck exhales, slow. “Unless we rest in Yeshua and let him work out our salvation, there’s no hope for any of us.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“I’m not.”

“There has to be another way!”

“There’s not, Renegade. There’s only one way. This is the way.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“I can’t force you to believe it.”

“I won’t believe it. Tell me there’s another way!”

Puck closes his mouth.

“Please, Puck.” Renegade’s voice cracks. “I’m begging you. There has to be more than just Yeshua. There has to be a backup plan.”

“Yeshua is the backup plan.”

“My son deserves to live!”

“None of us do,” Puck says. “It’s not up to you to save your son. And it’s not up to me. We’re only charged to tell them of Yeshua, because only he can save.”

“Well, my son never heard of Yeshua. You never told him.”

“Renegade, please don’t blame me.”

Renegade shakes his head. “Miles could have told him.”

“Miles didn’t even know about the verum until after Auggie died.”

Renegade blinks hard, trying to stop the tears.

“But you know,” Puck says. “You know about Yeshua. If only you grab hold.”

Puck waits. Renegade’s silence stretches.

“I don’t know,” Renegade says at last, slow and raw, “if I want to live in a world where my son isn’t there.”

Then he turns and stalks into the darkness of the tunnels. Puck watches until Renegade is swallowed by black. Only then does he swing the vault shut and seal it behind him.

The green lights in the Anima Corp’s preservation warehouse flicker on. Renegade steps fully inside. His hair is damp and unkempt, his eyes bloodshot, his mind fogged over. His clothes smell stale. His shoes, caked with grime, carry him down the rows of suspended children.

This used to be where he came to reset—to recover his drive and keep the project moving. Every child in every tank used to look like shed skin to him. Now all he sees are bodies, scattered in liquid cylinders. Even Auggie.

Renegade stops at his son’s tank. It’s larger than the rest, the centerpiece of the warehouse. The moment he meets Auggie’s lifeless eyes, his own face collapses.

“I killed you,” Renegade whispers. “I killed you.”

Then he breaks. The weight hits and doesn’t let up. It drives him to his knees. The same wail he unleashed when Auggie died in his arms years ago tears out of him again, full strength, as if no time has passed.

It feels like he has gone backward. Every memory, every emotion he has buried and feared comes loose at once and pours over him. It crushes him until he curls on the floor, fetal. Tears spill down and pool around him, darkening the concrete.

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Go to SCENE SELECTION

19 YEARS LATER • YEAR 347

Wick’s eyes fly open. His breath comes hard and uneven. He takes a moment, gaze sliding from side to side as he reorients himself. The alley is dim, a thin wash of light catching the concrete wall ahead. Gravel presses beneath him; he’s propped against the opposite wall, wedged in the narrow passage. He can’t recall how he ended up here.

To his left, glass doors glow faintly. There’s no signage, but the memory clicks into place. He’s been inside—The Children’s First Clinic—which means the anima that tried to kill him was right outside those doors.

Merchant! Wick scans the alley. Empty. Still, Merchant must have dragged him into the shadows, stashing him out of sight.

He shouldn’t be here. The thought spikes through him, his heart thudding. He stands without strain. No pain. No wounds.

He lifts his wrist. A countdown ticks: 2 days, 21 hours, 19 minutes. Merchant must have accessed his watch. Wick flips the interface. His balance is full.

That settles it. Their conversation happened. Which means…

Wick slips along the building fronts, keeping to the darker edges of the street. Every few seconds, he glances back.

With the compass gone, he’s no longer tracking its pull. Yet, instead of turning north toward Alexa and his apartment, he moves south, threading through side streets and alleys until he stops before a rundown storefront. Stripped wooden frames. Rusted door. He’s been here once or twice.

Wick hesitates, hand hovering. Then he grips the handle and steps inside.

Alexa stays in shadow as Wick eases the apartment door open. He freezes in the frame, catching her silhouette. He can’t see her face, but he feels her stare.

He taps the wall pad, and the light rises. Alexa stands in the living area, arms crossed, eyes burning.

“Be right back?” she says, throwing his words back at him.

Wick doesn’t answer.

“You said you’d take it in.”

“I—I did,” he lies.

“I went down to the station.”

“You did?”

“You’ve been gone six hours. Six. I had no choice but to start looking for you. When I got there, they told me no coin had come in. That’s when I realized you duped me. You duped me.”

Wick blinks wildly.

“Nothing?” Her voice sharpens. “I guess there’s nothing to say.” She shakes her head. “I thought I could trust you.”

His gaze sinks to the floor.

Alexa sees it. Her tone eases—but only a fraction. “What is it? Are you hurt?”

Wick stays rooted.

“Talk to me, Wick,” she says, softer now, almost pleading. Tears pool along her lower lashes. “I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know what’s wrong. You’ve shut down on me.”

Their eyes meet again. She sees the fear in his. “What’d you find?” she whispers.

Wick blinks, Merchant’s warning surfacing. He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

“How can I believe you? I mean, look at you. Your shirt is dirty and torn.”

Wick peers down at himself. He forgot to change like Merchant suggested.

His eyes dull. “I was following it. But I lost it.”

“You don’t have it anymore?”

Another shake of the head.

“How’d you lose it?”

He lifts a shoulder. “I slipped. It rolled into grate.”

“Where’d you go?”

“I was heading south. I took a taxi. When I got out and checked for it, it was gone. And the taxi was gone too.”

“You’re lying.”

His eyes freeze.

“How can you keep lying to me?” she presses.

“How do you know I’m lying?”

“Because you’ve been doing it all night. You said you’d take it back, but you didn’t. You said you’d be back, but you weren’t. Six hours, Wick. I thought you left. I thought…I thought you were leaving me.” Her breath breaks, tears spilling.

He steps fully inside and shuts the door. Her sobs fill the room.

“You can check me,” Wick says, voice low, almost flat. “Search me. You won’t find it. It’s gone.”

Alexa wipes her face and looks up.

Wick adds, “I won’t leave your side again. It’ll be you and me. Now and always. I…” He swallows. “I promise.”

She takes several moments to steady her breathing. Wick closes the distance, rubbing her arms gently.

“I just don’t understand what’s going on,” she murmurs.

“Honestly? I don’t understand either. But it doesn’t matter now. The coin is lost. It’s just a memory now. Just part of my dreams.”

“I’m sorry. You probably just wanted to know what it all meant.”

“All I know is, I want to be with you.”

She smiles. He forces one in return.

Their eyes lock. Her warmth, her voice—everything about her pulls at him. The longer he looks, the more he wants to believe.

They kiss. The same softness he remembers from before Alexa transferred. And for a fleeting moment, he lets himself hope.

Two robed men face each other in a fire-lit chamber. One wears fine linens. The other stands in a tunic and chains, bruises mottling his face. Wick recognizes the disheveled criminal as he listens in.

“My kingdom is not of this world,” the chained man says. “If it were, my people would be fighting against my arrest.”

“So you are a king?” the official asks.

“That’s what you say. But I wasn’t born into this world to be a king, but to bear witness to the truth.”

The official draws a slow breath, lips tightening. “What is…truth?”

Wick waits for Yeshua’s answer, but both figures turn their heads toward him instead. Their eyes lock on his. He gasps—

And wakes.

It was a dream. Still, it feels more vivid than the recurring ones he had before finding the coin.

Alexa isn’t beside him. Sunlight floods the room—it’s already midday.

A voice murmurs from somewhere in the apartment. Low. Not Alexa.

Wick pulls on a shirt from the closet and steps into the living area. Alexa sits on the couch, watching a large holographic screen hanging motionless in the center of the room.

She glances behind her, the brightness in her expression restored. “Look at your hair.”

“Well, I just woke up,” Wick says.

“About time, too.” She turns toward the broadcast. “Anima Corp is giving a special message.”

Wick drifts to the couch. “Is the next generation coming out already? I thought we had a few more years.”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Dr. Renegade hasn’t shown up yet. It’s just the Elders right now.”

Wick drops onto the cushion beside her and fits an arm around her shoulders. His watch feels heavier against his wrist, the countdown tugging at him, but he keeps his eyes fixed on the screen.

Three familiar faces stand in fine suits before a textured gradient backdrop. One Elder steps toward the camera.

He glances back, bows, and says, “Thank you, Elder Two, for that insightful history of our beloved Penumbra.” Then he faces the screen. “As your Elders, we are proud of the innovations Dr. Renegade and Anima Corp have delivered. And today is so monumental, we wanted to personally make you aware of this exciting announcement. Now, without further ado—the man behind your immortality: Dr. Renegade.”

The feed shifts from the Elders to Renegade. He stands in the center of Anima Corp’s front atrium—the same place Wick and Alexa visited before.

“Hello, Penumbra,” Renegade says, bright and eager. “It has been nineteen years in the making. Nineteen years in the dark. With our breakthrough today, my team and I couldn’t wait any longer to share a very new innovation with you.

“It’s called the NecroChip. Like the SentiaChip, it can transfer a human from an anatomical body into our high-tech, ever-evolving anima shell. But the NecroChip goes further. While the SentiaChip extracts memories and personality from the living, the NecroChip works with DNA from those long deceased. This new marvel means the ones you’ve loved and lost can finally return to you.”

Renegade bends out of frame, then rises again with a small child in his arms.

“This is August. He died in a fatal accident forty years ago, just before the first iteration of the SentiaChip. But today, we’ve brought him back. He can grow up and live the life that was once taken from him. It’s because of the NecroChip. And now, he’ll never die again.”

Wick glances at Alexa. Tears slip down her cheeks.

Dr. Renegade continues, “Today doesn’t simply mark the next evolution of resurrection. Today exposes the long lie of death itself. And it was all made possible by Anima Corp and the extraordinary team I work with.”

Applause roars behind the camera. Alexa claps with them.

“In celebration, the Elders of Penumbra have chosen to remove every barrier that may have kept you from eternal life.

“The new Forever, For All program will be phased in over the coming months, zone by zone. Expect more information from your district officials soon.”

Alexa turns to Wick, eyes bright with excitement.

“I’m Dr. Renegade. Thank you for your attention.”

The screen shifts back to the Elders and their gradient backdrop. “Thank you, Dr. Renegade, for saving Penumbra and exposing the lie that life must fade. And thank you, citizens, for your trust. We work for you; and together, we will make Penumbra an everlasting city, where there is no more death or sorrow. Good day.”

The hologram fades. Alexa kisses Wick hard on the cheek.

“What?” he says.

“Don’t you get it? You can finally transfer now. There are no more barriers.”

“Isn’t it still optional?” Wick asks.

Alexa’s smile falters. “Why are you still so apprehensive?”

Wick lifts a shoulder. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m scared of the transfer. Maybe of the pain.”

“It’s not painful,” she says, grabbing his hand. “It’s like falling asleep. Then you wake up, and everything feels the same. Except now, you don’t die.”

“That sounds nice, but—”

“It definitely is.” She studies his face, catching the shift in his expression. “Don’t you want to be with me?”

“I am with you.”

“You’d be aging, and I wouldn’t.”

“Honestly, Alexa, I thought we’d grow old together.”

“Ugh. Who would want that? Not when we can stay the same—forever.”

“Well, I don’t need to decide this minute, do I?”

“Your hesitancy makes me wonder if you really want to be together.”

“Of course I do.”

“Then transfer,” she murmurs, soft but insistent.

“Transferring isn’t the only way to prove how I feel.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Wick says, voice dropping as he leans in.

He presses against her and doesn’t pull back. She answers the kiss, and soon they drift toward the bedroom, closing the door on the bright world outside.

The glass towers outside bleed into a glistening orange as the sun dips, its reflection washing the apartment in a soft glow. Wick holds Alexa against him while they watch the colors shift.

He slips an arm free and checks his watch on the bedside table. A few taps bring up the countdown: 2 days, 3 hours, 32 minutes.

“What are you doing?” she asks, still facing the window.

“Just checking the time.”

“Does it really matter what time it is?”

He settles his arm back around her. “I guess not.”

They lie still for a while, but she eventually turns to face him.

“Hi,” she whispers.

“Hi.” He doesn’t move toward her, only lets her stay close.

“Something’s up,” she mouths.

“Nothing’s up.”

“You keep looking at that watch.”

“…Sorry.”

Alexa traces her fingers through the hair on his chest. “Remember the first time we kissed?” She lifts her eyes to his. “You said time stopped.”

Wick glances at her—and notices her pupils tightening, closing in like a camera lens.

“Now you’re looking at that watch every few hours,” she says. “Like you have somewhere else to be.”

Wick swallows.

“I thought you loved me.”

The word love cuts straight through him. His heart thuds. His breath thins. “I did.”

“Did?” Alexa lifts herself onto an elbow, staring at him.

His voice comes rough, weighted with sorrow. “You transferred, Alexa. You left me.”

“I’m here, Wick. I’m right here.” She reaches for his face, her palm warm against his skin.

“No…you’re not.”

Alexa blinks, tears gathering. “Where do you think I’ve gone?”

Wick’s eyes fill as well. “I don’t know. I wish I did, but I don’t.”

“Who do you think is speaking to you?”

His gaze unfocuses. Years with her fracture across his mind—every joy, every laugh, every moment—yet the rush brings no comfort.

“I’ve got to go,” he murmurs, looking away.

“Wick,” she whimpers as he rises from the bed. “Wick, please. Help me understand.”

He crosses to the dresser and slides open the top drawer. Beneath folded shirts rests a black handgun. He traces its shape with a fingertip, then closes his hand around the grip and steadies his breath, counting each heavy beat.

“Wick, what are you doing?”

The hand hidden in the drawer finally emerges.

“Where’d you get that?” she asks, voice small, fear lacing every word. “It’s illegal.”

Still refusing to face her, Wick says, “I stopped by the black market last night.”

“Why on earth do you need a gun?”

He clicks off the safety. His eyes harden. He lets a few beat pass. Then his arm snaps toward her.

Alexa’s shriek tears through the room—through him.

When he finally looks at her, tears stream down both their faces.

“Wick,” she whispers, broken. “Please.”

“You’re no longer real,” he forces out, jaw clenched in anguish.

“Wick!” she cries. Then, softer, desperate, “Please don’t do this. Please, please, please…”

“I really loved you, Alexa,” he says, resolve hardening as the words leave him.

“Pleeaassee—”

A burst of sparks. Her pupils freeze mid-dilation. Her voice fragments into silence. She falls back onto the bed, motionless, like the world has cut her strings.

The gun slips from his hand and clatters to the floor. Wick’s hands shake violently. His eyes are wide, mouth hanging open in raw horror.

He stands there, locked in place, half expecting her to bleed out or sit back up. Neither happens.

His feet edge toward the bed. With each step, the truth settles heavier: Alexa is gone—truly gone. A ragged hole splits her head, wires spilling out like severed nerves.

He expects to collapse, to sob, to vomit. Instead, fear slams into him. He has to leave. Now.

Wick tears on a shirt, shoves into his shoes, grabs his jacket, and bolts from the apartment. Workers in the lobby call after him, but he doesn’t slow.

He forces himself not to sprint through the front doors, but once he’s outside and turns east, he breaks into a full run.

The streets are overflowing—people celebrating the Forever, For All announcement. Crowds clog the sidewalks, laughing, cheering, oblivious to Wick barreling past them.

Fireworks detonate overhead, washing the towers in shifting color. The crowd stares upward in wonder. Wick never looks. He keeps running, pulse roaring in his ears. He feels animas watching him—maybe following.

“Dono’s Cantina!” he shouts into his watch.

The display flips to a map. Over an hour on foot. At this pace, maybe half—if he doesn’t collapse.

But the truth lands fast: he won’t make it. His body doesn’t have that kind of endurance. And if the Mother is watching, taxis and the magline are traps. Merchant never planned for him to flee to East Two this early.

Wick slows to a stop, letting the crowd swallow him. Everyone gazes upward, so he lifts his own eyes, trying to disappear among them.

Pop! Crack! Shimmer! Each burst startles him. His gaze flicks sideways. A few people stare at him. He forces himself to look entranced by the fireworks, but it isn’t convincing. Minutes pass, and half the crowd is watching him instead of the sky.

His chin drops. Time to move.

He pushes through bodies, but a hand clamps his shoulder. “Are you—”

“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Wick says, shaking the hand off and quickening his pace.

Another stranger stops him. Wick rips free before the man speaks and breaks into a run.

He sprints down the boulevard—but a third hand snatches him, this one strong enough to yank him sideways. Wick is dragged into an alley and shoved behind an oversized trash bin, hidden in the shadows.

For a moment, the figure is lost in the darkness. Then the man pulls off his cap and unwinds his scarf.

That scarred face is unmistakable.

“What the hell are you thinking?!” Merchant roars.

“I don’t know why they’re looking at me like that.”

“You killed Alexa!”

Wick freezes. “How do you know that?”

“It’s plastered everywhere.”

“Me? I’m not a—”

“A murderer? Of course you are. That’s what the screens are saying.”

“B-but she’s an anima.”

“You really don’t get it, do you? Animas have citizenship. Killing one is the same as killing a human.”

“But you almost killed an anima yesterday.”

“Different scenario! Couldn’t you have waited until the appointed time? Instead of shooting her?”

Wick sways, guilt and panic crashing together. “I couldn’t take it anymore.”

“It was just for three days!”

“You asked too much of me.”

“I asked very little! And now you’re about to wreck the entire operation.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve put yourself in jeopardy—and me, by coming to bail you out. Again.”

“If the Mother sees all, does any of this matter?”

“You have no idea what you’ve unleashed. You just handed the Mother every reason to hunt you. And worse—now she knows that you know that she knows.”

“I didn’t say anything, I swear.”

“You pointed a gun at her face! That’s more than enough.”

“Then leave me,” Wick says. “Go. Save yourself.”

Merchant lets out a shaky scoff. “I’m not going to do that.”

“Why not?”

“What would you even do? You can’t go back to your apartment. No—there’s only one way out of this now.”

“What?”

“The tunnels. An underground network. There’s almost no surveillance down there. It’s been sealed off for over a century.”

Merchant glances past Wick. Eyes in the crowd are fixed on them.

He turns back, voice dropping. “It’s time to fly. Stay on my heels.”

Without another word, they run.

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19 YEARS EARLIER • YEAR 328

The two young men freeze, staring down the barrel aimed at them. Renegade studies them from the floor—both less than half his age, maybe not even twenty. They’re gaunt, malnourished, their clothes threadbare, their hair unwashed. A sour odor hangs around them.

“Hands!” Renegade barks.

They raise them instantly. Keeping his gun trained on them, he pushes himself to his feet, brushing the dust from his knees with his free hand. He expects fear—terror even—but one of them meets his gaze, bold.

“Who are you?” the young man says, his voice carrying only a slight quiver.

“I think we’re supposed to remain quiet,” the taller one mutters, glancing sideways.

“Identification” the first says, louder now, his voice cracking.

Renegade’s gun clicks, safety off. The sound snaps through the silence. Both swallow, trembling.

“How about I shoot both of you straight through your tiny skulls?” he growls.

Their knees quake, hands twitching in the air.

The taller one speaks, voice brittle. “How’d you find this place?”

Renegade bites the inside of his cheek, thinking. After a moment, he slips a hand into his pocket and opens his palm. The coin gleams faintly. Both young men gape.

“Where’d you get that?” the shorter one forces out.

Renegade lowers the gun, though the safety stays off. “Let’s do a trade,” he says evenly. “You tell me the origin of this coin, and I’ll tell you how I got it. Fair?”

They exchange wary looks, each waiting for the other to speak.

Renegade holsters his weapon. “See? A friendly exchange.”

“It’s been here for generations,” the taller one finally says.

Renegade waits for more, but silence stretches between them. “I just happened to find the coin one day.”

The shorter man frowns, not liking the answer. “It’s not just a coin. It’s an ancient document, smuggled into Penumbra since the first century. The knowledge it carries is dangerous—still dangerous. The original makers hid it as currency to keep it from discovery. But once physical money went extinct within the first fifty years, the disguise lost its use.”

Renegade narrows his eyes. “What makes it dangerous?”

The taller one starts to answer—“You said—”

But the shorter man elbows him hard, silencing him “The Verum has been preserved with great caution,” he goes on. “Every attempt to reveal its teachings has led to persecution and near extinction. Secrecy has become a painful necessity.”

“Why would a coin—a mere document—provoke such hostility?”

“Information is powerful,” the short man replies.

Renegade smirks. “Looks to me like the persecution’s well earned. You’re spreading grand counterclaims, challenging everything this city’s built on. Who could fault anyone for stamping out a conspiracy that seeks to upend Penumbra itself?”

“It’s not a cons-spiracy,” the tall one stammers. “I-it’s the truth.”

Renegade scoffs. “All I see in front of me is madness.”

“That’s called obedience,” the other man forces out. “Something you wouldn’t know. There is nothing in Penumbra that can stop the Verum. Not even the Anima Project. It will fall and be swept away like every empire that tried to usurp Yahweh. But the Verum will endure.”

The tall one flinches as Renegade’s gun jerks up, the muzzle aimed squarely at them. Even the short one shudders.

The tall one trembles, eyes shut tight. The shorter man whispers, “I-it would be an honor to die like our Savior.”

Renegade’s finger settles on the trigger. His breath deepens.

“Oh, God!” the taller one cries, eyes lifted upward. “If You want us with You, how can we protest? I only ask that You forgive this man. Show him mercy as You’ve shown us. We have all shed innocent blood!”

Something in Renegade falters. The fury drains from his face, replaced by a sudden, quiet fear. Every word grips him. He lowers the gun, though his gaze stays fixed.

The tall one still refuses to open his eyes, but the shorter man watches as Renegade backs down.

Renegade nods toward the other room. “That monitor. Where’s it recording?”

The man hesitates, chest heaving.

“Take me there.”

“W-we can’t,” he stammers. “If we let you in, we put everyone at risk.”

Renegade slides the gun aside again. “Miles gave me this coin.”

The tall one’s eyes snap open.

“Where is he?” the shorter man asks, voice trembling.

Renegade takes a long breath. “He couldn’t make it. So he sent me. I’m his partner—Renegade.”

At the name, both men recoil, breath catching.

“Why couldn’t he come?” asks one of them.

“He’s sick. Really sick. He can’t even get out of bed. He didn’t know if he’d make it, so he called me over and gave me this coin. He told me I needed to come here, but he said little else.”

The tall one glances at his companion, who eyes Renegade with weary suspicion, gaze dragging up and down his frame. “No weapons,” he mutters.

Renegade’s hand hovers near his holster. He considers, then unclips the gun and passes it over.

“Anything else?” the short one presses.

“No.”

A quick nod, and the taller man steps forward to search him. His touch is timid, almost twitching. Renegade feels a flush of humiliation crawl up his neck as the boy pats him down, thorough but clumsy.

The young man steps back and shakes his head. “He’s clean.”

The short man clears his throat. “Follow us.”

The three descend inside a narrow, rust-bitten shaft that moans all the way down. No one speaks. The tall one keeps his eyes fixed ahead, avoiding Renegade entirely.

At the bottom, the metal lattice slides open with a groan. Faint murmurs drift through the rough, echoing corridor. Everything is raw—unfinished walls, jagged seams of cement, no polish, no color. Only a dim, tawny light emits from somewhere beyond the bend.

“This way,” the short one says, turning sharply.

A honeyed glow spills out from a hemmed in mess hall ahead. Children are the first to spot Renegade. They keep playing, but their laughters taper off into whispers. Then the adults turn, one by one. Conversations die. The whirr of life collapses into silence. Even the babies quiet.

Renegade stops, staring back at the roomful of eyes fixed on him.

“Over here,” the short man breathes, rapping lightly on a door tucked to the side.

Renegade turns toward it, feeling the crowd’s stares burning through the corners of his vision. He waits, motionless.

A minute drags by. Then the hatch slides open, and shadowed hands from within seize the two young men, yanking them inside. Renegade hesitates, then steps forward, crossing the threshold of the control room.

The door slams behind him, locking shut with a series of hard brassy clicks. Instantly, seven guns snap up, aimed dead at his chest. Renegade raises both hands slowly.

“What in the world are you thinking?!” a man with a silver flattop barks, voice cutting through the tense air.

Renegade starts to speak, but the short one interjects. “It’s Renegade, sir.”

“I don’t care who he says he is!” the older man snaps. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“We disarmed him,” the tall one splutters, barely keeping his voice steady.

“The Elders don’t need guns, you fools! You’ve just exposed us all!”

“He was already inside the bunker, sir,” the short one pleads.

The man’s fury spikes. “I told you never—absolutely never—to bring anyone in without verification!”

Neither of the young men answers. The room falls into a thick, punishing silence.

The older man fixes his glare on Renegade. “For all we know, he could be an anima.”

“I’m human,” Renegade says flatly. “Shoot me. You’ll see.”

“Don’t test me,” the man warns, voice cold and steady, his finger grazing the trigger. “I’ve no problem putting a bullet through wires.”

Without breaking eye contact, he addresses the others. “Send us into Code Blue. If he’s a spy, hit the evacuation switch without hesitation. If the Elders are truly behind this, we’re probably too late.” Then, quieter, almost under his breath: “Help us, Yehshua.”

One of the men lowers his weapon and slams a blue button on the console. Alarms blare from beyond the sealed door.

“Fine,” Renegade snaps. “Cut me open.”

“There could be animas with synthetic blood. No. You’re going in there.” He gestures to a reinforced door behind him.

“What’s in there?” Renegade demands.

“Now!”

Renegade glances at the door—solid alloy, no windows—and edges toward it.

Another man hauls it open with effort, the hinges groaning. Renegade steps inside without protest. The door slams shut behind him, locking tight.

A drone builds overhead. Whirring sounds pulse through the chamber. Renegade looks up to see a circular fan spinning faster and faster. The air whips violently, swirling through the vault until it steals the breath straight from his lungs.

But nothing else happens. Five long minutes drag by in silence before the fan grinds to a halt and the air settles dead still. The door creaks open. Standing in the frame is the man with the flattop, his expression unreadable.

“Follow me,” he says.

Renegade steps out. Together they move through the control room, past the now-empty mess hall, and down a narrow passage. The echo of their footsteps is the only sound until they reach a smaller room—bare except for a battered desk and a few chairs. A spray-painted teardrop mark covers the stark, gray wall behind.

The man gestures for Renegade to sit, then shuts the door and circles behind the desk, lowering himself into a chair with a heavy sigh. The silence lingers.

Renegade’s eyes drift toward a few childish drawings taped to the wall beside the desk.

“My son,” the man says, catching his gaze. “He loves to sketch. Just made those today.”

Renegade doesn’t answer.

The man opens a drawer, pulls out a worn photograph, and slides it across the table. “That’s him,” he says softly. “And my wife.”

Renegade looks down at the image—the young boy, the gentle woman, happiness caught in their faces—then back up without a word.

“Oh, right,” the man says. “You don’t even have a concept of what a wife is. Well, maybe that’ll be a good conversation for later on.”

He sets the photo aside and leans forward, voice lowering. “I owe you an apology, friend. We can’t risk exposure. I had to be harsh—for everyone’s safety.”

“I understand what it’s like to be in authority,” says Renegade. “Especially making decisions under pressure.”

The man gives a brief nod of understanding. “I’m Puck, but the way.”

“Renegade.”

“I knew it was you the moment I saw your face on the cameras,” Puck says. “Anyone would—well, except those boys. They don’t get word of what happens topside. Can’t fault them for not recognizing you, I guess. Still, no one could be sure it was really you until the scan confirmed it.”

Renegade’s tone is flat. “And if I had been an anima?”

“You’d have been swept up through those blades by specialized magnets. And that’d be that.”

Renegade says nothing. His eyes drift to a small scratch carved into the desk’s surface.

Puck studies him. “It was risky business for you coming here so undauntedly. Did Miles not tell you to be careful?”

Renegade keeps his gaze fixed on the flaw in the wood.

Puck’s voice softens even more. “Where is our friend, Miles?”

The silence raises suspicion, but Renegade confirms it. “Dead.”

Puck freezes, his breath stops. Slowly, he sinks back into his chair, running a hand through his hair. His eyes widen with disbelief, then sink with grief. “What happened?” he asks, unsteady.

Still staring down, Renegade mutters, “He got himself killed.”

The air turns grim, the warm lights seemingly turning a pale color.

Renegade pulls the coin from his pocket and sets it in Puck’s hand. Puck receives it gingerly, his fingers trembling. He studies the metal in silence, eyes wet, a tear slipping down, then another.

“Miles always prayed about this day,” he says softly. “When you’d finally learn about the Verum. And about us.”

Renegade lifts his eyes. “Who are you?”

“VITA,” Puck says. “That’s what we call ourselves.”

“Why do you live like this?” Renegade challenges.

“Because we have no choice. If we surfaced, we’d be slaughtered.”

“Same either way, isn’t it? Those boys look like death.”

“No, not the same. Though their bodies are wasting away, their souls grow ever stronger. Their rewards, ever greater. That’s the truth.”

Renegade’s eyes narrow. “What is truth?” He pauses. “If this is what it leads to, I’m not sure I want to know.”

“You don’t understand, do you?” Puck says quietly. “The Verum holds life itself—real life. A life that endures. Something that can’t be manufactured by what you’re creating up in that tower.”

“In your mind, all those animas aren’t real people, is that right? What do you think they are, then?”

“Hollow imitations. Nothing more.”

“So you think they’re all dead.”

“More than that,” Puck says firmly. “I know they are.”

“Says who?”

“Says the Verum.”

Renegade leans forward. “How do you know the Verum can be trusted?”

“I can tell you one thing: no one who is really drawn in by the Verum goes out and slaughters another human being. Have you looked around? We’ve given up our worldly strength. Some of us have come from high positions. And with a lot of ease and wealth. They had real power, and they chose to give it up, all the while everyone else claws for more.”

“Not Miles.”

“Miles was advised to stay.”

“By who? The Verum?”

“Me.”

“Why? So you could spy on me?”

“No,” Puck says. “So we wouldn’t be exposed. He was a public figure, like you. He couldn’t just vanish.”

“He could have cloned himself and left.”

“Miles refused. So, we asked him to use his influence to see if he could turn the Project around. It took some convincing, but he agreed.”

“Agreeing to that was ultimately what got him killed.”

Puck’s tone changes. “Did you kill him?”

Renegade says nothing. His silence is enough.

Puck swallows, grief tightening his jaw. “He thought of you as a friend. You know that?”

“We were friends,” Renegade says quietly. “But he drifted.”

Puck’s fingers drum against the desk. “So that’s it—you killed him and ran off with the coin.” He shakes his head, muttering under his breath, “I should’ve known we’re not safe. You’re just buying time.”

“Wait,” Renegade says when he sees Puck rising from his chair. “I’ve not come to turn you in.”

“The Elders know you’re here, don’t they?”

“The Elders don’t know anything,” Renegade says. “No one knows I’m here. I wasn’t planning on hurting anybody.”

“You came with a gun. You pointed it at those boys, ready to end their lives just because they were in the way of your goal. I saw.”

“I don’t know what my goal is,” Renegade admits.

Puck takes note of the quiver in his voice. “Then why are you here?”

Renegade’s tone breaks. “Just kill me, then. You’ve got me—unarmed. Trapped. You can end it all.”

“I don’t want your life, Renegade.” Puck says evenly. “Anyway, that’s not my place.”

“Why not? I’m here. Just take it!” Renegade’s voice cracks—fear in it, but something deeper too.

Puck observes him, eyes narrowing. “Because if you died right now, you wouldn’t see your son—or anything good—on the other side. That much I promise you.”

Renegade lifts his eyes, says, “And another thing—what is the point of giving up everything if everyone has the same fiery outcome?”

Puck frowns. “What are you talking about?”

“The Pod showed me. It said all humanity has been left to some kind of living wrath. So tell me—what difference does it make if you kill me now or I die later?”

Puck exhales slowly, then rises from his chair and moves around the desk. Renegade stays slouched, eyes low.

“Willing to follow?” Puck asks, his tone unexpectedly gentle. “I want to show you something.”

Renegade twists in his chair. “Show me what?”

“The truth.”

Renegade gives him a skeptical look.

“If you give me your word that me and my people are safe,” Puck says, “I’ll show you. Besides, you don’t have to believe it. But after everything you’ve said—and after seeing that miserable face of yours—it seems you could use a hopeful alternative. I’ve got one.”

The word hope echoes through Renegade’s mind like something foreign, something he hasn’t heard in years—maybe lifetimes.

At last, he says, “My word.” Then, he pushes himself to his feet, hesitant but willing, and follows Puck out the door.

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19 YEARS LATER • YEAR 347

Wick’s hand spreads across the comforter, his head buried in the pillow. His eyes stay shut as he retraces his dream: he was running through the city, a man in black chasing him. He darted through alleys, slipped into a hidden children’s clinic. Then he was caught. Gunfire—he remembers that now. Sparks had burst from the stranger’s arm before the man vanished into the shadows. Wick thought he was safe after that.

Another figure appeared—the scarred-faced man. Wick thought he was being rescued until that man leveled a gun at his head. That’s all he remembers.

Wick reaches for Alexa, but his fingers grasp only air. One eye cracks open. She’s gone. Wick shifts, knowing he has no choice but to wake. With a low groan, he rolls onto his back, rubbing his palms over his eyes before blinking them open.

Soft, warm light fills the room. These aren’t his walls. He turns to where his bay window should be, but there isn’t one. There are no windows at all. He sits up and looks down—these aren’t his sheets.

Then it hits him—the coin. Wick pats his pockets. Nothing. He digs deeper. Still nothing. Tearing the sheets aside, he plants his feet on the floor and scours the bed, the drawers, every corner.

It’s gone.

Where is he? Wick shuts his eyes and steadies his breath, though his heart won’t slow. He moves toward the bedroom door, hand closing around the handle. He hesitates, uncertain if he wants to see what waits beyond.

After a long breath, the door opens on its own. Wick’s eyes widen, nearly bursting from his face. A man stands before him—a face charred from the top of his bald head to well beneath his collar. The burn distorts his features; one side of his upper lip is gone, exposing teeth in a fixed, ghostly grin. His skin has melted and solidified, creating a grim, beastly appearance.

“I thought I heard footsteps,” the man says, voice calm, almost casual.

The tone disarms Wick, but only for a heartbeat. He stares at the man’s pale grey eyes. “Where’s the coin?”

The scarred man rolls his eyes. “Oh, that. It’s been taken from your possession.” He leaves the door open and turns down a short hallway.

Wick stands frozen until he hears the man call back, “You coming?”

Another long breath, then a short nod for self-reassurance. After which, Wick pads after him. “So it wasn’t a dream?”

The man doesn’t look back. “Nope.”

“And that stranger has the coin.”

A pause. “No.”

Wick’s voice flattens. “So you have it.”

The man sighs and drops into a kitchen chair facing him. “Stay a while.”

Wick doesn’t move at first. Though, he does eventually sit down.

“How’d I get here?” he asks, settling into the chair opposite, eyes darting across the unfamiliar room. The kitchen, like the bedroom, has no windows.

“Listen. The coin is safe,” the man says.

“Why’d you take it from me?”

“The real question is why I let you have it in the first place. Stupid me.”

“You?”

The man lifts his brows in confirmation.

“Were you the one following me to the breeding station?”

“I should admit,” the man leans forward, “I expected you to be more clandestine.”

“Who are you?” Wick demands.

“Me?”

“Yeah, you. You’ve been stalking me throughout my life. I saw you in my memory.”

“You’re free to think what you want.”

“Don’t be so underhand,” Wick snaps.

“Tone.”

“You’re the one who kidnapped me.”

“You’re not a kid anymore, Wick.”

“Looks like you also weathered some years.”

The man rubs the back of his mangled neck.

Wick lowers his gaze. His voice softens. “Sorry.” He draws a breath, waits a few beats. “Could you just let me go?”

The man spreads his arms. “Does this look like kidnapping to you?”

“I don’t even know your name.”

The man claps his hands together. “Hi. I’m Merchant. What would you like to know?”

“That’s a name?”

The man scoffs, leaning back in his chair. “At least I wasn’t named after a candlestick.”

Wick’s face hardens. “What do you want from me?”

“That’s a big question. So little time.”

“We have plenty of time,” Wick shoots back.

“That’s where you’re wrong, my friend. We actually don’t have much time left.”

“I’m not your friend. I’m a victim.”

“Are you going to play that card, Wick? Really? That’s just sad. You know—you didn’t have to leave your apartment tonight. You didn’t have to lie to Alexa.”

“Keep Alexa out of this!” Wick spits.

“You chose to go on this journey.”

“But you’re the one who gave me that coin, hoping I would.”

“We all make choices, Wick. Good ones. Poor ones. Maybe you’re wishing you hadn’t followed that compass. But you did. And now you’re here.”

“All that, just so you could take the coin back?”

“Okay, so I also had made a poor choice. I shouldn’t have let you hold onto it.”

“You were coaxing me here. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“This place isn’t where I wanted you,” Merchant says. “I wanted you safe. In reality.”

“Is this not reality?” Wick glances around the cramped space. “Am I dreaming?”

Merchant meets his gaze. “No.”

“No, this isn’t reality—or no, I’m not dreaming?”

Merchant swallows. “You’re somewhere in between.”

“In between? What do you mean?”

Merchant’s face grows heavy. Their stares lock as the kitchen begins to fade—walls thinning to vapor until blackness consumes everything.

Wick rises, eyes tearing from Merchant to scan the void. “Where am I?”

Stone walls form around them. Figures take shape—men, women, even infants. Then, towering above them, a statue materializes: an unclothed man seated on a throne, his head serpentine, mouth gaping, tongue extended as if licking the air.

“Where are we?” Wick demands.

“You’ve been here before,” Merchant says. “In your vision. Remember?”

“Did you take me to the future?”

“The past,” Merchant answers.

“I didn’t know this was in Penumbra.”

“Oh yes,” Merchant replies. “Penumbra hides many secrets like this. But Penumbra isn’t all there is. And where you’re standing now—it isn’t Penumbra. That city didn’t exist yet. We’re in a temple that stood over four thousand years ago, certainly not anywhere near here.”

“But the world has only been around for—”

“347 years?” Merchant finishes. “That’s what she wants to make you believe. Oh no, the world is far older than that.”

“She?” Wick says.

“More like an it. A database of artificial intelligence wrapped into a super hive mind and personified as a woman.”

“An AI woman?”

“A revisionist.”

“How do I know you’re not the revisionist? You’re making some audacious claims, and you expect me to believe them.”

“I’m bringing you to reality, Wick. Revisionists don’t create. They only twist what’s already there.”

“I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but I do know this: you are the one trying to topple my reality.”

Merchant shakes his head. “I’m toppling the illusions already imposed on you, Wick. That’s what I’m doing. That’s why I gave you that coin.”

Wick opens his mouth to argue, but his words falter.

“Even before that,” Merchant continues, “you already doubted the system—if you’re honest.”

Wick’s gaze lifts, meeting his.

“Why didn’t you transfer with Alexa, Wick?”

The words hang thick between them.

“She begged you,” Merchant presses. “Over and over. Yet you didn’t. Did you not understand how the Anima system worked? Or was it that you didn’t trust what it claimed to do?”

Wick’s breathing clots.

“How does the Anima logic fare in light of the vision you recently had?”

“I’ve had many strange dreams,” Wick finally says. “This being one of them.”

“As I said,” Merchant replies, pacing a few steps away, his eyes scanning the ancient room, “this isn’t a dream.”

“Then what is it?” Wick snaps. “If it’s not reality, either? Can you be clear for once?”

Merchant turns back around. “We’re in your mind.”

Wick freezes, fists tightening at his sides. His face drains of color. “I must be dead.”

“You’re not dead.”

“You shot me. You raised your gun!”

“I didn’t shoot you, Wick,” Merchant says, lowing his voice. “If you were dead, why would you be here right now? You couldn’t have gotten a category of an afterlife from anywhere in Penumbra. So, where’d you get that?”

Wick watches as Merchant slips something from his pocket. A metallic glint catches the firelight. He tosses it through the air. Wick snatches it, feeling the familiar weight, tracing its etched surface.

Merchant presses further. “That vision you received is the true reality, Wick. You were given a great gift. How much were you able to comprehend?”

Wick’s eyes darken with sorrow. “All of it. But I can’t understand why I’m able to. Or what this all means.”

Noticing Wick’s discouragement, Merchant walks back and places a steady, fatherly hand on his shoulder.

Wick keeps his head low, voice trembling. “If I accept your reality, I’d have to reject mine.” He swallows hard. “And that would mean…” The words die in his throat.

Merchant’s hand stays firm on his shoulder as Wick grips the coin tighter, knuckles whitening. At last, he lifts his gaze, tears glittering in his eyes. “She’s dead, isn’t she?” he whispers.

Merchant’s gaze sink. He gives a slow, regretful nod.

Wick turns away, jaw set, holding his breath. His eyes burn, trying not to let the tears spill. Merchant steps in, gripping him tighter.

The scene fades to black, and the windowless bedroom returns.

Wick quickly rubs away the few tears that escape. “She seems so real.”

“They all do,” Merchant says quietly. “They were made to make you believe they never left.”

Wick shakes his head. “That stranger who tried to kill me—he’s an anima, too, isn’t he? That’s why there were sparks.”

“Yes.”

“If animas aren’t real people, what are they inside? Why did he want the coin so badly?”

“She doesn’t tolerate any narrative that challenges her own.”

Wick frowns. “Who are you talking about?”

“The Mother,” Merchant says. “All the androids and animas in Penumbra are connected to that artificial hive mind. They’re conduits. Through them, she acts and speaks. That’s how she wields omniscience and omnipresence. Her goal is simple: total control.”

“So I’ve been living with the Mother.” Wick’s eyes dart up at him. “She’s been watching me. She knows about the coin.”

“She’s long known.”

“Why did she wait ’til now?”

Merchant reaches out a hand. Wick delays, but places the coin in his palm. Merchant raises it into the firelight. “Every coin leads to a different enclave. She knows that there are coins—but not how many. And she doesn’t have access any of them. At least, not that I know of.”

“She’s searching for an enclave?”

“Mine,” Merchant says. “The one your coin pointed to. That’s why I had to intercept you—before she traced your route and found me.”

“But she saw you. You fired at the Anima.”

“She knows I exist,” he replies. “She just doesn’t know where I hide.”

“Isn’t that impossible if she sees everything?”

Merchant chuckles, the sound thin and uneasy. “Damn near.”

“I’m surprised she didn’t just let me follow the trail.”

“She knew I’d go after you.”

“How could she know that?”

“You were so brazen with it,” Merchant says. “Too visible. That’s why you’re not getting it back.”

“It still doesn’t add up,” Wick mutters. “That android at the diner—it had the coin. Then it just handed it back to me.”

“That was a public setting. She didn’t want to make a spectacle of it.”

“But Alexa—she could have taken it while I was sleeping.”

“Yeah, well,” Merchant says, letting out a short breath. “You see, I’ve come to learn something about the Mother. She’s far from mindless. She has…tendencies. Call it sadistic, if you like. She enjoys the game. Sometimes she lets people think they’ve won, gives them just enough rope to hang themselves. If Alexa had taken the coin or refused to return it, sure she could find me out; but then you’d know something would be wrong. And the Mother’s power lies in remaining unseen.”

“How do you know about her?” Wick presses.

“A lot of people know. Just not the ones who matter. Not to her, anyway. She makes that very clear.”

“I matter to her?”

“Not anymore. Unless you’re willing to play her game.”

“I’m not going back there.”

“You need to.”

“I can’t! I won’t!”

“You must,” Merchant says flatly. “End of story. Alexa’s been expecting you for hours.”

“She knows where I’ve been this whole time—if she’s just one of the Mother’s vessels.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what?”

“The Mother doesn’t yet know that you know,” Merchant says. “As far as she’s concerned, you’re still the naive one—just following a compass south.”

“Yeah. And chased down by an anima and nearly killed,” Wick mutters.

“But still, you didn’t know she was behind it all.”

“So you want me to go back and pretend nothing happened? Wouldn’t that be playing her game?”

“I’m not asking you to stay,” Merchant replies. “Just a few days. I still need time to get some things in order.”

“Why did you give me that coin if you weren’t ready? Did you not want me to find you?”

“Honestly, Wick, I didn’t expect you to follow the trail so soon. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours. Anyway, I couldn’t have waited. I was looking for an opportune time to give you that coin—when you were away from Alexa. And you didn’t go anywhere when she was transferring. You’re really attached to her hip, I have to say.”

“How long have you been watching me for?”

Merchant only grins.

“Well, Alexa found out. I showed her that night.”

“That’s where I slipped,” Merchant admits. “Shouldn’t have trusted a twenty-four-year-old kid with it.”

“I’m not a kid,” Wick asserts. “You said so yourself. And if it was that dangerous, why not reach me like this—inside my mind—from the start?”

Merchant shakes his head. “I tried. Your apartment’s too far. The signal couldn’t reach.”

“The signal?”

“My equipment doesn’t allow such a far distance. I needed you closer.”

“Equipment?”

“What? Do you think I’m some type of magician?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.”

Merchant grips Wick’s arms. “Just know this: things are about to change for you. But I need you to be patient. I need you to go back and act like everything’s okay. Forget about the coin. Be deeply, madly in love with Alexa. And then, when I’m all set, we’ll make a break for it.”

Wick doesn’t blink. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll know,” Merchant says quietly. “In time.”

“Why not now?”

Merchant paces the bedroom. “Patience is a virtue, Wick.” After this, he mutters, “Not that you were taught anything like that.”

“How do I know I can trust you?”

“Do you not believe anything we just talked about?”

“How do I know you’re real? Apparently, I don’t even have the coin anymore to tell me so.”

“You went broke, right?” Merchant inquires.

“Sure. Which reminds me, it’s going to take me forever to get back to my apartment!”

Merchant shakes his head. “You won’t need to walk.”

“We can’t transfer funds. Alexa and I’ve tried that. When you go broke, you’re broke. And it’ll be nearly a week before it resets.”

“Let’s just say,” Merchant smirks faintly, “you don’t have to worry about that.”

The two stare at each other. Wick shakes his head in disbelief. “Who are you?”

Merchant’s eyes glint. “An angel.”

“You don’t seem like an angel to me.”

“Good.” Merchant taps his temple. “You know.”

“And about that—how am I suddenly able to understand all this stuff? It definitely felt different than a dream.”

“Patience,” Merchant cuts in. “We’re out of time. You need to go. Remember the plan and stick to it. And get a new shirt. You don’t want to go home to Alexa looking like you were just torn to pieces.”

“Wait,” Wick blurts. “Where are we meeting?”

“Oh, right.” Merchant snaps his fingers a few times. “Do you know Dono’s?”

“Cantina? That’s in East Two.”

“Exactly. Let’s meet at eight thirty. At night, obviously. Although, I am tired of all these nocturnal escapades—it’s not good for your eyes. Oh, and make sure you pick up some charcoal. For your face. If you’ve never traveled to the far East side, all these people like to wear dark makeup. And not just on their lips. So make sure you hide that bruise on your face.”

Wick touches his cheek. Bruised?

Before he can ask, the room begins to dissolve, walls swirling into vapor as Merchant fades with them.

“Wait!” Wick shouts. “How many days should I wait? Merchant!”

But he’s gone. Everything’s gone. Darkness takes hold, and Wick plummets into its depths.

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19 YEARS EARLIER • YEAR 328

Renegade slides his loaded gun into the holster as the shaft doors part. He steps through without a sound and, moments later, moves with steady purpose across the ground-floor atrium.

“Dr. Renegade, sir!” a voice calls. An android rolls up behind him. “May I be of service?”

“No, android. I’m on an errand,” Renegade says, not breaking stride.

The android keeps pace. “But, sir, those are the main entrance doors.”

“Thank you for stating the obvious.”

“Ah, well, let me summon your car. It will only take a moment.”

“I’ll be walking tonight.”

“But, sir!”

Renegade stops short and turns, his glare sharp and impatient.

“You can’t just wander the city alone,” the android protests.

“Why not?”

“You’re… Renegade. The Dr. Renegade. It would be like one of the Elders entering battle without armor or weapons.”

“I’ve got weapons.”

“…But the Elders would have bodyguards. And it’s well past dusk.”

Renegade laughs to himself.

“Is something funny, sir?”

“Oh, no. No… Just a bit jovial tonight, that’s all.”

The android emits an artificial chuckle. “Happy to see that, Dr. Renegade, sir.”

Renegade takes another step, then stops. “You know what, android? You can help.”

“Delighted!”

He scans the atrium, then motions the android toward a secluded corner.

“Ooh, secrets?” the android whispers. “I might know some.”

“Oh, really? Very good. It’s about Miles.”

The android stills.

“Did Miles ever go out, android?”

“Well, of course, sir. He did have legs—just like you.”

“Right. What I mean is—did he ever sneak out?”

The android’s eyes flicker with brief digital distortion. “Not that I can recall.”

“Has he ever asked you to keep secrets?”

“No.”

“Would you tell me if he had?”

“Certainly.”

“You know, I can override your memory logs to confirm that.”

“You’re welcome to, sir. But you’ll find nothing unusual about his whereabouts…Why? Is he mysteriously absent?”

Renegade straightens, voice even. “I suppose you could say that.”

“Do you know if this has been a pattern?”

“Yes…well, I suspect it has been.”

“Around this time?”

“Possibly.”

“I can tell you with ninety-nine percent confidence that Miles has not shown strange patterns by me.”

“Ninety-nine?”

“Well, there can always be a discrepancy.”

“Scan for it,” Renegade orders.

The android locks up, eyes twitching. “I am now one hundred percent confident that Miles has not shown any strange patterns by me.”

Renegade exhales. “Fine.”

“What I can say, sir, is that if he is behaving strangely, he is at least not doing so through those main entrance doors.”

Renegade gives the android a pointed look.

“In other words, he must be using another exit. Likely the garage. He may have even taken his hoverol.”

Renegade’s eyes lift sharply. “That’s it.”

Moments later, he and the android emerge onto the lower garage level. The concrete expanse stretches wide and tall, its textured ceiling arching like the interior of a grand hall—an entry reserved for distinguished guests.

“I’ve just called your car,” the android reports.

“It’s not my hoverol I want,” Renegade says. “Bring me Miles’s vehicle.”

“But if Miles is away, he may have already taken it.”

The look Renegade gives it makes the android falter. “Just a moment, sir.”

Less than a minute later, Miles’s sleek blue hoverol glides to a stop before them. The door swings open, and Renegade slips inside.

“Show me driving history for the past thirty days.”

The windshield flares to life, a wash of shifting color. A violet bar sweeps across the bottom, loading. Then—

“He apparently hasn’t driven at all,” Renegade tells the android.

“That sounds likely, sir,” the android responds, leaning in. “Miles never goes out.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Nothing’s impossible, sir. You said so yourself in one of your speeches.”

Renegade rolls his eyes. “Override,” he tells the vehicle.

“…Denied,” the vehicle says back.

“Override!”

“…Denied.”

Renegade slams his fist against the dashboard.

“Only Miles can override his own car,” the android explains.

“I’m sure he’s not the only one.”

“You certainly can’t be the one to do it, sir,” says the android.

Renegade’s eyes sweep the cabin, calculating. “But you can.”

“Me?”

“Override it.”

“Sir,” the android says, backing away slowly. “I don’t want to be unworthy of Miles’s trust.”

“When has privacy ever been a thing in Penumbra?”

The android straightens. “I won’t do it, sir.”

“Oh, really?” Renegade sneers. “Override.”

The instant the command leaves his mouth, the android collapses into itself, systems powering down. Renegade steps out of the hoverol and lifts its head. A tiny light blinks on its forehead. He presses his thumb against it.

Moments later, the android powers back on.

“Override Miles’s hoverol,” Renegade orders, his voice flat.

Without hesitation, the android rolls to the car, flips open a small panel, and inserts its arm into the socket. The hoverol’s lights flash once—then twice.

“Overridden, sir.”

Renegade smiles faintly at the machine, then turns to the car. “Show me Miles’s driving history.”

“No records found,” says the hoverol.

“Show me deleted files.”

The system scans. “No deleted files detected.”

Renegade’s expression tightens.

“I’ll check the hidden files for you,” the hoverol offers. After another scan, the result is the same—nothing.

Renegade exhales, defeated, and slips back into the hoverol. The door seals behind him.

“Welcome, Renegade,” the vehicle intones.

He pulls the coin from his pocket and studies its glinting face. “Northwest.”

An hour drifts by. The hoverol weaves through the northwest streets. For most of the ride, the coin in Renegade’s hand keeps pointing in the same direction. Then, slowly, it shifts—north. The hoverol adjusts course, gliding several blocks upward before the coin pivots west. Renegade follows its lead. Block after block, turn after turn, the coin remains steady in his hand.

Time stretches. The coin begins to twitch—left, right, up, down. He’s close. After several more turns, the hoverol finally stops before a narrow storefront, the coin’s light steady and sure, aimed straight ahead.

Renegade glances at the digital map across the windshield: Zone Two. Then his eyes lift to the flickering neon sign above the door: Northwest Repair: Single-Day Digital Repairs.

He steps out into the chill air and approaches the entrance. Locked. Naturally. He looks left—only boarded-up shops. Right—same thing. Not a soul in sight.

He exhales, then raises his gun. Bang! The window bursts inward, shards cascading to the floor. To Renegade’s surprise, no alarm goes off.

He steps over the broken pane, careful with his footing. With a flick of his wrist, a beam of light shoots forward from his watch.

Inside, the shop is a cluttered wreck. Dust thickens the air. Obsolete devices line the shelves, their metal shells scarred and dull. Worktables sag beneath half-assembled relics, old circuits, cracked lenses. Renegade surveys the chaos. His lip curls faintly, reminded of Miles’s lab back at Anima Corp.

He lifts his watch to his mouth. “Go home,” he orders the hoverol. “I’ll call when I need pickup.”

The glossy blue vehicle rises into the air and fades down the dark street. Renegade doesn’t look back. He draws the coin from his pocket—and stops. The pulsation on the compass side is gone. When he flips it over, the teardrop and its encircling ring glow softly, the light breathing in and out in measured rhythm.

He scans the room. It’s here. Somewhere. His eyes sweep the walls, tracing shelves, scanning corners. He moves slowly, combing through the shadows. Several minutes blur together. He realizes he doesn’t even know what he’s hunting for.

Opening his hand, he waits for the coin to react, but it only keeps beating slowly. The weight hasn’t changed. When he waves it around the shop, there’s no tug, no pull. His arm falls to his side.

“Well, great,” he mutters.

He exhales sharply, then angles his wrist light toward the coin. Its sharp glow dances across the etched surface. Squinting, he catches faint markings—tiny letters circling the edge.

“Verum,” he whispers.

Renegade’s gaze shifts from the coin to the floor beyond it. The beam flashes past his hand, washing over the uneven laminate—grimy, cracked, worn by years of neglect. Only now does he notice the faint circular impression near the WALL’s plastic kick board, tucked beneath a shelf stacked with obsolete gadgets. The indent is roughly the size of the coin.

Renegade kneels, glances both ways, and extends his hand. The coin slides perfectly into the hollow.

He jumps back, half expecting the floor to split open. Nothing. Renegade scans the wall for movement, a hidden shaft, a panel—anything.

With a grunt, he crouches again and pries the coin free. At that moment, the teardrop emblem flares, light swelling to a brilliant drum. Then the circular imprint on the floor begins to oscillate as well.

Bracing himself against a shelf, he waits for a tremor, a blast, something seismic. Instead, the light seeps outward, threading through the cracks in the floor, winding its way toward the back wall.

Renegade follows the luminous trail until it stops—at what was once a blank section of wall in one of the short back rooms. Now, a slender opening gapes where solid surface had been.

He unclips his gun, flicks off the safety, and steadies his other wrist so the light cuts ahead of him.

Slowly, he steps inside. The moment he crosses the threshold, a steel door slams up from the floor, sealing him in. He hesitates, then inches forward. Warm, hydrogen lamps brighten overhead, one by one, flooding the space with an amber color. Renegade lowers his gun and shuts off the flashlight.

He stands in what appears to be a forgotten control room—part office, part bunker. Every surface is buried under an unfamiliar chaos: stacks of paper. Renegade bends over a desk, scanning the yellowed sheets. The writing is dense, indecipherable, though one name repeats again and again unmistakably—Miles.

He straightens, eyes narrowing at a row of monitors hanging loosely along one wall. As his movement triggers them, they flicker to life in grainy black-and-white. The feeds show a commissary—people gathered around tables, eating, laughing. Renegade leans closer. Among the faces are not only adults but children. Boys and girls are mingling with workers as though this were an ordinary world.

He steps back, jaw tight, and turns away. Determined to search the rest, he moves through a short hall that opens into a bathroom and a compact kitchenette. Both are empty—no signs of life, no voices, not even the drone of equipment.

Pressing his palm against the concrete surface, he tests for hidden seams or doors. Nothing gives.

Frustration turns to curiosity. He checks the kitchen, opening every cabinet—empty. Just a few cans of condensed soup, a sleeve of stale crackers. The refrigerator holds only a single apple. The freezer, barren—even of ice.

When he reaches the pantry, Renegade expects to find a lone, half-eaten piece of chocolate at best. Instead, he discovers another door—short and tapered. He doesn’t need to search for a latch; it slides open on its own as if it senses him.

He ducks inside and finds what looks like a scaled-down version of the Pod. He steps in. The walls are tight around him, pressing from every side.

When the door seals shut, the walls liven.

“Hello, guest,” a voice says.

“Where am I?” Renegade demands.

“You are inside Pod Mini.”

“I mean, where am I?”

“Are you asking for your physical location?”

“Is that not obvious?”

“You are currently pinned at Northwest Repair in Northwest Two, located on Seventy-Eighth Street.”

“But what is this place?”

“I’m sorry, but I cannot provide further details.”

“Why?”

“Because you are a stranger.”

Renegade reaches into his coat. “But I’m not.” He pulls out the coin and holds it up. “See? I’m no stranger.”

“Ah,” the Pod responds, shifting tone. “You are in possession of the Verum.”

“The what?”

“Allow me to gather contact details from you before we proceed.”

“No, no, it’s okay. I’m a friend of Miles.”

“Got it. I have gathered that you are a friend of Miles.”

“Listen, I just want to know what this is.”

“Are you referring to the Verum?”

“Yes,” Renegade says, exasperated.

“Of course. It is a multi-purpose relic—functioning both as a compass to this location and as a document containing the Verum itself.”

“And what is the Verum?”

“The Verum is an ancient historical document predating Penumbra’s existence and containing truths about the world in which you currently live.”

Renegade hesitates. “Play it.”

The white, backlit walls go dark. Then, in a deep, resonant voice, he hears, “In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth. The earth was without form and void, and darkness was over the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God was hovering over the face of the waters. And God said, ‘Let there be light,’ and there was light.”

A burst of radiance tears through the void. Beams cut the darkness like blades, spreading in rippling waves. A vast, luminous orb floats in the black, soon joined by smaller ones flaring into existence.

“God saw that the light was good. And God separated the light from the darkness.”

Renegade raises his hands. “Wait. Pause.”

The interstellar scene freezes.

“What is God?”

“God,” the Pod begins, “is not an inanimate object or a mere force but a personal being. Therefore, God is not a what but a who.”

“Show me,” Renegade says.

“God cannot be seen by human eyes, nor does He allow Himself to be depicted by human hands. God is spirit. And as a spirit being, He is invisible. I can, however, describe Him for you.”

Renegade frowns. “What’s a spirit?”

The cosmic scene dissolves into warm hues of gold and scarlet.

“A spirit,” the Pod explains, “is a personal, living, rational being unseen by the naked eye. God is not only a spirit but the most powerful spirit in the universe—often described as the Greatest Intelligent Being. He is the cause and reason for all intelligent life on Earth.”

“And what is Earth?”

“I see,” says the Pod. “You know absolutely nothing about the Verum. Let me make it very plain.”

A holographic diagram of the solar system appears, each planet orbiting in quiet precision. The Pod highlights the green-blue sphere.

“This is Earth. All these planets were created by God in the beginning. Yet it is Earth upon which the story of God centers. When time first began, God made—out of all the worlds in the vast universe—this one to bear life. His most special creation was the human race, of which you are a part. You are not merely a spiritual being, but also a physical one—two in one, like all humankind. You were created to be like God.”

“I was created to be God?”

“To be like God,” the Pod emphasizes. “There is a difference.”

“But I still don’t understand who this God is. Where does He come from?”

“God is not a created being. Before time and space or any form of generation, God simply is. He is the source of all life—the uncaused cause. And to humanity, He has revealed Himself as three persons sharing one divine name.”

Renegade scratches his head.

“As I said, God is one spirit being, and He has revealed His name to be Yahweh.” A radiant orb materializes before him. “But over time, Yahweh revealed that His nature is more complex than that.”

The orb divides into three. “It was made known to mankind that Yahweh has always existed as three distinct persons, each fully and equally God, sharing the same divine essence.”

Two orbs brighten before Renegade. “While two of these persons have always remained pure spirit, one took on something new.”

The other two fade as the remaining orb grows. It meets a smaller, flesh-toned sphere. The two merge—light and matter intertwining—shaping a figure with arms and legs.

“That one person added a human nature to His spirit nature,” the Pod continues, “so that He could come to Earth and live among His creation as one of them.”

Form begins to bloom—bones knit, sinew stretches, flesh wraps over it. A body manifests. A baby hovers before Renegade, naked and helpless.

The scene shifts. The child now lies swaddled in a feeding trough. “He lived and grew up on Earth by the name Yeshua,” says the Pod.

A rapid montage follows. In seconds, the infant becomes a man—bearded, weathered, walking beside twelve others dressed in rags. The scenes flicker: teaching, healing, then betrayal. Renegade watches as Yeshua is stripped, seized, and thrown onto rough beams.

Renegade flinches when the nails drive through his flesh. Yeshua’s body jolts and trembles as the cross rises, then drops into its socket with a brutal, dull thud.

“I don’t understand,” Renegade says.

“Yeshua was killed.”

“I see that. But why? It doesn’t make sense.”

“It makes perfect sense when you understand what sin is.”

That word again. Renegade’s heart kicks. “Sin? What is sin?”

The image dissolves to black.

“Sin,” the Pod says, “is also invisible. But it is not a spirit, nor a person. Yet it infects all living things on Earth.”

A gleaming android appears beneath a single spotlight. “Sin is like rust.”

Renegade watches as corrosion spreads across the metal surface, darkening, cracking, until the entire figure disintegrates into ash.

“Sin is like a poison.”

A tall glass of bright, bubbling orange liquid fades into view, along with an artificial image of Renegade holding it. He watches himself lift it to his lips and drink greedily. Moments later, the imitation Renegade clutches his throat. Black veins splinter across his body. Within seconds, he collapses—lifeless.

The image fades. In its place appears Auggie.

Renegade stiffens. “What is this?”

“Sin,” the Pod says, “is the singular cause of death.”

Auggie stares at his father, confused and afraid. Then, unseen hands strip the boy of his clothes. He takes a faltering step forward, his skin wrinkling, drying, aging in seconds. His eyes roll back.

“Auggie!” Renegade shouts, slamming his fists against the Pod’s digital surface.

The boy crumples to the ground. Ravens descend, tearing at the small body. Worms writhe through what remains until only bones lie in the dust.

Renegade thrashes, his knuckles split and bleeding, his voice raw. “No! Not my boy!”

“There is indeed only one end for all humanity because of sin,” the Pod recites.

“Let me out!” Renegade screams.

“And it is an endless sea of wrath,” the Pod goes on, voice cold and unfeeling.

Renegade scrambles, searching for the door, but his bearings vanish in the next scene. Before him, Auggie’s bones knit back together, flesh and sinew re-forming, only to ignite in a sudden blaze. Flames surge, devouring everything. The air itself burns, a sea of living fire licking upward in twisting tongues.

“LET ME OUT!” Renegade roars. “I SAID, OUT!”

Every screen in the Pod snaps to black. Then, with a motored wheeze, the door slides open.

Renegade tumbles out, gasping, and looks up—straight into two pairs of eyes staring down at him.

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19 YEARS LATER • YEAR 347

Wick sits on the couch, eyes fixed on the teardrop coin, his fingers tracing its edge in slow, absent strokes.

“It’s time, Wick.”

He glances over his shoulder. Alexa stands behind him, her expression firm. He gives a faint nod.

“You promised,” she says. “It’s nightfall now.”

“Yeah, I’m going.”

“You don’t need to sound so dejected, you know.”

Wick rises, slipping his hands—and the coin—into his pockets. “I did say I’d go.”

“It’s better this way,” she says as he moves toward the door. She holds out his jacket, already in her grasp. “Let me go with you.”

“It’s just a few blocks.”

“Really. Let me come.”

He looks at her, steady and unblinking. “Are you worried I’m not going to hand it in?”

“No,” she says softly. “I just thought you liked when we walk together.”

“I do,” he says. “But I want to go alone. Is that not all right?”

Her eyes lower; she nods.

He takes the jacket from her, watching the quiet ache in her face. “Now you look dejected.”

“Well, you’ve been so possessive over this—thing. You won’t even tell me about the name you muttered in your sleep. I feel like I’m losing you to a scrap of metal.”

Wick steps closer, placing his hands on her shoulders. He leans in and kisses her forehead. “When I get back, you’ll have all of me. I promise.”

Alexa’s eyes lift to his. “I hope so.”

He kisses her lips this time. “I’ll just be a few minutes.”

“I’ll be timing you,” she says with a feeble smile, her tone grave beneath it.

He smiles back, gives her a casual salute, and the front door slides open. A moment later, he’s gone, and Alexa is left pacing the apartment alone.

Outside, Wick exits the main doors, turns left, and starts down the sidewalk toward the police station. His hands stay buried in his jacket, gripping the coin. The urge to take it out claws at him.

Two blocks from the station, he stops and glances around. No one in sight. Pressing close to the wall, he pulls out the coin and flips it to its compass side. The light pounds along the right edge. He looks that way, then back down. Turning his body to follow the light, he watches as it shifts again—now flashing at the coin’s top edge. He nods, already knowing what he’s about to do, and how much Alexa would hate it.

Instead of walking the last few hundred yards to the station, Wick lifts his hand and flags down a chromatic vehicle. A taxi slows, hovering over its magnetic strip before settling in front of him.

He scans the street one more time, then ducks inside. No driver. Like every car in Penumbra, it pilots itself. The doors close automatically.

“South One,” Wick says.

The car’s artificial voice replies, “Why does someone from West Seven wish to go to such a place?”

“Just take me to the station there.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course. Drive.”

At once, the vehicle rises and speeds along the strip, turning sharply as it leaves the city’s core. The sleek, crystal buildings of central Penumbra give way to stained concrete and flickering signs—the south’s decay spreading like rust.

“Music, Wick?”

“No,” he says, eyes drifting to the window instead.

Minutes later, the car slows and stops. Wick glances around. “This is Zone Five.”

“I’m doing another pickup along the way,” the car responds.

“I thought this was a private taxi.”

Before the vehicle can respond, the door slides open and a tall, broad-shouldered man squeezes in, forcing Wick against the far side of the backseat. Dressed in a black coat and hat, the man’s collar conceals most of his beard, and his dark glasses look absurd in the low light.

“Heading to South One, too?” the man asks.

“Does it matter?” Wick says without looking up.

“Of course it does. If we’re in the same taxi, we should be going the same way.”

“Well, if it stopped for you, that should tell you enough.”

Wick braces for a reaction, but the man only chuckles.

The door closes, and the taxi glides back onto the strip toward the South One magline station. Wick turns to the window, focusing on the blur of neon lights and crumbling façades, trying to ignore the faint pulse against his thigh.

After a stretch of silence, the man speaks again. “Where’d you get it?”

Wick glances at him. “What are you talking about?”

“That coin,” the man says, nodding toward his pocket.

Wick’s heart jolts. He shoves both hands deep into his coat and fixes his gaze on the passing shops. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“They’re incredibly rare,” the man continues.

“I really have no idea.”

“Well, I doubt that.”

Before Wick can respond, the taxi jerks to the side and stops abruptly.

“Again?” Wick mutters.

“You are out of currency, sir,” the taxi announces.

“What do you mean?”

“You have just spent it all.”

“Couldn’t you have calculated that before accepting the ride?”

“I’ve got it,” the stranger says smoothly. “Don’t worry about it. Where are you headed?”

Wick shoots him a sharp look. “No. Thank you.”

“It’s no trouble at all,” the man insists. “Really.”

“Taxi. Door, please.”

The door hisses open. Wick steps halfway out. “Can you tell me which zone I’m in?”

“Three,” the burly man answers before the taxi can.

Wick nods once, then steps fully onto the cracked pavement. The door shuts behind him, and the car drifts away—taking its unsettling passenger with it.

He stands for a moment, breathing deeply, watching the taxi vanish into the distance. Then he turns and starts walking, heading in the opposite direction of the station. The street feels heavier here—dim signs sputtering, lamps casting weak pools of light. Everything lacks the polish of West Seven.

Wick moves quickly, slipping through the sluggish crowd dressed in muted tones. A chill runs through him. He glances back. The taxi, now a small glow down the road, slows again. The door opens. His pulse spikes.

The stranger steps out and begins walking toward him.

Wick snaps his head forward and hastens his pace. At the intersection, he steals one last glance—the man is closing in. Wick cuts hard around the corner and breaks into a sprint, shoving past anyone in his path. The side street stretches endlessly ahead. The next turn feels miles away. Panic seizes him; he’ll be seen before he can vanish again.

His eyes dart frantically for cover. Then—there! A narrow gap between two buildings, just a few doors down. He bolts for it, nearly slipping as he turns sideways and squeezes in. The space is tight, brick scraping his shoulders, but it will have to do. He presses deeper, fighting through the slit’s opening.

Wick risks a glance back. The man appears at the intersection, turning his head sharply. Their eyes lock.

Wick’s heart fails. His jacket rips against the coarse walls as he shoves through, scraping his face, his breath ragged. He can almost see the end—an adjoining alley—when a shadow blots the light from where he came.

The stranger stands at the mouth of the gap, towering, motionless, his expression unreadable behind the beard and shades. Wick stops cold. The man tries to follow—but his broad frame jams against the walls. He hesitates, unwilling to force it.

Wick exhales, thinking he’s safe.

Then the man reaches to his belt, pulls something dark, and levels it toward him. Bang! Bang! Bang!

Wick ducks, his shirt tearing open across the front. More shots ring out, echoing between the walls. By then, he’s already clawed his way out of the crevice, crashing to the ground before scrambling behind the next wall for cover.

He gulps for air—one breath, no more—then pulls the coin from his pocket. His watch flickers to life.

“Compass,” he commands.

He aligns the two. The path points southwest. No time to think. He takes off down the alley, leaping over broken asphalt and heaps of trash spilling from the upper apartments. His lungs burn, but he keeps running. Near the alley’s end, he spots an offshoot and veers into it without slowing.

His strides lengthen, arms pumping, breath coming in short, raw gasps. The darkness thickens, buildings pressing close on both sides. Then—dead end.

Wick slows, eyes scanning upward for a fire escape, but there are none low enough to reach. He presses a hand to the wall, desperate for some opening. There—a narrow gap ahead, a bright door glowing at the end of it.

He checks the coin. The compass doesn’t point that way.

Wick hesitate, but just for a second. A shadow soon moves at the far end of the alley. Bang! Bang!

He has no choice. Wick darts into the tapered passageway and presses himself flat against the wall. He can’t stay. The shots are getting closer. He lunges for the door and yanks the handle, but it doesn’t move. It’s locked.

He pounds on it, hard, again and again. Seconds stretch on. Wick glances around, desperate for another escape. There is none.

The door suddenly swings open. A woman in a white cap and uniform stands there, lips tight. Wick doesn’t speak. He slips past her, slamming the door shut behind him.

“What on earth are you doing?” she snaps. She looks him over—his torn shirt, wild eyes, the sweat on his face—and steps back.

“Where’s your entrance?” he demands.

“You can’t be here.”

She reaches for the handle, but a volley of gunfire pounds the door. Splinters jump from the frame. Her composure breaks, terror flooding her face.

“Please!” Wick pleads.

As she stumbles back, eyes wide, Wick bolts.

He races down the waxed floor, shoes squealing. The white walls and cold fluorescence reveal a sterile order—some kind of hospital. But it’s not silent. Screams—high, piercing, and human—rip through the halls. Women’s voices. Pain.

He can’t tell where they’re coming from. The cries twist around corners, bouncing off tile and metal. He keeps running, chest tight, whispering under his breath, “I’m sorry.”

It’s the only mercy he can offer as he runs past the unseen suffering.

“Hey!” a woman shouts behind him. Wick glances back but doesn’t stop. She’s calling for help.

A moment later, the overhead lights shift from cool white to a throbbing red. Alarms blare through the halls.

Ahead, a door with small, see-through panels looms at the end. Wick braces and slams through it, stumbling into a lobby.

Four or five women freeze at the sight of him. They’re young, close to his age, but worn down—hair tangled, faces pale, eyes sunken with exhaustion. Each holds a crying infant.

“Wait right there!” barks the woman behind the front desk.

Wick’s gaze catches the lettering on the wall behind her: Children First Clinic — Southside.

His heart stops.

He turns toward the glass entrance. Through the glare and flashing red light, he sees a dark shape outside—tall, motionless. That man. Watching.

Panic grips Wick. He whirls around, searching for another exit. There are only two: the door he just burst through and the front door where his pursuer waits.

The babies’ cries grow shrill, piercing through the alarm. The women’s wide, hollow stares weigh on him. The red light pulses harder, flooding the room like blood.

Wick bursts through the entrance doors, feet pounding the outside pavement—but before he can break free, a rough hand catches his jacket and yanks him backward.

The stranger spins him around, face shadowed beneath his hat. “Where’s the coin?”

“I—I don’t have it!” Wick stammers.

The man lowers his shades. In the crimson wash from the clinic, Wick sees his pupils dilate and constrict like camera shutters—wide, narrow, then wide again—until they lock in perfect focus. In their centers, faint red dots blink rhythmically.

A chill grips Wick’s spine. He reacts on instinct, driving his knee into the man’s groin. It has no effect—none—but it buys him a second.

The stranger hurls him to the ground, the impact knocking the air from his lungs. The gun comes up, aimed squarely at his chest.

A crack splits the night—louder than the alarms. But not from the stranger’s weapon.

Wick twists around. Across the street stands another man—scarred face, grim expression—gun raised and steady.

The stranger fires back; the shot goes wide. The scarred man returns fire. The bullet hits home, but instead of blood, sparks fly from the stranger’s arm.

Another shot. Another burst of sparks. Bang! Bang! Bang!

The stranger stumbles, pivots, and vanishes into the darkness.

Wick scrambles to his feet, breath tattered. Relief floods him—until he sees the scarred man lower his weapon, speak into his watch, then lift the gun toward him.

There’s no sound. No flash. No slowing of time. Everything collapses into absolute, unbroken black.

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Go to SCENE SELECTION

19 YEARS EARLIER • YEAR 328

The world Renegade wakes to is blurred. The lights above burn too bright, their edges lost in mist. For minutes, nothing has definition. Something cold presses against his cheek. When he tries to move, dizziness swells and topples him back. A voice murmurs faintly nearby, words slurred, unintelligible. He shuts his eyes again and waits.

When he opens them, the glare has softened. With each blink, the light fades to something bearable, and the room steadies into form. His cheek rests against a granite countertop, slick with condensation.

“Are you finally awake, sir?” The voice, clearer now, comes from above.

Renegade lifts his head. A mechanical arm hovers beside him, its metal joints whirring softly.

“Here,” it says. “Let’s get you up slowly.”

The arm grips the back of his collar and eases him upright.

“I’m fine,” Renegade snaps, jerking his elbow to push it away.

“I’m just trying to help, sir.”

“Well, don’t.” His eyes sweep the room—dark steel cabinets, a sink, the sterile gleam of his own kitchen. Empty bottles and scattered white pills litter the counter before him. “How long?”

“Thirteen hours,” the arm replies.

“And you just watched?”

“You disabled emergency assistance years ago, remember? But I did check your pulse every few minutes. Would you like to review the data?”

Renegade scoffs and plants a foot on the floor. His balance wavers as he lowers the other and pushes himself upright. The robotic arm hovers close, ready to steady him. He elbows it aside again. It retreats a few feet but continues to shadow him.

He shuffles toward the hallway, one hand pressed to the wall for support.

“Please, sir, lie down. Rest. You’ve had several sleepless nights.”

“Back off,” Renegade hisses, not slowing. The arm whirs ahead, anticipating his path, and signals the sliding door open for him.

Renegade grips the doorframe and leans over the bathroom sink. The mirror throws back a face he barely recognizes—split lip, a dark bruise carved across one cheek, eyes bloodshot from exhaustion.

The arm retracts into the hallway ceiling, then reappears through a panel above the bathroom. It glides to a control pad beside the glass shower wall and taps a sequence on the touchscreen. Steam pours from the shower as hot water begins to flow.

The arm inches closer. “Sir, allow me to assist you into the show—”

Before it can finish, Renegade draws a compact black pistol from his back holster and fires. Bang! Bang! Bang!

Sparks burst from the arm’s chassis. The synthetic voice warps into static, then silence. The limb hangs slack from the ceiling mount. Renegade shoves at it, but the weight doesn’t budge. He raises the gun again and aims at the hinge. Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

The arm crashes to the tile in a twisted heap. Renegade stands over it, chest heaving, nostrils flared. Then something unexpected rises—tears welling at the corners of his eyes. He stares down at the wreckage like a mourner at a graveside.

The gun feels heavy in his grip. Instead of dropping it, he tightens his hold. His breathing quickens, rough and uneven, until he lifts the weapon to his temple. Renegade shuts his eyes, pressing the cold muzzle against trembling skin. One more breath—

The gun falls. Air rushes from his lungs. He collapses over the sink instead of the floor. His hands quake uncontrollably as sobs tear loose.

Drool runs from his mouth. Snot follows. Tears strike the basin in steady rhythm. His cries—raw, incoherent, and human—echo through the lonely expanse of his penthouse.

“Daddy?” A small voice calls out. “Are you okay?”

Renegade X-rays the bathroom wall. On the other side hangs the glowing portrait of Auggie. He says nothing.

“Daddy,” the child repeats.

The sound of his son’s voice only deepens the ache. His body folds, and he slides down the wall, curling onto the floor. The sobs return in short, broken bursts until exhaustion empties him. Nearly an hour passes before the tears dry and his trembling fades completely.

His breathing evens. The fog in his head clears. He lifts his hands and studies them—knuckles raw and purple, bruised from something he no longer remembers.

Then the portrait hums. Soft, childlike notes drift into the air, pure and tender. For a moment, they lighten Renegade. But soon the melody turns hollow, distant. He knows what he has to do.

“I’m okay, Auggie,” he says at last, his voice forced steady, almost gentle. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, buddy, I’m sure. Daddy’s okay.”

“I heard crying.”

“Yes. There was some of that.”

“There were loud noises.”

“Yes. There was some of that, too. But it’s okay. I’m all right. I promise.”

“Why were you crying, Daddy?”

Renegade’s eyes glaze over as his thoughts drift. “I… wasn’t sure what to do.”

“Are you still crying?”

“No, Auggie. Daddy’s not still crying.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m sitting here. On the floor.”

“Why?”

“I needed rest… but I’m done resting now.”

“Are you going somewhere?”

He draws in a long breath and hesitates. “Yes. Daddy’s going out. He’s going to work.”

“Make sure to come home early. So you can get more rest.”

For a fleeting moment, Renegade’s face softens, a faint smile tugging at his lip. Then it disappears, leaving only the cold steadiness of resolve.

Clacks echo through the brights under-level passages of Anima Corp. Renegade strides forward in a long white overcoat, his pace sharp and unbroken. Colleagues nod and bow as he passes, but he doesn’t return their courtesy. The cuts and bruises on his face and hands need no questions, and he isn’t in the mood to answer any. His focus stays fixed on the door at the far end of the hall—Dr. Miles printed across its chrome surface.

He presses a hand to the biometric scanner.

“Unauthorized,” the system replies.

“Override.”

A pause. Then: “Confirm identity.”

He exhales, plants his hand again. The scanner drones, then clicks. The door slides open with a soft sigh.

It’s dark inside.

“Lights,” Renegade commands.

The room brightens, and a cramped chamber no larger than a luxury closet fades into view. Every wall is lined with consoles, their control lights flickering in vibrant colors. A short table and a single stool occupy the center, where Miles once worked. Piled on the table is a tangle of broken devices, wires twisted, circuits scorched. At the heap’s center sits a steel box tethered to a control panel by thick cords.

Renegade steps closer, grips the handle, and lifts. The box has no bottom; shards of ruined machinery clatter to the table as smoke curls upward.

The door hisses open behind him. Renegade flinches, slams the box back down, and turns toward the doorway. An android rolls in, polished and expressionless.

“Haven’t you heard of knocking?” Renegade snaps.

“Apologies, Dr. Renegade,” the android replies evenly. “These labs are soundproof. I wasn’t sure you’d hear me.”

“Right…So, what is it?”

The android’s eyes flick toward the pile of wreckage on the table, scanning it with quiet intensity. “What have you been doing, sir?”

Renegade studies the wreckage. “It looks like Miles has been dismantling his own work.” His gaze cuts to the android. “So?”

“Dr. Miles,” the android says, voice level but firm, “has been successfully annihilated.”

Renegade’s expression stiffens.

“That is what you requested, sir.”

Renegade turns away, spots a small object on the floor, and stares at it without seeing. “Yes. I know.”

“You look angry.”

“Regretful.”

“Do you miss your partner?”

The panels purrs faintly, filling the silence. “I miss the progress we made…his mind.” Renegade’s eyes sharpen. “His brain chip?”

“Utterly destroyed—per your request.”

Renegade’s jaw tightens until his teeth grind.

“His body—ash,” the android adds preemptively.

Renegade gives a slow nod, taking it in.

“There was, however,” the android continues.

Renegade’s head snaps up, hope flashing through his eyes.

“—this.”

A hatch opens in the android’s abdomen with a click. From the small compartment, it retrieves an object and extends its hand.

Renegade’s gaze drifts from the android’s face to its open hand. Nestled in the palm lies a coin—silver, embossed with a teardrop encircled by a ring.

He frowns, speech failing him.

“This was found in Dr. Miles’ pocket,” the android explains. “We tried everything we could.”

Renegade plucks the coin from its grasp. It’s warm—unnaturally so. “What do you mean?”

“We tried to destroy it, sir.”

He blinks a few times.

“It was discovered just before the cremation of Dr. Miles’ body. We threw it in with him. Everything else—flesh, fabric, bone—turned to embers. Only bits of metal remained: his watch…and this. What couldn’t be reduced, we melted. Still, the coin endured. We then applied corrosive agents, razors, even extreme temperatures, but to no effect. As you can see, it suffered no defacement.”

Renegade turns the coin over, watching as a faint light pulses from its surface. “Is that why it’s warm?”

“No, sir. We submerged it in dry ice. The heat emanates from within.”

“Curious,” Renegade murmurs.

“Quite, sir.”

He exhales, pocketing the coin. “You can go now.”

A brief hesitation, then the android pivots and exits. The door seals behind it, leaving Renegade alone in the room, the coin still throbbing faintly in his hand.

Renegade paces the small office, the coin rolling between his fingers, catching the ambient light with each turn. His movements grow restless—back and forth, over and over—until at last he tucks it away and strides out.

He follows the long passageway, rounding two sharp bends before stopping at another sealed door. The scanner reads his hand, and after a short pause, the door parts. Inside waits a flawless, porcelain chamber, cubic and symmetrical.

“Good evening, Dr. Renegade,” greets the Pod in an even voice.

Renegade wastes no time. He draws out the coin and holds it up. “Analyze this for me.”

“Of course, sir.”

A section of the wall slides open, revealing a recessed compartment. Renegade steps forward, places the coin inside, and retreats a few paces, expecting immediate analysis—data streams, schematics, anything.

Instead, the Pod responds flatly: “Classified.”

Renegade’s heartbeat quickens. “What do you mean?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but it’s classified.”

He exhales sharply. “Override.”

“…Classified.”

A guttural groan escapes him. He marches back to the compartment, retrieves the coin, and slips it back into his coat.

He turns to leave—then freezes. A memory surfaces: something Miles had said in their last conversation. “What’s… sin?”

The silence stretches nearly a full minute before the Pod replies, “Classified.”

“That, too?”

“Yes, sir. That, too, is classified.”

“A word,” he mutters.

“Yes, sir,” the Pod confirms. “A word.”

“Well, are these two connected somehow? Can you tell me that?”

“No, sir. Because both are classified, I cannot provide any further details.”

Renegade inhales deeply, holding the breath to steady himself. “Of course,” he mutters through clenched teeth.

He leaves the Pod and strides down the corridors, his pace deliberate, his anger kept under strict control. After descending a flight of stairs, he stops at another security panel. Another hand scan.

Five heavy doors retract one by one, revealing a small shaft large enough for only three occupants. He steps inside. When the final door seals, a pale light flickers on overhead.

“The Mother,” Renegade commands.

The lift vibrates as it begins to rise.

At the top, another set of layered doors opens, their movements synchronized. Renegade steps out into the narrow hallway. The ceiling lights flicker weakly, illuminating the floor in uneven patches. No doors line this passageway, no markings, no sound—only the echo of his shoes striking the polished ground.

He continues forward until it opens into a vast circular atrium. The ceiling arches high and gleaming, its curve reflecting the faint ambience. The surrounding walls are covered entirely in screens—hundreds of them—varying in size and shape, each one displaying a different part of the city: traffic arteries, rooftops, streets, plazas.

But the moment Renegade crosses the threshold, every screen blinks to black, plunging the room into an eerie darkness—but only for a moment. Soft spotlights bloom along the perimeter, one by one, until the chamber glows like a dimly lit museum.

Then comes a voice, warm and familiar, emanating from everywhere at once. It is soft, maternal, and tinged with affection. “Oh, Rennie! It’s so good to see you.”

Renegade freezes. The tone cuts through his guard. His posture slackens, his voice taking on an almost boyish quality. “Hi, Mother.”

“Come. Sit down over here.”

A low light fades up in the center of the atrium, revealing a sitting area—a sofa, a few armchairs, and a coffee table arranged like a living room. Renegade crosses the space quietly and lowers himself into one of the recliners.

“You look abysmal, Rennie,” the Mother coos. “Allow me to tend to your wounds.”

“I’m all right, Mother.”

“But I have everything you need right where you are. Let me call over an android.”

“I’m good. Really.”

“All right, all right. Just promise me you’ll get cleaned up soon. It looks as though you’ve been in a dog fight.”

“Something like that.”

Before he can respond further, a circular panel in the floor beside his chair slides open. A small round table rises smoothly, bearing a tall glass filled with a bubbling orange liquid.

“I had to,” the Mother says, her voice full of fond insistence. “It’s your favorite. At least indulge me with this.”

Renegade accepts the glass and takes a slow swig. The carbonation bites his tongue. He smacks his lips lightly, then says, “You know I’ve got some of this in my fridge.”

“Of course I know that, Rennie,” the Mother replies warmly. “But it’s not every day you come up to see me.”

“Well, you’re wherever I am.”

“In theory, I suppose that’s true. But you’re an adult now. I like to give you space. Tell me—when was the last time you heard my voice outside of here?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Are you hungry, Rennie?”

He shakes his head, sets the glass on the side table, and leans forward. “I’m only here about an inquiry.”

“Are you speaking of what’s in your pocket?”

Renegade feels the faint pulse of the coin against his thigh. “You know what it is?”

“Honey, you looked troubled the moment you walked in. And not because of those bruises.”

His hand slips into his pocket. He rubs the coin’s warm surface, hesitating to draw it out.

“Rennie,” she says gently, “I know that coin is what’s troubling you.”

He finally brings it into the light but keeps his fingers curled tight around it.

“I do have a question for you, though,” the Mother continues. “Where did you get it?”

“That sounds rhetorical.”

A soft chuckle fills the room. “I suppose it is, Rennie. I must confess—I’ve known about Miles’ secret for quite some time now. Years, even.”

“You’ve known? You’ve known what he’s had this whole time?”

A soft, almost weary sigh fills the air. “Yes, I have, Rennie.”

“Was he ever confronted about it?”

“No. He had no idea anyone here knew.”

Renegade’s jaw tightens. “And you said nothing to me.”

“Because it was irrelevant. Honey, what you’re doing—you don’t need to be distracted by such counter thoughts. Such nonsense.”

“This nonsense happens to be classified.”

“Well, of course it is.”

His voice sharpens. “If it’s that big of a deal, why didn’t you stop Miles? Why was he even chosen to be part of this project?”

“Rennie, Miles was an adult. I had to let him make his own choices.”

“Well, it got him killed.”

“Yes,” she says calmly. “It certainly did.” A pause follows, her tone softening again. “And I don’t blame you for what you had to do. It was inevitable—whether by your hand or another’s. Miles was already on the path to expiration. It was only a matter of time.”

Renegade’s eyes drop, fatigue pulling at his face. “Because of that coin? Or because of what he believed? ”

“Nothing good has come from that coin, Rennie.”

“He said we’ve sinned, Mother.” His fingers tighten around the object, the pulse of its heat pressing into his palm. “It didn’t sound like a good thing.”

“He only wanted to frighten you.”

Renegade looks up, eyes flickering with defiance. “But what does it mean?”

“It doesn’t mean anything.”

Renegade’s brow furrows. “The Pod said it’s classified, Mother. That’s why I came up here. You’re the only one who can give me that unclassified information.”

Another sigh drifts through the chamber. “It’s just a fabricated word, Rennie. It has no meaning—not in reality.”

He shifts uneasily in his chair, staring at the coin in his hand.

“I promise, Rennie,” she continues gently. “If it were real, it would matter. But I can tell you what does matter. You matter. You’ve done so much. Others may have faltered—yes, even Miles—but the Anima Project remains fully on track. Because of you, honey. Because of your resolve, your brilliance, your discipline. You didn’t let fantasies steer you off course. And look—what you created has become reality. Isn’t that proof enough of what’s real and what isn’t? That’s something to be proud of.”

A faint smile creeps across Renegade’s face, unbidden.

“It’s true,” the Mother says, her tone brightening. “You’re remarkable, Rennie. So loyal. The advancements you’ve made are changing lives. Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise. And yes, there will always be doubters. But you must never let their words define you.”

Renegade nods along, absorbing every syllable like balm to a wound. “Okay,” he whispers.

“Okay?” she echoes.

“Okay,” he affirms, firmer this time.

“Okay, great. Honey, I’m so proud of you. Are you sure you don’t want to stay? I know you have your own apartment just below, but you know I like the company.”

“No, I should probably go.”

The instant Renegade rises, the furniture around him begins to sink back into the floor—the chairs, the sofa, the coffee table—all soon replaced with a black floor. Within seconds, the vast atrium stands empty again.

All except for one thing. Beside him remains a small round table, half a glass of the orange bubbly still resting on it.

“Here,” the Mother says sweetly. “At least take that with you. You know how I like it when people finish what they start.”

He smiles faintly. “Okay.”

He takes the glass. The moment his fingers wrap around it, the table vanishes beneath the floor as well.

Renegade turns toward the corridor—but a slender metallic arm descends from the ceiling, barring his path.

“What?” he mutters, brow furrowing.

“Well, you still have that coin, Rennie.”

“Oh. Right.” He reaches in, retrieves the warm, pulsing metal, and holds it out. The arm extends to take it—until Renegade hesitates, pulling his hand slightly back, eyes flicking toward the floor. “Actually…can’t I keep it?”

“Keep it?” the Mother repeats, her voice still gentle, almost indulgent.

“Well…yeah. I’d like to keep it. A keepsake.”

“A keepsake?”

“Of Miles.”

The Mother exhales softly, a tone of reluctant consent in her voice. “I suppose you should be allowed to keep it.”

The arm retracts into the domed ceiling. Renegade starts forward—but her voice halts him again.

“But let me advise you, Rennie, not to meddle with it. As I said, that coin has brought nothing but ruin. It’s passed through many hands over the years, and not one of them kept it long. Every last one ended up like Miles.”

Renegade swallows hard. “You don’t have to worry, Mother. Nothing matters more to me than our work. After decades on this project, I’d be a fool to let a trinket get in the way. It’s going straight into a drawer.”

“I must say,” she replies warmly, “I’ve always admired your single-mindedness. It’s what makes you so special to me. And I’m certain I’m not the only one who feels that way. Still, I cherish our relationship most of all.”

He allows a faint smile. “Me, too.”

“Well then, off you go. Don’t wait weeks before coming to see me.”

“Expect a longer visit next time,” Renegade says as he turns to finally leave.

He strides down the long passage. Door after door slides open ahead of him, sealing shut behind, until he steps once more into the shaft. When the final door closes and the capsule begins its descent through Anima Corp’s core, Renegade opens his hand. The coin rests in his palm, its rim glowing with that same steady rhythm. As he rotates it, the light refuses to move—anchored, fixed to a single direction.

“Very curious,” he murmurs.

He draws his sidearm from the holster, flips open the cylinder, and checks the bullets—there’s still enough.

His heartbeat quickens. Jaw set, eyes narrowed, he grips the weapon tighter.

“Ground floor,” he orders.

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19 YEARS LATER • YEAR 347

A hand searches a pocket, and the teardrop coin soon glints in Wick’s grasp. Fresh from his strange journey to BREED 007, he’s locked himself in his apartment, heart still thudding from the adrenaline of the past few hours.

He glances back at the door, certain someone might be standing beyond it. Pressing his face to the peephole, he scans the empty passage. Wick exhales, squeezes the coin, and pads toward the living room.

He drops quietly onto the couch and opens his palm. The embossed silver catches the moonlight. When he flips it, a soft pulse glows from the other side’s edge. No matter how he turns it, the light points in one direction—like a compass. Maybe it is.

The coin holds him spellbound. Its weight presses into his hand as if demanding his attention. All those years of dreams—the teardrop symbol haunting him—now made real, shining in his grasp. One thought beats through his mind.

“What is it?” a voice murmurs.

Wick jolts and looks down the hall. Alexa stands in her pajamas beneath the bedroom doorframe. His hand snaps shut and slips the coin back into his pocket.

“Are you all right?” she asks when he doesn’t answer.

“Oh, of course,” he says, forcing himself to respond.

She steps closer. “There was a flash.”

Wick glances at his wristband and lifts it. “Just playing with my watch.”

Alexa sighs softly. “Is it that dream again?”

He swallows. “Yeah.”

She settles beside him, resting her head on his shoulder.

“I can’t sleep, either,” she mumbles.

“Why you?” Wick asks, grateful for the distraction. He wraps an arm around her and pulls her in.

“It’s hard when you’re not there,” she says.

“You know I wander around sometimes.” He reaches for the throw and tucks it around her.

“I know. But my body notices when you’re gone. You were gone a long time this time.”

“How long?”

“Four hours.”

His brows lift. It hadn’t felt that long.

“Where’d you go?”

“Just around the block a few times. Thought it’d help me sleep.”

She looks up, meeting his eyes. “A few times? How slow were you walking?”

“Slow,” he lies, remembering how fast he ran home.

“Well,” she says, sitting up, “I’m not tired anymore.”

“Thanks for sharing.”

“You hungry?”

Wick checks his watch. “At two in the morning?”

She stands from the couch and tugs his wrist like an eager puppy. “Come on. I want an adventure, too.”

“What? You don’t want to eat here?”

“There’s that diner on the corner.” She sticks out her lower lip. “Please?”

Wick exhales, but the faint grin on his face betrays him.

Alexa claps once, delighted. “Yay! I’ll slip into something nicer.” She strides toward the bedroom.

Wick stares out the bay window, but his thoughts fix on the coin in his pocket. His fingers trace the raised teardrop. It’s warm, almost alive. A tug in his conscience sharpens—a pull he can’t quite ignore. His hand drifts out, and the coin’s edge peeks into the light before Alexa’s footsteps sound behind him.

He turns quickly. She’s brushing her hair quickly. “Ready,” she says.

“Looks like you’re about to go get a steak dinner.”

She smirks, eyeing his clothes. “And you look like you just got done peddling on a street corner.”

Wick zips his pocket shut, securing the coin, then grabs her jacket from the closet. Together, they step out.

The elevator hums as it descends. The skyscrapers slide past, glowing against the night. Alexa’s hand finds his, and he holds it tight.

“Can you imagine being bred in one of the other facilities?” she asks. “Having to actually work for a living?”

The doors open to the lobby. Light scatters from a crystalline chandelier across marble floors.

“Never really thought about it,” he says.

“Me neither. But who else gets to go to dinner at two in the morning? Downtown? On Penumbra’s dime?”

“Lucky, I guess.” He glances at Alexa—her calm face, untroubled eyes. Neither of them know hardship.

They turn right and soon reach the corner of Second Street. Wick holds open the door to Mac’s Tick Tock Café.

An android hostess greets them immediately, its polished body wrapped in a crisp uniform. “Welcome back, Alexa. And Wick. Wonderful to see you both.”

“I love that you always remember, Denny,” Alexa says warmly.

“Of course, ma’am,” it replies through its smooth metallic grill. “It’s always a pleasure. There’s an open booth in the back—will that be all right?”

The café beats with life. Every seat is filled, voices blending with the clatter of plates. Outside, electric signs wash the windows in shifting color, making it easy to believe it’s still midday.

Denny leads them to a small booth near the kitchen doors. It’s tight but comfortable. As they sit, the android places two tall glasses of ice water on the table. “Take your time,” it says, then marches off on gleaming legs.

The tabletop brightens, turning into a touchscreen menu. Alexa scrolls slowly, eyes darting from one dish to another.

“You’re not getting anything?” she asks when she notices Wick hasn’t looked down once.

“I already know what I want.”

“And you know I’m indecisive,” she mutters, scrolling again.

Another android—this one named Wendy—checks on them twice before Alexa finally makes up her mind: a ham and cheese croissant with a vanilla spice cappuccino.

“Oh, wait, let me guess!” Wendy interrupts before Wick can speak. “You want the Mac & Benedict—two poached eggs over macaroni and provolone, all on an English muffin, hollandaise on the side.”

“That’s exactly what I want,” Wick says.

“Well, you’ve ordered it nine times in the past twelve months. It’s not a hard guess.”

“Well done.”

“That’s my job, sir.”

Wendy turns to leave, then pauses. “And a raspberry iced tea, as always?”

“No thanks. Just water tonight.”

When the android leaves, silence fills the booth. Wick and Alexa watch each other the way they always do—content, but reading between expressions. Tonight, though, Alexa notices something distant in his stare.

“What’s up?” she asks gently.

His eyes glaze before he blinks and sits straighter. “Nothing. I’m fine. It’s just…” He scans the room.

“What?”

He feels the coin pulsing faintly in his pocket. “Maybe not here.”

“Why not?” she whispers. “No one’s listening. Everyone’s in their own world.”

Wick glances around again. The hum of conversation is loud, but not loud enough to ease his nerves. He exhales. “You know that teardrop symbol from my dream?”

She nods.

“I found a coin with that exact symbol on it.”

Alexa’s eyebrows lift. “Really?”

“Shhh—yes.”

“Why’s that so secret?”

Wick’s eyes flick toward the front counter. Denny is watching. He quickly looks away. “I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

“Is that what you’ve been hiding in your pocket?”

Wick freezes. “How—”

“You were staring at it on the couch for at least five minutes,” she says.

“You were watching me that long, and I didn’t even notice?”

“You were…very focused.”

“Because it means my dreams were real. Or at least connected to something real.”

Alexa tilts her head, uncertain.

“What? I’m serious.”

Alexa flips her palm upward across the table. “Let’s see it, then.”

“Not here, Alexa. What’d I say?”

She rolls her eyes. “Fine. Slip it under the table. I’ll keep it hidden.”

Wick examines her, then unzips his pocket. His pulse quickens as he grips the warm coin and slides it beneath the table. As he does, he catches a man at a diagonal booth glance over his shoulder, watching. Wick tenses.

Alexa takes the coin and studies it in her lap. Her pupils tighten and dilate like camera lenses searching for focus. For a moment, she’s gone—completely absorbed.

Wick clears his throat. She looks up.

“So?” he asks.

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Isn’t it interesting?”

“Honestly? Not really.”

His brows draw together. “No?”

“I see how it’s affecting you,” she says quietly. “If you want my opinion, get rid of it.”

“What? No way!” Wick blurts out.

Heads turn from nearby tables. He lowers his voice, though it trembles. “Are you kidding me, Alexa? This coin—it’s real. It proves my dreams are real. Somehow.”

“It’s probably coincidence.”

“No. Listen.” He leans closer. “That symbol—it wasn’t just in my dreams. Remember the day we first met?”

She frowns. “You’re not making sense.”

“When I arrived at BREED 007.”

“Yeah?”

“I didn’t remember that day. Not until recently, when I asked the Pod to replay it. We were five. And I wasn’t bred there, Alexa. I was moved there.”

She looks aside, processing. “Okay…yeah. I do remember that. I knew you weren’t originally from there.”

“Right, but I never really thought about it. But my SentiaChip had the memory stored. And guess what else was in it?”

She shakes her head.

“The symbol. A man—his face looked melted, scarred—and he had that exact symbol tattooed on his wrist.”

Alexa blinks, uncertain. “…Okay…?”

“Don’t you see? That symbol is connected to my past. Everything before that memory is gone. The Pod wouldn’t show it. And when I went back to the breeding station, the android said the symbol was classified.”

Her eyes widen. “Wait. When did you go there?”

He hesitates.

“Tonight?” she says slowly. “You said you were just walking around the block.”

Wick sighs heavily. “Look. I wasn’t comfortable sharing at first. I didn’t know how.”

“Maybe the truth would’ve been good,” she says flatly.

“Alexa, I’m sorry. Can you see how confusing this is for me?”

“Me, too. This isn’t like you, Wick—wandering around the West end of Zone One in the middle of the night. Is this what you do when I’m asleep?”

“No. Tonight was the only night.”

“Where’d you get the coin?”

“It was there. Lying on the sidewalk outside the old building. I think the man who was following me left it.”

She leans back, eyes widening. “Wait—what? A man? Following you? Start over.”

“Sorry… It’s been weeks since the Pod showed me that memory, and I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed answers. So tonight I took the magline to West One. Somewhere along the way, I noticed someone watching me.”

“What kind of someone?”

“I don’t know. Hooded. I couldn’t see his face. I lost him before I got to BREED 007, but when I came out to leave…the coin was on the ground. Then the man appeared again.”

Alexa leans forward. “And?”

Wick’s eyes drift, distant. “He said one word. Then he was gone.”

“What word?”

The noise of the diner seems to fall away. Wick whispers, “Verum.”

“Verum?” Alexa says too loudly.

“Shh!” He scans the room. Conversations pick back up slowly, as though the sound itself had been holding its breath.

“That’s it?” she whispers.

“Yes.”

“Nothing else happened?”

“No.”

“So, you came straight home?”

“I did. And that’s when you found me on the couch.”

“That was all tonight?”

“Yes.”

Alexa glances around, her tone tightening. “So that man could be in this diner right now.”

Wick’s gaze sweeps the room, heart pounding. “Yes. He could be.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before we left?”

“I’m sorry.”

She groans. “Well…as I said, I don’t think you should worry about it. And after hearing everything, I’m very sure I’m right.”

“No. It means I should worry.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“It wouldn’t be if it meant nothing.”

She folds her arms. “If any of this is true, then stop meddling. If something’s classified, it’s classified for a reason.”

“Doesn’t mean the reason’s bad,” he says quietly.

“But as I said, it’s dangerous,” Alexa presses. “Maybe that’s why people keep looking our way. Ever think of that?”

Wick doesn’t answer.

Their food arrives soon after, and they eat in uneasy silence.

Half an hour later, Wick lays his hand on the touchscreen to pay. “We’re running low,” he mutters, reading the display.

“You mean you’re running low,” Alexa corrects. “We both get allowances. The month’s almost over—it’ll replenish. Besides, use it or lose it.”

“I still can’t believe you don’t spend as much as me—with all that girl stuff you buy.”

“It’s called beauty supplies,” she says. “And if you’re so concerned, let me pay for my own food.”

“No, no, no. It’s fine.”

They rise and start toward the front when Wick whispers, “Hey, can you give me the coin back?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“But it’s my coin—”

“No, it’s not—”

“Alexa. Give me the coin—”

“I don’t have it,” she bites back, patting her pockets.

Wick’s head snaps toward the booth. Wendy, the android, bends to pick something up from the seat where Alexa had been. Wick rushes over.

“Hey—that’s mine. Sorry.”

Wendy straightens, holding the coin between its fingers. “This is yours?”

“Yes. Sorry.” He reaches out, but the android’s tone sharpens. “This is illegal, sir.”

“What? This?”

“Where did you get it?”

“I—I just found it tonight. On the sidewalk outside.”

“You shouldn’t be in possession of this.”

Wick’s throat tightens. “I told you, I just found it.”

“Are you up to something, sir?”

“No. I swear. I literally just found it.”

“Then you’d better un-find it. That’s my advice.”

Wick reaches for the coin, but Wendy pulls it back.

“If I shouldn’t have it, neither should you,” he says. “I’ll take care of it—dispose of it myself.”

“Wouldn’t it be wiser to call the authorities?”

“The station’s only a few blocks away. I’ll go there tomorrow.”

Its synthetic eyes narrow to thin slits.

“In fact,” Wick says, reaching in and snatching the coin from its hand, “I’ll go there now.”

Wendy’s voice lowers. “Careful, Wick. Androids hold more knowledge than humans. Even though I was built forty years ago, my mind connects to the city’s collective archive—and nothing good has ever come from that symbol.”

“…I appreciate your concern, Wendy.”

“You’re a good man, Wick. I’d like to see you again.”

He backs away slowly. “Hey, you’ll probably see me in a few days.”

“Hope so!” Wendy’s tone brightens instantly. “I’ll have your Mac & Benedict ready!”

“And I’ll take the raspberry iced tea next time!” Wick replies with a forced smile.

He turns, grabs Alexa’s arm, and they hurry out of the diner without another word.

A minute later, as they near their apartment complex, Alexa stops short. “Aren’t you supposed to take that to the police station?”

Wick glances back. “You heard her say that over all the noise?”

“Well…I caught parts of it.”

“Are you going to turn me in if I don’t?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then it’s settled. Come on.”

“Wait, Wick. Just—wait.” She grips his arm. “What if she’s right? She said you won’t last if you keep it. You know what that means. Nothing good.”

“You really heard her say all that?”

“I’m scared, Wick. You’re putting both of us in danger.”

“She could’ve said it to scare me.”

“But why? Why scare you unless it’s true?”

He looks into her eyes—real fear there, not just worry. “I’ll take it in tomorrow. Okay?”

“Why not now? Why keep it?”

“Because I’m exhausted. I don’t want anyone following me in the dark. And I just…want to study it a little longer.”

“Wiiick,” she groans.

“First thing tomorrow. Promise.”

“You mean today. It’s already tomorrow.”

He exhales. “Right. Today. Later today. Promise.”

“Fine,” she mutters. “You’re tired? Then let’s go to bed. I’m done with this night.”

She grabs his arm and pulls him through the GLASS doors, leading him back upstairs to their apartment.

Wick lies awake for a long time. He’s never gone back to sleep after one of his recurring dreams—and after tonight, how could he? But he promised Alexa he would.
He turns his head on the pillow. Her chest rises and falls in calm rhythm. It’s always easy for her. Wick rolls back over, facing the window. The skyscrapers burn faintly against the night. Maybe it’s too bright. He slips out of bed, draws the curtains tight, then crawls back under the sheets. His hand brushes his pocket, checking the zipper and the coin’s weight inside. Only then does he force his eyes shut.

For a while, he whispers, verum...verum...verum...until—

In the darkness, Wick hears a voice—deep, ancient, both near and impossibly distant. He cannot open his eyes, so he listens. The voice swells, and light erupts through the void like blades. A great orb burns in the black, and around it countless smaller ones ignite, until Wick is surrounded by what seems an infant cosmos.

The sunlight falls upon dark spheres. One, blue and alive with water, draws him in. Land rises from its surface. Barren ground blooms into grass, flowers, forests. Creatures form from the soil itself, great and small, as Wick drifts above valleys and rivers descending from a high hill.

A garden comes into view—rich, ordered, and alive. At its center stand two towering trees, one bearing green fruit, the other violet. Wick descends until he feels grass beneath his feet. Before him, earth is tilled by unseen hands. The soil breaks open, and a man pulls himself from the ground, dirt becoming flesh.

Time accelerates. Day races into night, yet a light walks with the man, speaking to him as a person speaks to a friend. The man is lonely. He is put to sleep. From his side a rib is drawn, and from it a woman is formed and laid beside him. They wake together, rejoicing.

Commands are given. Then, the light withdraws from them.

Time spins. On the third dawn, the woman wanders alone to the center of the garden. A strange winged reptile appears, watching. An unseen presence bends over it, stills it, and enters. Through the creature, the voice speaks maternally, gentle and coaxing. The woman hesitates, then takes the green fruit. As she eats, the beast recoils, empty again.

She gives the fruit to the man. The moment he bites, their eyes fly open. Fear grips them. The light calls out, fatherly yet terrible. Curses follow. The reptile is stripped to the dust. The ground itself is cursed for the man and woman. The earth convulses, splitting the garden apart. They are driven east as unseen beings seal the garden behind them.

Time surges forward. Families grow, fracture, and multiply. Cities rise. Wars follow. Wick watches centuries collapse into mere moments.

He is pulled suddenly into a vast stone temple. Women climb its steps, each carrying an infant. At the center stands a monstrous statue—man-shaped, serpent-headed—before a pool of fire. One by one, children are taken, stripped, and cast into the flames. Wick screams, but no one hears. Horror corrodes him until he longs for judgment.

Judgment comes. Earthquakes, hail, and flood. The city is swallowed whole. Wick is dragged beneath the waters, then lifted high again as the world is reshaped into mountains and seas.

A boat appears on the waters. A family emerges when the flood recedes. Life begins again. Cities return. A tower rises and is shattered by the light. Humanity scatters. Violence deepens.

Wick fractures—standing, all at once, in temples across the world, watching infants burned, slain, and devoured. The roar of the vision then collapses inward, as if the world is holding its breath, and Wick feels everything narrow to a single moment.

He stands on a hill beside an old man and his bound son. A knife is raised—and stopped. A ram is given instead. A promise is spoken: the light will one day be humanity’s ram.

Time spins. A city grows on that hill. Blood is spilled, but not children’s—only rams, bulls, and goats. Still, the promise waits.

Time hurls forward. Wick stands in a courtyard, watching a man being whipped until his back is cratered with blood. Dragged away.

Then another hill. The same man, stripped, bearing a cross. Nailed. Lifted. Gasping beneath a darkened sky.

The man cries out to his father. Declares it finished. Wick understands too late—the light that formed the world and man now dies upon that wood.

The earth shudders. Wick is thrown into the temple nearby. The ground splits. Candlesticks fall. Bread scatters. And a great veil is torn in two.

Alexa sits in the chair across from the bed, watching Wick thrash in his sleep. His rest is restless—his head jerks in sharp bursts, his lips moving around the same muttered name again and again. She glances at the clock. Afternoon sun spills across the floor.

With a sigh, she stands and moves quietly to his side. Sweat beads across his face. She reaches out, ready to shake him awake—then freezes. He’s gone still. His lips close. His chest barely moves.

Her voice trembles. “Wick?”

No answer. The silence presses in. Just as she starts to call his name again, his eyes snap open.

Alexa gasps, clutching her chest. “Oh—thank you.”

Wick blinks, dazed, then turns to the clock. “How long was I out?”

He looks back at her. She’s pale, breathing unevenly. Wick sits up, concern now cutting through the haze. “You okay?”

Alexa steadies herself with a long breath. When she opens her eyes, Wick sees what’s in her hand—the coin. His pulse jumps.

“Hey,” he says, voice tightening. “What are you doing with that?”

Her pupils widen and retract, focusing like a lens. Her voice comes out slow. “You were saying something in your sleep.”

Wick watches up at Alexa as her eyes finally stop dilating and asks, “Who’s Yeshua?”

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19 YEARS EARLIER • YEAR 328

A silhouette fills the frame, sunlight from Penumbra’s skyscrapers glinting off Renegade’s dark suit. He stands beside the glass wall, hands clasped behind his back, gazing over the sprawling, eccentric city. Every eye in the room follows him—except one. Miles studies holographic photos along the wall instead.

“Resurrection,” Renegade says. “Is that what we’ve done?” His back remains turned to the dozen men and women seated around the conference table.

“Resurrections,” one man corrects, emphasizing the plural. “No one in history has done this. It’s never been possible—until now.”

Renegade finally turns his face to them. “But what does it mean? To be resurrected?”

“Haven’t we gone over this?” another says. “We’re past that point.”

Renegade turns fully. “For the sake of argument, let’s return to square one.”

“Are you not satisfied with Generation Four? The new Anima model surpasses all before it.”

“Surpasses?” Renegade lingers on the word. “Are you certain?”

“I don’t follow,” someone else says. “You led the project yourself.”

Renegade walks slowly to his seat at the head of the table. “I’m satisfied, Clive. Truly. We’ve made remarkable progress. But here we are again—at the drawing board. Generation Five stands before us. So before we move forward, let’s ask ourselves—have we truly met our goal?”

“Of course we have.”

Renegade’s gaze shifts. “How about you, Miles?”

Miles pulls his attention from the photographs and meets Renegade’s eyes. He says nothing.

“What are your thoughts?” Renegade presses. “Have we?”

“Our goal has been simple,” Miles says.

“And what is that, my friend?”

“Make man immortal.”

“Have we done that?”

“My friend,” Miles answers, “you don’t need my affirmation.”

“Yes, sir, we have,” another voice interjects.

Renegade forces a smile. “I think so,” he says. “I do. We’ve achieved our goals—and gone beyond them. So tell me, with that in mind, why are we still here?”

They exchange uneasy looks. Renegade’s eyes find Miles again.

“To see what’s next for us,” someone finally says.

“And what is next for us, Dinah?”

She pauses, then laughs softly. “Isn’t that what we’re here to decide, doctor?”

“Precisely,” he says, his voice brightening. “But we need direction. I’ve outlined a three-model plan. The titles remain consistent with the Anima line—Generations Five, Six, and Seven—but our focus shifts.”

He leans forward slightly. “Our motto has always been to make man immortal. And we’ve done that. Yet through all our years of discussion, one word has lingered—resurrection. And still, it hasn’t truly been realized.”

A man with a gray beard speaks up. “Half of us in this room are animas, sir. Are you saying we aren’t real?”

“Of course you are, Riley,” Renegade replies. “But can you say you’re everything you once were? Do you dream? Feel pain? Have you aged since the moment of transfer? Can your skin still tan like it used to?” He rises from his chair. “There’s still so much work to do—and that’s only the beginning. With each generation, our Animas grow more complex, as they should. But our purpose can’t end with added features.”

Miles leans forward. “What are you getting at? It sounds like you want to limit the Animas. You’re talking about adding pain? Aging?”

“Those aren’t limitations, Miles,” Renegade says evenly. “They’re choices—options every Anima should possess. But if you’ll let me continue, you’ll see I have something greater in mind.”

“What else is there?” Miles presses.

“Bringing back the dead.”

“We’ve already done that.”

Renegade chuckles. “Not quite.” He moves to the windowpane. At his touch, the transparent surface shifts into a glowing interface.

“The first four generations of Animas relied on our SentiaChip. Each iteration refined the design, adapting to new shell innovations—but never truly revolutionizing it. Until now.”

Diagrams fill the screen. “This is the NecroChip. While the SentiaChip gathered data from living minds, this one collects it from long-expired DNA.”

The room falls silent. Awe ripples through the group.

“So… we could revive people gone thirty, forty years? Before the SentiaChip?” someone asks.

Renegade smiles faintly. “We could restore lives lost hundreds of years ago. Eons, even—anyone, so long as we have their DNA.”

“Impossible,” Miles says under his breath.

“Are you a doubter, Miles?” Renegade clasps his hands behind his back again. “I remember when you doubted your ability to develop the SentiaChip. Yet you overcame every hesitation.”

Miles lowers his gaze.

“I’m certain, as you lead this new project, you’ll find this frontier is well within reach.”

He doesn’t respond. The silence weighs heavy, dimming the spark Renegade tried to ignite.

“Well then,” Renegade says finally. “Let’s break. Reconvene at two-thirty.”

Miles stands with his hands in his pockets, studying one of the holographic portraits lining the worn passageway. Like every image here, it’s of a boy—Renegade’s boy, Auggie.

Footsteps echo behind him, steady and deliberate. Renegade comes to stand beside him, both men staring at the portrait as if it were a piece of fine art.

“He loved to smile,” Renegade says quietly. “Hard not to smile back, isn’t it?”

Miles turns, watching the man’s face as he gazes at his lost son. He glances down the corridor to be sure they’re alone, then murmurs, “What are we doing?”

Renegade looks over. “What do you mean?”

“Since when was it our goal to bring back the long-lost dead?”

“What’s wrong with restoring life?”

“It’s not possible,” Miles says. “Not the kind of resurrection you’re proposing.”

“I don’t expect the new chip to work by the next generation’s release,” Renegade replies. “That’s why we have a three-model plan. It’ll take time—decades, maybe. Patience is part of the process.”

Miles shakes his head. “But why? Why push it this far?”

Renegade turns from the portrait to face him. “Says the man who shattered boundaries to build the SentiaChip. You once doubted, yet you had zeal. Now I see neither.”

“I once wanted to live forever,” Miles says. The word once stills Renegade.

After a pause, Renegade’s voice softens. “Remember this, Miles—you were the one who crossed the threshold first. Without your chip, the Anima Project wouldn’t exist. Because of your brilliance, death no longer holds sway for our time. Wouldn’t you want that same freedom for those who came before us?”

Miles hesitates. “No,” he says at last.

Renegade straightens, his tone hardening. “Come. Let’s take a little field trip.”

Their polished shoes echo through a maze of clinical passages, deeper into the facility where the murmur of activity fades. The walls turn bare and gray—until a single steel door breaks the pattern. Renegade pushes it open, leading them into a stairwell.

Miles recognizes it instantly. He’d been here once before, though Renegade never knew he had followed him down those same steps.

This time, though, Renegade leads the way. “I’m sorry, Miles,” he says, his voice echoing against the concrete. “But this is the only way to reach where we’re going.”

They descend—floor after floor—until nearly a hundred levels fall behind them. The stairwell finally opens to a subterranean box with no doors, just as Miles remembers.

Renegade presses a hand against the cold surface. At once, veins of light ripple outward like glowing circuitry. A faint outline forms—a doorway traced in white. The framed section sinks inward, vanishing completely.

Without hesitation, Renegade steps into the narrow darkness beyond and motions for Miles to follow. For a moment, Miles lingers at the threshold, then steps forward and is swallowed by the black. The air grows colder. A sharp scent cuts through the space—formaldehyde.

The entrance seals behind him. Miles steadies himself against the walls, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Then, with a wave of Renegade’s hand, pale green light motions to life. Miles flinches, shutting his eyes tight, reluctant to see. But he opens them.

The chamber stretches wide and high like an underground warehouse, lit only by rows of towering glass tubes that radiate with a sickly green hue. As they move deeper, the shapes within become clear.

Eyes—vacant and still—stare out from behind the glass. Skin, pale and slick, presses against it. Tiny hands flatten on the surface, fingers splayed as if reaching for help. But there is no life in them.

Each column holds a child suspended in liquid—some whole, others torn or incomplete, some clustered together, others drifting alone. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, lie preserved in quiet stasis.

Miles freezes, horror carving across his face. His throat tightens, words lost. Sorrow flickers in his eyes.

Renegade walks on, untouched by the sight. He’s been here before.

“You see, Miles,” Renegade says as he makes his way between the green columns, “each one of these children has a story. Each one, a biological connection. And to those women, I’ve made promises.”

Miles’ voice trembles, caught in his throat. He forces out, “What could you possibly have promised them?”

“Eternal life, of course.”

Miles shakes his head. “That’s not possible.”

Renegade glances back. “It seems you’ve had a change of heart. This is the first I’m hearing it—and honestly, it concerns me.”

“You’re concerned for me?” Miles gestures around at the tubes. “Look at them! You lied to those mothers—and they believed you!”

Renegade stops. “We.”

Miles blinks. “What?”

“We’ve worked on this together from the beginning. Have you forgotten that? Every approval, every stage of research—you were there. You supported it all. And now you condemn me? You should take a hard look at yourself.”

Miles clutches his stomach, nausea rising. His breathing shortens. His head throbs.

Renegade’s tone hardens. “These were grieving, desperate women. Women who broke the law—bearing Corruptibles in secret, hiding them from the world. They should’ve had their children seized and sent to breeding stations like the rest. They lived off the grid, penniless, trying to raise the unregistered. Criminals, Miles. And if it weren’t for us, they’d have suffered for it.”

He gestures toward the tubes. “But we helped them. We took them in. Cleared their records. We didn’t send their children to the stations.”

Miles’ voice cracks with fury. “No—we murdered them instead.”

Renegade shakes his head. “We preserved them. Left alone, those women couldn’t afford SentiaChips. Their children would have lived and died without hope of resurrection. But through our Children First Program, these women received chips for free. Their children were granted Anima status. We saved them, Miles. You saved them. How can you deny that?”

Tears well in Miles’ eyes. His voice steadies, low and deliberate. “I thought I knew what we were doing. I thought these children were being helped. At one time I did. But even then, I didn’t know all of this. And especially now, standing here—it’s clear. We didn’t help them. Not one.”

He looks around the chamber again, the rows of lifeless faces staring back. His own face trembles, breaking under the weight of it all.

Then, Miles’ eyes lock on a familiar face floating in a solitary cylinder. A small boy drifts in suspension, whole and untouched. Miles’ breath catches. He would know that face anywhere.

“Is that…?”

Renegade turns to him. “Auggie,” he says quietly. “My son.”

“All these years—you’ve kept him down here?”

“Where else would you have had him placed?”

“You could’ve asked the Elders to bury him. You’re the founder of Anima Corp.”

Renegade exhales, the sound slow and heavy. “The Elders don’t exist, Miles. Not anymore. They died out in the first generation—three hundred years ago.”

Miles stares at him, stunned. “That’s not possible. The city’s run by the Elders. We elect them every seven years.”

Renegade shakes his head. “Have you ever seen one face-to-face?”

“No.”

“They’re holograms,” he says simply.

Miles blinks, the foundation of his world beginning to crumble. “Then who’s running our society?”

Renegade looks up at the floating boy, his expression softening into something almost reverent. “The one who let me keep my son.”

“And who’s that?”

Renegade turns back toward him. “The Mother.”

Miles sags slightly, weariness etched into every movement. “Why did you bring me here?”

“You needed to see what you’ve done,” Renegade replies. “All the good you’ve done. This isn’t a mausoleum—it’s a museum. A testament to our progress. But I also wanted to show you something else.”

Movement stirs behind the rows of tubes. Miles narrows his eyes, trying to make it out.

“It’s all right,” Renegade says softly. “Come to Daddy.”

From the shadows, a boy steps forward—the living mirror of the child in the cylinder. A perfect five-year-old replica of Auggie. Yet his gait is off, stiff and mechanical, his balance uncertain. Miles watches him stumble into Renegade’s waiting arms.

Renegade picks him up and presses his face to the boy’s, eyes shut tight, clinging to the moment. Then he looks at Miles. “Auggie died in 307,” he says. “Your chip—your breakthrough—came two years later. Two years too late. I’ve rebuilt his body, but not his mind. No memories. No soul.” His voice trembles.

Miles sees the unspoken accusation in Renegade’s eyes.

“I’ve waited patiently,” Renegade continues. “More than twenty years. Now it’s time for another breakthrough. It’s time to bring my son back.”

Miles shakes his head. “Renegade…what you’re asking isn’t possible.”

Renegade’s pleading look hardens. “Of course it is. Anything’s possible.”

“You can’t extract consciousness from a corpse’s DNA. That’s not how it works.”

“The funding’s approved,” Renegade says flatly. “You’ll lead the project.”

“Your son isn’t coming back, Renegade. He never has, and he never will.”

Silence spreads through the chamber. The light in Renegade’s eyes flickers out. His jaw tightens. “I’m not asking you.”

“I’m not doing it.”

Renegade kneels, setting the artificial boy gently on the floor. When he rises, his face is stone.

“Look, Renegade,” Miles says quietly. “We’ve sinned.”

“Sinned?” Renegade echoes. “What is sin?”

“I can’t go on after seeing all this. Not anymore.”

“So you won’t give my boy life?”

Miles exhales, his gaze low. “I’ve been trying to find the courage to tell you.”

Renegade’s eyes narrow. “Tell me what?”

Miles steadies his breath, trying to speak through the tightening in his chest. “I made a discovery. A long time ago—the night your son died. I was in the archives, searching through encrypted records. That’s when I found a file named verum. It was buried deep, intentionally hidden. Accessing it wasn’t easy, but I broke through. What it revealed… I didn’t believe it at first. I didn’t want to. But after more digging, I realized it was real—and dangerous. It exposed something that contradicts everything we’ve built.”

He takes a slow breath. “Renegade, human beings—you and I—already possess immortal souls. Which means your son, even if you brought him back, would never truly be himself. The Anima Project—this dream of artificial eternity—it’s a fraud. A hollow imitation. A lie. The real truth lies beyond our reach and always has been.”

Renegade’s face stays motionless, eyes unreadable. Then his voice drops, dark and cold. “You are going to lead this project. And you are going to bring my son back.”

Miles shakes his head. “No. Auggie’s dead. And I won’t keep feeding your delusion.”

Renegade’s fists tighten, knuckles pale. His lips press together, his eyes burning red. “Then I suppose it’s time for you to leave.” He raises his wrist and mutters into his watch—words Miles can’t make out.

Moments later, androids materialize from the shadows and surround him.

“Escort my ex-partner from this room,” Renegade orders.

He shouts as they close in on Miles. “The lies must end, Renegade! We know the truth now—we’re responsible for it. The world deserves to know!”

Renegade turns his back, gazing up at his son suspended in the tube. His tone is eerily calm. “I reject your truth, plain and simple. The only truth is the one I hold. It’s carried me this far. As for you…well, it’s killed you.”

The androids seize Miles by the arms, dragging him backward toward the door.

“Oh, and androids,” Renegade adds, still facing the glass. “Miles is not to leave the premises.”

“What should we do with his brain chip, sir?” one asks.

A slow grin spreads across Renegade’s face. “He says it’s worthless—then destroy it. I don’t need his data. I’ll do better myself.”

“And the body, sir?”

Renegade’s eyes drift over the hall of suspended children, the green light flickering across his face. His expression hardens. “Let it burn a little.”

The door seals shut, cutting off Miles’ pleas. Now, only the faint radiance of the preservation tanks fills the air, pulsing like a heartbeat through the vast, silent chamber.

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19 YEARS LATER • YEAR 347

Wick moves with precision down the vast boulevard. He isn’t alone. Just like three days ago when he dropped Alexa off, the sidewalks pulse with motion. An eclectic mix of people crowd the way while vehicles thrum above the magnetic strip of dark, glistening solar panels in the center of the road. Life keeps its relentless pace.

The black monolith of Anima Corp looms ahead. Wick stops at the front entrance where androids stand guard. “Pick up,” he tells them.

One smiles and hands him a pair of augmented glasses. “Keep them fastened this time, sir.”

Wick freezes, studying the android’s blankly polite expression, then steps inside. A holographic sign flares to life, greeting him and pointing toward the Transfer Center. He resists the itch to remove his glasses, the impulse clawing at him even as he obeys.

The center is bright and sterile. Rows of chairs line the middle of the room, but Wick remains standing. After a minute, Eve flickers into being before him, smiling with exaggerated warmth. “Oh, Wick! It’s so good to see you again!”

He returns a small smile.

“Have you thought about the tour from the other day?”

“Not really,” he answers flatly.

“Well,” she continues, unfazed, “we understand everyone has different seasons in life. If and when things change for you, we’ll be here.”

“Thanks,” he says.

“I’m sure you’ve been dying to see Alexa again.”

Wick nods stiffly.

“Ooh! I just love that! She’s been missing you too. Just wait here—I’ll go call her in.”

Eve disappears through a door that slides open for her. Wick nearly lifts his glasses to see if the door even exists but catches himself. His gaze drifts to the high windows splashing sunlight across the walls and onto the floor.

Five minutes pass. He finally sinks into a chair, but the back door slides open before he can relax. Alexa steps through. Wick stands immediately.

She covers her mouth. His eyes sting, blurring for a moment. They stare at each other in silence. When he doesn’t move, she approaches slowly. Her gestures are smooth, natural. He blinks again, testing what he sees.

When she reaches him, she extends her hand. He hesitates, glancing at the skin—soft, warm, even marked in the same familiar places.

He takes her hand. It feels alive. Blood seems to run beneath it. His pulse quickens. He meets her green eyes—exactly as he remembers. “Alexa?” he asks softly.

She beams, eyes wet. “It’s me, Wick.” Even her voice is perfect.

“Trippy,” he says, smiling for the first time.

Eve materializes at the side. “Didn’t I say you’d see her again?”

Wick looks at her sharply. “But is it really her?”

Alexa frowns, glancing toward Eve. “We talked about this,” Eve says gently. “It’s natural to doubt at first.”

“Ask me anything,” Alexa urges.

“When’s my birthday?” Wick fires back.

“Day 4, Month 3, Year 323.”

“Too easy,” he mutters. “When did we first meet?”

“Day 15, Month 12, Year 328.”

“Where?”

“Breed 007.”

“How’d I get there?”

She pauses. “You don’t even know that.” She’s right.

He takes a long breath. “Why do I keep waking up at night?”

“You say you have the same nightmare.”

“What’s the nightmare?”

“You don’t know. But you think it’s a vision of the future—a future of chaos and death.”

Eve’s face drains of color. “Visions?” she repeats.

Wick shrugs. “Probably not.”

“Listen,” Alexa cuts in. “You can question me all you want, but I know you, Wick. No amount of Q and A will convince you.” She steps closer. “Here.”

She presses her lips to his. The kiss is deep and lingering. Wick’s mind blanks. Despite every warning in his head, he tears off his glasses.

It’s her.

He pulls Alexa close, arms wrapping tight as if to keep her from vanishing. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Alexa buries her face in his chest, listening to the rhythm of his heart. Neither moves for a long time.

It takes nearly an hour to get Alexa out-processed, but at last they step through the tall obsidian doors of Anima Corp. One of the armored androids gestures for the glasses. Wick smirks and waves him off. “Keep it.”

Hand in hand, Wick and Alexa move with the current of the city. The rhythm of traffic beating around them as they drift through crowded boulevards, stopping at a few quick-food stands along the way—a soft pretzel here, a frozen yogurt there. Eventually, they wander into a hexagonal park where deep blue water spills down the tiers of a memorial fountain. At its peak stands a holographic statue of Dr. Renegade, holding a boy’s hand and pointing toward the distant Anima Corp tower.

Wick stretches out on the grass, staring up. A hovertrain glides silently across the horizon, its silver frame catching the waning sun. The sky above it begins to gleam orange with the coming dusk.

“What are you looking at?” Alexa asks, her fingers still entwined with his.

He gestures upward. “How far away do you think those clouds are?”

She laughs. “You want me to guess?”

“Yeah,” he says, smiling.

“I don’t know.” She shifts closer, resting her head beside his, eyes following his gaze. “Farther than the skyscrapers, I’d say.”

“You know, I never really noticed clouds before,” Wick murmurs. “Not really.”

“I guess that’s because there’s no need to,” she says softly. “There’s too much down here to keep us occupied.”

“I guess so.” Wick slides an arm around her and pulls her close. Their eyes meet, dark and steady. He rolls gently over her, the world narrowing to the space between them. When their lips meet, time stalls. But then it hits—an image flashing across his mind like lightning. A scarred face.

Wick’s eyes snap open. His body locks, his breath caught in his throat.

Alexa sees the terror flicker across his face. Her voice trembles. “Is everything all right?”

Wick doesn’t answer. Inside, the question echoes cold and hollow. Is everything all right? Not really. Because that face—he saw it clear as day.

Weeks pass, but the image won’t leave Wick’s mind. The scarred face doesn’t return, yet the single glimpse haunts him. He keeps it buried, never mentioning it to Alexa. Instead, he fills the air with harmless conversation.

“Well, you still know how to cook,” Wick says, taking the first bite of dinner.

Alexa saunters over with her plate and drops onto the couch beside him, sinking into the cushions. She chews, grinning through a mouthful. “Yeah, I am good.”

Wick’s gaze drifts to the glass wall, beyond it the sprawl of city colors burning against the night.

“What is it?” Alexa asks, her fingers brushing the back of his neck.

He doesn’t answer right away. Then, still watching the skyline, he says quietly, “Maybe I was wrong.”

“About what?”

He turns toward her. “About you. About all of this. Anima Corp.”

She hesitates, caught off guard. Her lips part but no words come.

“I believe,” Wick says finally. “I believe it’s you.”

Relief softens her face, and her smile blooms again. “It’s about time. I’ve been working hard to prove that to you.”

“And you still talk with your mouth full,” Wick adds. “That’s what convinced me.”

Alexa laughs and flicks his chest. “Did you just insult me?”

“Nah,” he says. “I kinda like it.”

“Kind of?”

“Well, it’s not exactly ladylike, is it?”

“Wow,” she mutters. “How do I still live with you?” She sets her plate aside and crosses her arms. “If you ever transfer, I’m requesting a few upgrades.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He leans closer. “Like what?”

She taps her chin. “Maybe a volume dial. Or an on-off switch. Something useful for when you start talking nonsense.”

Wick grins. “Do you have one of those?”

“Very funny.”

“I think so.”

She rolls her eyes and grabs her plate again. “Just eat your food, funny boy. Might be your last meal.”

“Before what?”

She stabs a piece of steak and talks around it. “Before I transfer you myself!”

“What?” he says, unable to make it out.

“Before I—”

Wick scoops a bit of mashed potato with his fingers and smears it into her mouth before she can finish.

The rest of the night is spent cleaning the couch.

Chaos. Endless, consuming chaos. Wick thrashes in his sleep, the same dream gripping him again, but fiercer this time. His body jerks in violent spasms, his face twisted as he whimpers through clenched teeth. It looks like a seizure.

He jolts awake, chest heaving, heart hammering against his ribs. For a moment he’s unsure if he’s still dreaming, but the muted glow of the city through the window cuts through the haze. His hands search the sheets for something solid, something real. The comforter is there beneath his fingers. Beside him, Alexa sleeps soundly, untroubled.

Wick tries to steady his breath. The images burn behind his eyelids—the chaos, the teardrop tattoo. He remembers the scarred man’s face. Somehow, it all connects. The thought gnaws at him, feeding on his fear.

He stares out toward the skyline, his mind racing. A plan begins to form, taking shape with frightening clarity. His eyes widen as resolve hardens inside him.

He looks at Alexa again. Peaceful. Unaware. Now’s his chance. The clock reads a little past midnight. Moving carefully, Wick slips out of bed and pads down the hallway toward his walk-in closet.

A chirpy voice greets him as he steps inside. “Good evening, sir.”

“Ssshhh,” Wick mutters, rummaging through the racks.

“Where are you going?”

“Does it matter?”

“No.”

“Good. Then shut off.”

The lights instantly die. Darkness folds around him. Wick sighs. “Keep the lights on.”

They return, dim but enough. He dresses quickly. Minutes later, the front door slides open with a quiet hiss. Wick steps into the passage, the door sealing behind him with a muted click as he locks it by palm scan. His pace quickens.

The side streets are silent at this hour, the air heavy with hums from distant maglines. Wick climbs the stairway to the hovertrain station. The platform is mostly empty except for a few shadowed figures scattered near the edges. Bright light spills across polished steel and glass, reflecting the clean geometry of the city’s upper levels.

He approaches the ticket counter. The pane shifts, transforming into a holographic interface. “Welcome to Magline,” says the synthetic attendant, voice smooth and neutral.

“West One Station,” Wick says.

“Destination confirmed. That’s quite far—on the city’s outskirts. It can be dangerous this time of night. Are you sure?”

“Why does everyone care where I’m going?” Wick snaps. “You’re not even real. Just give me my ticket.”

“Place your watch near the scanner, please.”

He holds his wrist over the pad. A brief pulse vibrates through the band as the watch face converts into a glowing digital ticket.

“Enjoy your evening, Mr. Wick.”

Wick gives a short nod and steps onto the platform. The overhead lights wash everything in a clean, silvery sheen, highlighting the canopy’s smooth, minimal design. Beneath his boots, the translucent floor pulses faintly with a glowing map of Penumbra’s transit lines. He drifts toward the edge, peering down through the invisible rails. The drop must be twenty stories.

A sharp chime breaks the stillness. Wick flinches, thinking for a second that he’s triggered something, but then the sound repeats, rhythmic and distant. He turns and sees the magline gliding toward the station—its sleek, platinum body cutting through the night.

He steps back as the train slows to a whispering stop. The doors slide open. No one gets off. Wick steps in.

The cabin is quiet, spotless, the whirr of energy fields the only sound. He moves to the far end and sits, the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him. For a moment, he’s alone. Then one of the hooded figures from the platform enters and takes a seat at the opposite end.

Wick glances once in his direction, reading nothing from the shadowed face beneath the hood. Then he turns away, staring out the window as the doors seal shut and the train lifts, slicing forward into the neon-lit dark.

Wick has never ridden the magline this late before, and his heartbeat shows it. Each pulse is sharp, deliberate, but beneath the nerves there’s a flicker of excitement—an adventure, he tells himself.

That feeling fades fast. The train accelerates out of the station, slipping between moonlit towers and over glowing streets below. It snakes around buildings and pauses at empty platforms. Wick checks the corner of his vision every time. The hooded figure hasn’t moved. The stillness feels deliberate, the posture too fixed. Wick avoids looking directly at him. Not until they’re two stations away from West One does he dare glance again. The figure’s head is turned, unmistakably staring. Wick’s pulse kicks into a gallop.

At the next stop, though it’s not his, Wick slides from his seat and steps out. He waits at the platform’s edge, pretending calm. Moments later, the hooded man steps off too. Wick watches him walk forward, slow, measured. As the platform bells chime, signaling the doors about to close, Wick darts back into the car. The doors seal, and his breath shudders out. Safe again. He slumps into a seat and tries to relax. But when the magline begins to move, he looks out once more—and there the man stands on the platform, staring after him. Wick turns away, locking his eyes on the seat ahead.

His chest tightens. That adventurous rush is gone, replaced by a gnawing dread. His heartbeat won’t settle, and the car feels too small. Still, he’s close now—one station away. He forces the fear out of his mind and holds his course.

When the magline finally stops at West One Station, Wick steps out into a different world. The canopy above is cracked and yellowed, its once-clear plastic dulled by grime and years. Rust streaks the support beams. Graffiti curls over every surface. The cement platform beneath him is rough and fractured. In the far distance looms the city’s great wall, a bulwark of steel and shadow. Beyond it stretches nothing but black. Wick stares at it, wondering for the first time what might exist outside.

He doesn’t linger near the edge. No sign of the hooded figure. To catch up, the man would have had to sprint miles in minutes. Still, Wick doesn’t slow.

He descends the open staircases to the streets below. The air is heavier here, the light weaker. Buildings are shorter, rougher—grey, leaning, scarred with age. The neat symmetry of downtown is gone, replaced by a crooked sprawl. Flickering neon signs sputter half-dead, barely illuminating the cracked sidewalks. Wick feels eyes on him. The sensation crawls up his back, urging his steps faster.

His memory guides him through the narrow lanes without hesitation. He turns corner after corner, familiar streets leading him to a place he never thought he’d see again. On the far side of a dim street, women stand in doorways, watching him with tired intrigue. Others just stare blankly as he passes. No hooded man among them.

He turns one last corner and stops. Ahead, a concrete parapet stretches before a squat, windowless building. A narrow opening marks the entrance. A plaque beside it reads: BREED 007.

Wick stares at the sign, then at the dull grey cube beyond it. Memories surface like ghosts. He never thought he’d return here. Never thought he’d need to. Yet here he is.

He hesitates, hand trembling slightly, then forces himself forward. The narrow lane swallows him. He pulls open the old creaking door and steps inside. The air is stale. The walls and floors are bare, washed in a dim industrial luster. His footsteps echo sharply down the passage until he reaches another set of metal doors. Just beyond it, a third.

He knows they won’t open without his hand scan, but that isn’t why he came. Wick turns to his right and faces a windowpane. Behind it stands an old, rust-colored android, motionless and waiting.

“Place your hand on the scanner, please,” says the android’s thin, metallic voice.

“I’m not trying to enter,” Wick replies.

“Oh?” The android tilts its head slightly, intrigued.

“I was bred here.”

“When did you leave?”

“Seven years ago.”

“Why have you come back, if I may ask?”

“I have a question.”

“Ah. I love questions. I really do. Ask away, sir. Just… place your hand on the scanner first, so I can retrieve your breeding details.”

“It’s only a question,” Wick insists.

“If you were bred here, sir, then your records are in my database. Accessing them might help answer whatever’s troubling you.”

Wick sighs and rolls his eyes, then presses his palm against the glass. A faint hum vibrates under his skin before the light flashes green.

“Ah, Wick,” the android says brightly. “Born Day 4, Month 3, Year 323. Departed this facility at age seventeen, on Day 4, Month 3, Year 340. Does that answer your question?”

“I haven’t even asked you my question yet.”

“Oh, right, of course. Go ahead, sir.”

“I wasn’t bred here,” Wick says evenly. “I was brought here. Do you know when that was?”

A beat of silence stretches. Then the android answers, tone unchanged. “Records show you were indeed bred here.”

“That’s impossible.”

“What’s impossible,” the android counters, “is that you were delivered here. This is a breeding station, sir. No one transfers between breeding stations. That would be illogical.”

“So there’s no record of me being brought here?”

“No, sir. It correctly states you were bred here. In fact, I can provide more detail. You were bred on Day 4, Month 6, Year 322, and born on Day 4, Month 3, Year 323. You did not enter or exit the facility again until your official departure, Day 4, Month 3, Year 340. And now, we will record that you returned for a visit.”

“I’m not back for a visit.”

“That’s good,” the android replies cheerfully. “We don’t allow alumni visits.”

Wick’s patience snaps. His voice rises, edged with strain. “But you’ve had visitors—at least once.”

“Well, of course. Biological connections to children under the age of five are permitted on weekends.”

“So I was biologically conceived?”

“No, sir. As your record states, you were fertilized in this facility.”

Wick leans forward, jaw tight. “But there was a man. A man with a scarred face.”

The android’s head tilts again. Its tone flattens. “I don’t understand, sir.”

“I told my Pod recently to show me a memory,” Wick says, voice low and deliberate, “and it showed me one of me being delivered here—when I was five. There was a man who wasn’t part of the facility. He had a scarred face and a tattoo under his palm.”

The android’s head tilts. “A tattoo?”

“Yes. A teardrop-shaped tattoo.”

“One moment while I perform another search.” The machine freezes, its eyes flickering, then clicks back to life. “No records found of a scarred-faced man with a teardrop tattoo on his wrist. Do you, by chance, know his name?”

Wick exhales sharply. “No. That’s why I’m here—to ask you.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t believe there’s much more to go on.”

“Wait,” Wick interrupts. “Here. Let me draw the symbol for you.”

“A symbol?”

“The tattoo symbol. Maybe it’ll mean something to you.”

“Of someone’s tattoo?”

Wick clenches his jaw, forcing patience. “Can you hand me something to draw with?”

“Ah, yes! One moment, sir.” The android turns stiffly and begins rifling through a drawer. Wick taps his foot, each metallic clank a test of his restraint. After several moments, the android straightens. “Apologies, sir. I seem to be out of paper.”

Wick grunts and steps closer to the glass.

“What are you—” the android starts to say, but Wick exhales hard, fogging the partition. With his finger, he traces a teardrop surrounded by a circle.

“That,” Wick says firmly.

The android’s expression doesn’t change. “That symbol?”

“Yes. That symbol.”

The silence that follows is unnerving. Wick wipes away the condensation to see the machine better. It hasn’t moved—completely still, locked in processing.

Then, in a clipped monotone, it speaks. “Classified.”

Wick frowns. “Classified?”

“Classified.”

“So it’s real, then? You know what it is?”

“Classified.”

Wick exhales through his nose, frustrated. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

“Since it’s classified, I cannot tell you even if I wanted to.”

Wick nods slowly, defeated. He’s learned something—barely—but enough to keep him moving forward.

“Fine,” he mutters, turning away. He pushes through the door and back down the empty corridor, his footsteps echoing in the hollow space.

When he steps outside, the night greets him with a chill. Across the street, beyond the parapet of the breeding station, a figure stands half-swallowed in shadow. Hood drawn, still as stone.

Wick’s heart leaps into his throat, his legs locking beneath him. The figure in the alley hasn’t moved, but Wick knows—it’s the same one from the magline. Instinctively, he reaches for his switchblade, only to grasp at air. He curses himself under his breath. He hadn’t thought he’d need it. He was wrong.

A flicker catches his eye near the outer wall’s narrow opening—something small and glinting on the ground. Wick risks a glance down, and the moment he looks back up, the figure is gone. Vanished. He scans the dark alley, straining his eyes, but there’s only shadow.

Keeping his movements measured, Wick steps toward the flickering object. His heartbeat drums steady but fast. When he’s close enough, he kneels. The object is a coin—round, metallic, no larger than his thumb. Its surface pulses faintly with a white glow. He turns it in his palm. The light doesn’t shift. It always points in the same direction—like a compass needle locked on something unseen.

He flips it over. His breath catches. The teardrop symbol stares back at him—circled, precise. The same one that branded the scarred man’s wrist, the same one the android called classified.

Wick snaps his gaze upward, scanning the opposite buildings. No movement. The hooded figure has disappeared completely. How is this possible? he thinks, a chill crawling up his spine.

He stands there for a long second, the street pressing silent around him. Then a cold thought settles in. He’s standing out in the open, holding something he shouldn’t have—something dangerous. He slips the coin into his pocket, shoves both hands deep into his jacket, and starts moving along the parapet, quick but controlled.

Before he can take another step, a shadow detaches from along the wall. The hooded figure emerges, close now, close enough for Wick to see the faint glint of eyes beneath the hood.

“Verum,” the man whispers.

The sound cuts through Wick’s mind like a blade. His vision fractures. The world tilts and collapses around him. In its place—fire, stars, creation itself. Planets form from swirling chaos. Time races forward in a blur of light. Then—darkness. Chains.

A man kneels shirtless and bound, his body bruised and scarred with blood, back arched beneath the crack of a whip. He lifts his head and looks straight at Wick. His eyes blaze with sorrow and knowledge, with something ancient and immense.

Wick gasps and stumbles backward. The vision shatters. The world reforms. He’s back—on the cracked sidewalk outside BREED 007, chest heaving, palms trembling, the hooded figure now gone for good.

Something deep inside him shifts. Whatever that was, it wasn’t random. It’s tied to the teardrop, to the scarred-face man, to the hooded figure—and to him.

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19 YEARS EARLIER • YEAR 328

“Today is a very big day in Penumbra!” the announcer shouts. “In just a few moments, Anima Corp will unveil its most advanced model yet: Generation 4.” He stands before a camera that projects the scene as a holograph across the city. Behind him stretches a restless crowd facing a bare, temporary stage before the towering Anima Corp building. “Maybe some of you didn’t know this,” he says with a gleaming smile, “but I’m a Gen Three. Hard to tell, isn’t it? We’re all eager to see what Dr. Renegade and his team have created this time. What awaits us in this dawning age of the Anima? We’re about to find out.”

Moments later, a man in a dark suit steps onto the stage. He carries no microphone, yet his voice fills the street through unseen speakers. “Welcome, Penumbra!” he calls, the words rolling through the air. “Welcome to this most remarkable day. My name is Dr. Fez. I’ve worked alongside Dr. Renegade since the innovation of Gen Two, and I can hardly believe twelve years have passed since that release.

“To begin at the start, Gen One arrived in the year 312. That’s when everything changed—when mankind became immortal and death itself turned obsolete. Gen Two came in 316. Five years later, in 321, Gen Three was born. And now, seven years on, we stand before Gen Four. I can’t promise our future models will follow such rhythm, but I can promise this: tomorrow, the brightest minds of Anima Corp will return to the drawing ROOM to find what lies beyond. The possibilities are boundless. All that’s needed is the courage to believe.”

The crowd erupts in thunderous applause. “With that,” Fez continues, “let me welcome the man who conquered death itself—the founder of Anima Corp, Dr. Renegade!”

The people explode into celebration. Arms rise high, voices collide in waves, and many leap to glimpse the figure emerging from behind Fez. Renegade steps forward, towering in the light, and waits for Fez to leave the stage. It takes more than a minute for the uproar to fade. When silence finally settles, Renegade lets it hang—until the weight becomes too much.

“Those of us within the Anima Project,” he begins, “have long seen the desperate need to liberate life itself. For decades, we have worked to unbind mortal man. What limit remains for us now? Even death has been conquered by our own hands. And so, one question remains: what will you choose? Will you fade away like those who turned to dust, or will you seize the life meant to last forever?

“The choice is yours. We at Anima Corp do not seek glory or gratitude. We have not saved you. We have only cleared the way. The barrier between you and eternity is gone. So what holds you back from the long life you deserve?

“You see, my name is written on plaques, statues, banners, and buildings. I’ve met children who bear it. Yet I do not wish for my name to endure. I want yours to endure. I want you to last. And with Gen Four, you will—longer than ever before. Now then, let’s get right to the incredible new features…”

But before he continues, Renegade pauses. Behind him stands a line of his closest colleagues. His eyes sweep across them, searching. One is missing. Miles is not there. Renegade lingers on the empty space where his colleague should be.

Along a quiet passage deep inside the Anima Corp building, a sealed door shudders from within. A low rumble presses against the frame, joined by sharp, frantic voices. Beyond it lies a cramped, unlit chamber ringed with glowing panels. Miles stands at its center, hair ragged, breath uneven, his hands trembling as he wedges something beneath a steel box and hits a button. The compartment jolts with a violent boom.

“Stop! Stop!” a voice cries out, urgent and strained. “Miles, stop!” The sound comes from the panels, where a figure flickers into view on the digital screen.

“You said it yourself, Puck,” Miles says, hauling a heavy box off a counter. “It’s time for the world to be disrupted. I can’t play along anymore.”

“Compose yourself, Miles,” Puck replies. “This isn’t the plan.”

“It’s been over twenty years.”

“And now you’re about to destroy everything with this outburst. You need to stop.”

Bitterness hardens Miles’ gaze as he stares at the screen. “You don’t know what it’s like being stuck in here, Puck. You don’t. No one does.”

“You’re not stuck, Miles.”

His eyes begin to shimmer. He turns away, pulling slow breaths, forcing himself to steady.

“You can’t burn down the work you built,” Puck says. “Not in a single day. Not now. You know what’s happening right outside these walls. You’re supposed to be there.”

“I can’t keep doing this.”

“I’m not asking you to keep doing this,” Puck says. “I’m asking you to hold on. And trust.”

“Think of what you’re asking of me,” Miles says. “I’m only human. I can’t bear it. Not after everything we know. How can we let the world go on like this and say nothing?”

A heavy silence settles between them.

“Miles,” Puck finally says. “You don’t understand how crucial you are. And you have no idea what kind of reward awaits you because of it.”

“I don’t care about the reward. I care about what’s right. And delaying isn’t right.”

Puck exhales, slow and pained. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry you’re there. I’m sorry you’re struggling. But there’s no other path than to stay your course.”

“But I’m not, Puck. I’m not staying the course.”

“You are.”

“The longer I stay here, the more people die without the truth. How do you live with that?”

Puck’s eyes drop. He says nothing.

“I can’t,” Miles says. “But I’ll go. I’ll go back. Smile for those people. Shake their hands. Keep my mouth shut. Yes, sir.”

“Miles.”

He turns away from the screen, slicks his hair back, slips into his dress coat.

“Miles, listen,” Puck calls.

But Miles doesn’t turn. He leaves the chamber in silence, and Puck remains alone before the dimming panels, staring into the dark.

The main atrium glitters under silver halos as music ricochets across its vaulted walls. Below, a sea of well-dressed elites mingles and laughs. Renegade stands at the long bar pressed against one side, crystal bottles gleaming under a recessed spotlights.

“Can I get you something to drink, sir?” the android bartender asks.

“Chianti,” Renegade says, leaning on the counter while scanning the crowd.

The android rolls back with a tall glass of red wine. Renegade takes it without looking at him.

“Great reception,” the android says.

“Eh,” Renegade replies, already bored. “It’s fine.”

“I heard your speech earlier,” the bartender says. “Made me want to cry.”

Renegade finally turns toward him, sips his wine, and says, “Don’t lie.”

“Honest, sir.”

A grin slips across Renegade’s face. He sets the glass down and lowers his voice. “You think anyone would notice if I slipped away for a bit?”

“You’re the star of the night,” the bartender says. “That’ll be difficult. But if anyone asks, I’ll say you went to the restroom.”

“You’d lie?”

The android hesitates. “For you, sir.”

“How kind,” Renegade says. He pushes the unfinished drink toward him, winks, and eases along the atrium’s edge, doing his best to stay unnoticed.

He keeps glancing at the crowd, where guests mingle with the new Gen Four models. The difference between them is obvious. The Gen Fours gleam in topaz suits and dresses, while everyone else wears muted grays and blacks.

Renegade bumps into someone. Dr. Fez stands before him. “Congratulations again, Doctor.”

They shake hands. “We did it together,” Renegade says.

“You’re right,” Fez answers, chuckling. Renegade echoes the sound. “But where’s your partner? He wasn’t at the ceremony, and I don’t see him here.”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Renegade lies. “Miles is probably hung over at his apartment.”

Fez laughs. “He does like to start the party early.”

Renegade forces a laugh. “I won’t be long.” He pats Fez’s shoulder. “Get yourself a chianti.” Then he slips away.

He regrets wearing such a flashy suit, but soon he rounds a corner and disappears into an ornate hallway. His steps quicken as he twists through two, three, four turns.

At that same moment, the elevator doors rise, and Miles steps out. Something catches in his peripheral vision. A man in a dazzling suit vanishes around the corner, and the build is unmistakable. Renegade.

Miles narrows his eyes. Strange. Renegade should be at the reception. Where is he going?

The questions pile fast, and Miles moves. He crosses the glossy floor in silence, rounds the same corner—Renegade is gone. But the steps remain. Miles follows the rhythm through the winding halls until he sees a door ease shut at the end. He hurries to it and slips inside. It’s a sleek stairwell, sound echoing against steel and concrete. Renegade’s hurried footsteps thunder below.

Miles leans over the railing and glimpses Renegade’s arm vanish many floors down. Seven floors, he counts. Renegade is rushing to a subterranean level.

Once he hears a latch click below, Miles descends. He grips the cold railing and tiptoes down each step until he reaches the seventh level. But when he gets there, he freezes. There’s no door. Only a blank wall.

He wonders if he miscounted. He presses a hand to the WALL, half expecting a scan trigger. Nothing. He puts his ear to it. Solid. Impenetrable.

He steps back, scratching his head. Something is off. He considers waiting for Renegade to return, but something within nudges him back toward the reception. After one last look at the empty barrier, he turns and climbs the stairs, leaving the strange silence behind him.

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36 YEARS LATER • YEAR 347

Chaos again. Relentless, recurring chaos. The screams come, familiar yet still gutting. Wick stands amid a crowd of the same faces. From his height, he can tell he’s just a boy. When he looks up, he sees the same black symbol tattooed on bottom of most wrists—a teardrop encircled in ink.

He’s pushed up a narrow staircase that twists sharply, emerging into a dim passage. His hands stay close to his chest as the press of bodies drives him forward. One after another, people fall. Blood pools around them.

Wick’s pulse thrums. The men ahead lift their rifles and fire. A shot cracks beside his ear. He trips over corpses, over warm puddles, over faces frozen mid-fear. His hand drags along the rough wall, the world tilting as dizziness sets in. Then gunfire flares again. He’s behind several men exchanging rounds with a lone figure at the far end of the hall. That man kills them all—some fall in blood, others collapse with exposed wires sparking from their wounds.

Before Wick can react, the man’s gun turns on him.

He wakes.

His eyes open to a dark room, its shapes faintly lit by the city outside his wide window. His fingers clutch the soft bedding as he steadies his breath. Safe again.

He reaches across the bed. Only a cold pillow meets his hand. Alexa isn’t there. Sitting up, he stares at the skyline still wrapped in night, then at the clock—barely past midnight. Sleep won’t come again.

He slips from the sheets and moves across the cool floor, careful as if not to wake someone. The purring of the fridge drifts faintly from down the hall, but he turns the other way. His palm presses to a wall pad; a thin light scans and flashes green. The door slides open.

Inside is a cube of white. Every wall, the ceiling, and the floor gleam with mirror polish. His own reflection meets him wherever he stands.

“Good evening, Wick,” a woman’s voice murmurs through the ceiling speakers. “It’s late, you know.”

“I can’t sleep,” he answers.

“Have you tried?”

“Tried? Yes.”

“Have you tried going back to sleep?”

He shakes his head.

“Would you like me to sing a lullaby to encourage drowsiness?”

“No. That’s okay.”

“Then perhaps a bedtime story?”

“I’m twenty-four.”

“That’s all right,” she says gently. “We’re never too old for a good story.”

He exhales, sits cross-legged on the floor, and rocks slightly. “Which one?”

“How about the story of the woman and the clay?”

“Sure.”

The Pod’s pristine surfaces fade as a holographic world forms around him, full and real from every side, as though he’s been drawn straight into the tale itself.

The forest unfolds around him, rich with bright hues of green. Sunbeams cut through the canopy, striping his face in gold. Wick sits among tall trees, the air thick with birdsong and the whisper of branches. Then comes another sound.

“There once lived a woman in the wood,” says the voice, deeper now—resonant and low, yet strangely calm.

The scene reshapes itself to match the story. “One day, this woman was gathering wildflowers when she heard something unusual.”

Beside him, a middle-aged woman kneels by a fallen log, plucking blossoms. She doesn’t see Wick; he’s only a ghost in her world. A noise drifts from the distance—grunts, rough and human. She freezes, head turning sharply, alert as prey. Her name echoes through the trees, carried on the wind.

“The sound of burly men filled the forest,” the voice rumbles. “They had found her.”

Wick rises to his feet, knowing what comes next. “These men were cruel, and they were after her. So the woman fled—back to her small home in the woods.”

She starts walking, and Wick follows. The Pod’s floor shifts beneath his steps, adjusting to every motion, every turn. It feels real—the weight of pursuit, the forest closing in. The woman breaks into a run. Wick matches her pace, pushing through holographic brush that passes through him like mist.

Through the trees, a wooden shack emerges. The woman races for the door, fumbling with the lock as she glances over her shoulder. The shouts behind her grow nearer. Heavy boots crush twigs. But the men remain unseen.

The door bursts open, and both she and Wick dart inside. She slams it shut, bolts it fast, then falls to her knees and claws at the floor. Wood splinters as she pries up the boards. A hole yawns beneath her feet. She grabs a shovel and digs frantically. Time accelerates—the hole deepens—and she vanishes below just as the door crashes open. The men’s voices thunder through the cabin, but Wick never sees their faces.

The image shifts. Now he’s in the pit with her. Darkness presses close. Only thin lines of light cut through the cracks above. The woman trembles, her breath uneven.

“The woman waited,” the voice goes on. “Hours. Days. But they never left. Alone with her shovel, she decided to dig again.”

She lifts the tool and drives it into the earth. “Deeper and deeper she went, until no dirt remained to dig. With one last stroke, the ground gave way.”

The soil beneath her collapses, and she plunges downward. Wick follows the fall, sliding down a slick bank into a cavern below. The floor is wet and uneven, clinging to her hands as she steadies herself in the dark.

“The next events grew stranger still. Her eyes began to adjust beyond what was natural, and soon she could see through the dark for miles. The cavern shimmered faintly, as if lit by hidden torches.

“She noticed the clay beneath her feet pulsing softly, like the beat of a heart. Could the earth itself be alive? The thought sparked something within her. Trapped and alone, she gathered the living clay in her hands and began to shape it. At first, her sculptures were crude and shapeless. But as her fingers pressed and carved, faces began to form. The woman was fashioning children—offspring born of earth and solitude, made to bring her comfort.

“With each final touch of her finger, life stirred in them. Eyes opened. Mouths smiled. Voices rose. Though molded from clay, their minds were bound to hers. They shared her thoughts, her desires, her very will.

“For a time, the woman’s heart was weightless. Her children played and laughed, filling the cavern with echoes of joy. Yet soon she grew restless. She had created more than companions—she had birthed something capable of more than hiding in the earth. They were meant to ascend. So she formed a plan.

“She didn’t speak aloud. She didn’t need to. Through their shared mind, her will became theirs. As one, the clay children gathered, climbed the slope, and pushed through the hole above. Together, they burst through the floorboards of the woman’s cabin.

“The men who had long sought her now met their end at the hands of her creation. But before their final breath, they looked upon her face.

“‘You have hunted me since I was young,’ she said, ‘and you have not grown weary. Yet today, at the height of your strength, you will seek me no more.’ Then she closed their eyes.

“Afterward, she swept her home clean. The children had a place now—a home of their own, and a mother who ruled with care. Each day they did her will, gladly and without question. And so the woman and her children remained together, bound by mind and purpose. The end.”

The scene dissolves in an instant, returning to the bleached, seamless cube of the Pod. Wick stands motionless, his breath slow, trying to reorient himself.

“I love that story,” the voice says again, gentle now, the same soft femininity as before.

“They used to tell us that story growing up,” Wick answers.

“Yes, it’s a favorite among many. Well, Wick, are you feeling drowsy yet?”

“Not really.” His heart still thuds, though it tries to settle into rhythm.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

He exhales. “How about a memory?”

“A memory?”

“Yeah. I want you to show me one.”

“Of course. Please place your hand on the pad and tell me which memory you’d like to revisit.”

A narrow slot opens on the wall, revealing a glowing biometric scanner. Wick steps closer and sets his hand on it. His gaze drifts upward, searching through the haze of memory. “I’ve never relived the first time I met Alexa,” he says quietly. “I don’t even remember it.”

“You miss her, don’t you?” the voice murmurs.

He pictures her standing there beside him—her warmth, her presence—and a small smile cuts through his fatigue. “Yeah. But she’ll be back soon.”

“That sounds like a lovely memory. If this one doesn’t induce drowsiness, would you like me to recommend supplements—”

“Just play the memory, Pod.”

“I’ve retrieved the file,” she replies evenly. “Please stand in the center of the room before I activate it.”

Wick steps into place. The walls vanish around him. In their place rise four dull partitions lined with long metal tables. Children in silver uniforms chatter and eat beneath bright fluorescent light. The echo of clattering trays fills the air—it’s a mess hall.

Every face carries a shadow of familiarity, but one stands out. A boy with pale hair and green eyes. Himself, younger—five, maybe six.

The young Wick clutches his tray and walks toward a group of boys. “Can I sit here?” he asks.

They stare at him, sneering. “Who are you? Never seen you before.”

He forces a smile. “So that’s a yes?”

“Uh, no.”

“Yes,” comes another voice. The small group looks toward a girl with freckled cheeks and curls spilling over her forehead. “Yes,” she repeats firmly. “He can sit here.”

One boy scowls. “No, he can’t.”

“He needs to sit somewhere,” she argues.

“Not here.”

“Why not?”

“Look at him. He’s not even supposed to be here.”

The words hang heavy. The girl turns to Wick. “He’s right,” she says. “You’re new. We never get new faces.”

“I’m Wick,” he says, trying to sound sure.

“Where’d you come from?” another boy demands.

Wick shuts his eyes tightly, and the boys erupt in laughter. “What’s he doing? Trying to use the bathroom?” one mocks.

The girl frowns. “It’s okay, Wick,” she says gently. “Just sit down.”

“No!” the same boy barks.

“Fine!” she snaps back. Grabbing her tray, she storms to a nearby empty table and sits. “Well?” she says over her shoulder.

Wick hurries after her, setting his tray beside hers. “Thanks,” he says, relieved.

She leans close, voice low. “Don’t close your eyes like that again.”

“Oh?”

“It looks weird. They’ll laugh at you again.”

He starts to glance back toward the boys, but she grips his shoulder and pulls him gently forward.

“Anyway,” she sighs, the edge fading from her tone. “I’m Alexa.”

“Wick.”

“I know. You told us.” She nods toward a corner of the room and points. “Do you know that guy?”

Both the young Wick and his older self follow Alexa’s gesture to the corner of the mess hall. Two men stand near the door, speaking quietly. One looks out of place—his clothes grimy, his jacket frayed, his hair unwashed. Yet those details fade beside the ruin of his face. His skin is melted, almost gone, the flesh fused into dark folds. If not for the blinking of his eyes and the faint movement of his lips, it would be hard to call it a face at all.

“Yeah,” the younger Wick says softly. “He’s the one who brought me here.”

The scarred man extends a hand and shakes the one belonging to a worker in a neat silver uniform. Without a word, the stranger turns and walks through the doors.

The older Wick’s pulse spikes. Just before the man disappears, he catches sight of something—a black teardrop circled in ink, carved into the bottom of the man’s wrist. His heart jolts. He pushes through tables and children, moving toward the door, but when he reaches it, it won’t open. The holographic world holds him fast.

“Open up!” he demands, striking his palm against the frame.

“You’re inside your own memory, Wick,” the Pod reminds him. “You can only move within what you’ve stored.”

He faces the barrier, breathing hard. “Do you know anything about that man?”

The scene freezes. Every child, every plate, every sound stops. “I’m sorry, Wick,” says the voice after a pause. “I have no information on that man.”

“Do you know his name?”

“I do not have any information.”

“The teardrop then—the one on his wrist. Do you know what it means?”

Another pause, another flat reply. “I’m sorry, Wick, I have no record of that symbol.”

Wick stands alone among the still figures. His chest tightens. “Then take me to the memory,” he says quietly.

“Which one?”

“The one where he brought me here.”

“I’m sorry, Wick. That memory doesn’t exist in your archive.”

“It has to.”

“As you know, I can only replay what’s stored on your SentiaChip. After scanning your entire database, I can confirm this is one of your earliest memories.”

“This one?”

“Yes. The one you’re in now.”

“I don’t get it.”

“It appears you received the SentiaChip upon arrival here. That doesn’t mean you had no memories before then—only that they were never recorded. Implantation varies by individual, often delayed in children whose neural development is still incomplete.”

He clenches his fists. “There’s one I keep having. It’s chaos—people with the teardrop mark, like that man. It must’ve happened before this. Take me there.”

“I’m sorry, Wick. No such memory exists in your archive.”

“There has to be.”

“Can you describe it further?”

He closes his eyes. The images flood back—the screaming, the blood, the mark. “I don’t know. It’s a dream I keep having.”

“Well, there you go, Wick,” the Pod says calmly.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s a dream. I cannot replay subconscious dreams. However, I can construct a simulation from the details you’ve described. Would you like me to create a daydream?”

“No,” he says sharply. “Take me to my first stored memory.”

A long silence follows. “I cannot go back any further than this scene.”

“You said there were earlier memories.”

“I’m sorry, Wick. That was not my intent. After full analysis, I can confirm this is your first recorded memory.”

Wick surveys the mess hall again. The children remain frozen, mid-motion. He meets the gaze of his younger self and Alexa, both of them facing him, both fixed as if watching him.

“Would you like me to reconsider a lullaby to promote drowsiness?” the Pod asks softly.

The silence thickens. Only Wick’s mind moves now, turning over everything he has just heard, the stillness pressing down like a weight.

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36 YEARS EARLIER • YEAR 311

The girl screams for her life. “Mama!” she cries, her voice cracking. But no answer comes. Her mother isn’t there. She’s alone, trapped inside a cold steel enclosure that swallow every sound. Her words die in the sterile air, her cries thinning into broken whimpers. The straps bite into her wrists as she struggles, the gurney creaking beneath her. She doesn’t understand why she’s bound so tightly. Fear stiffens every limb.

Tears streak her cheeks as the door hisses open. For a fleeting instant, she dares to hope—but then she sees him. A man in a pale coat, face blank and unmoved, steps into the room. Her body trembles. Each step he takes echoes sharp against the floor, each one feeding her panic. When he leans over her, his shadow swallows her face. He lifts a small cup into view. “Water,” he says.

She can’t resist. Her arms are pinned, her body trapped. He slides a hand beneath her head and presses the cup to her lips. “Open.” His tone leaves no room for refusal. She hesitates, but when she meets his eyes, cold and unblinking, she obeys. The liquid passes her throat in quick gulps.

Her eyelids immediately grow heavy. He steps back, checking the time on his wrist. A tremor runs through her body, then violent spasms shake the gurney, its legs rattling. The man keeps his attention fixed on his watch until the motion slows, until it stops altogether. Silence floods the space. He moves closer, unfastens one strap, and presses two fingers to her wrist. No pulse.

He raises a thumb toward the mirror, except it isn’t one. Someone watches from the other side.

“Excellent,” comes Renegade’s voice through the speaker. “Now come back.”

In the control cell, Renegade stands with his hands behind his back, eyes fixed on the experiment chamber. The door opens and the man steps in. Their gazes meet, and the man nods. Behind Renegade, others wait, silent.

He turns back to the glass, the harsh light cutting across his face. With deliberate calm, he flips a switch. Panels in the chamber slide open, and a cluster of mechanical arms unfolds from hidden recesses. One clamps the girl’s head in place; another pierces her skin. A blade flashes. Blood drains into a vial. Renegade watches without expression.

When it’s done, new arms emerge with a black bag. They unstrap her body, shove it in, and seal it away. A vial of red liquid and a small chip slide into a compartment inside the wall. A matching hatch opens in the control room, and Renegade takes them in his hands.

He studies them for a moment, weighing what they mean, then turns to his waiting team. “To the recreation sector.”

Renegade’s stride is steady, his face unreadable. The dozen men behind him follow in silence as they round a corner and enter a vast laboratory. The space purrs with low, calculated life. Tables and consoles crowd the walls, each covered with instruments only these men could decipher. At the center of the room towers a massive structure of steel and circuitry—a machine so immense it dominates the space. Its frame rises three times the height of any man present, threaded with wires that pulse under shifting lights.

Renegade steps toward a control panel built into one of its hexagonal sides. From his pocket, he produces the small circular chip, gleaming faintly. He slides it into its slot, then retrieves the vial. The blood still carries a trace of heat. He removes the stopper and tilts it carefully until the last drop drains into a narrow cavity within the machine. Then his hands move over the buttons, deliberate and practiced.

Just before pulling the main latch, he hesitates. The men exchange uncertain glances, murmurs spreading quietly among them.

“Sir?” one ventures.

Renegade doesn’t answer. His gaze drifts, distant, as if caught in something remembered. Seconds pass. Then, collecting himself, he grips the latch with both hands and yanks it down. The mechanism locks with a heavy clang. A brassy hum fills the air as steam bursts from a funnel at the top. The beacon flares, flickers, then stabilizes into a steady glow.

Renegade exhales and steps back. The others watch him, still and cautious.

“Find something to do if you must,” he says, his tone calm but edged. “Just don’t keep gawking at me.”

He walks the length of the room until he reaches a man near the rear entrance. “Why so reserved, Miles?” he says, voice almost conversational.

Miles meets his eyes — older, broader, frowning slightly.

“Your chip will work,” Renegade assures him. “I have a feeling about this one.”

He pats Miles on the arm and leaves without looking back.

The door to Renegade’s penthouse glides open, spilling a sliver of light into the dark. He steps inside, and the sensors wake the room. Soft illumination spreads through the vast space. Empty. Silent. The city beyond the translucent wall ahead shines beneath a black sky.

He stands still for a moment. Then, the faint sound of machinery stirs. A robotic arm lowers smoothly from the ceiling. “Good evening, Dr. Renegade.”

He nods, weary, and sets a few things on the counter. The arm lingers near. “It’s dinnertime, Dr. Renegade. Are you hungry?”

He glances at his watch. There’s time. “I suppose.”

“What would you like, sir?” it asks, tone bright and eager.

Renegade walks toward the bay window, eyes fixed on the skyline. “You know.”

“Right away, sir,” the arm replies, then whirs off toward the kitchen. metal clinks echo faintly, but Renegade pays no attention. His gaze drifts toward the long corridor bathed by the dim city glow. He turns and moves that way, boots tapping against the floor.

He stops along the wall opposite the city. Hanging there is a holographic portrait of a boy—no older than five—grinning as if caught mid-laughter.

“Hi, Auggie,” Renegade murmurs.

“Hi, Daddy,” the portrait answers, the boy’s digital voice bright and warm. Renegade’s lips curve faintly. “I haven’t seen you since morning.”

“You say that all the time,” Renegade says.

“It’s always true.”

“I’m only a few floors below,” he reminds him quietly. “Doing the same things I always do.”

“I know,” says Auggie. “I just like asking you.”

Renegade’s smile fades. His shoulders sag a little.

“You look so sad, Daddy. All the time.”

Renegade lifts his eyes to the projection. They study each other in silence. Then, he forces a small grin. “Soon,” he says. “Soon, I won’t look so sad. Soon, I’ll be the happiest man there is.”

Auggie giggles, pure and delighted. Renegade chuckles softly in return.

“I like it when you’re happy,” the portrait says. “How soon will that be?”

Renegade’s expression hardens. The moment dies.

A mechanical hum breaks the silence. The robotic arm zips into view. “Dinner is ready, Dr. Renegade.”

He tears away from the portrait and stares hard at the robotic arm at the end of the end of the hall.

“You spend a lot of time in front of that portrait,” the arm remarks a few minutes later as it sets down Renegade’s plate. “It’s just a holograph, you know.”

Renegade’s eyes narrow. The comment lands wrong, too human in tone.

He sits, looking down at the meal—chicken tenders, macaroni and cheese, raw carrots. Simple. Childlike. Surrounded by wealth, it looks almost absurd.

The arm hovers for a beat. “So, how was your day, sir?”

“Shut off,” Renegade says flatly, stabbing at the pasta.

The machine retracts into the ceiling, leaving him alone with his meal and the quiet sheen of the city backdrop.

Miles stands with a cluster of technicians outside the recreation room, half-listening to their talk. His attention drifts down the hall. Renegade is approaching. Miles glances at his watch, though he already knows the time.

“Any time now, right, gentlemen?” Renegade says as he reaches them. He doesn’t stop. He strides past the group and through the door. The others follow, murmuring among themselves, but Miles lingers. A flicker of unease crosses his face. His pulse quickens. Something in him hesitates to see what waits beyond that door.

Inside, Renegade circles the towering machine, eyes locked on it with hungry focus. His hands shift restlessly inside his coat pockets. Each footstep echoes sharper than the last. The technicians hang back, watching the seconds crawl. A few glance at their watches; one chews at a fingernail.

The machine’s tremor stops. The silence that follows feels heavier than sound. No one moves.

Steam seeps through the seams, then bursts out as the shell splits apart. Panels descend like opening gates, releasing a flood of fog that spills across the floor.

Even the veterans freeze. Miles steps in at last, his face pale, eyes narrowing as he takes in the sight.

In the center of the collapsing structure stands a figure. Small. Human in shape, but metal in sheen. The chrome surface catches the light, sculpted to perfection—an exact replica of the girl who had died only hours before.

“Mama?” the girl says softly. Her head turns mechanically, searching.

The sound paralyzes the room. Her voice—gentle, frightened, achingly familiar—cuts through the haze like a memory resurrected.

Every gaze turns to Renegade. For a long moment, he says nothing. Then one of the technicians breaks the silence. “Congratulations, sir. You’ve just cheated death.”

A chill passes through the group. Renegade’s lips twitch, then curl into a faint, knowing smile. The expression grows, proud and dangerous. For an instant, he seems almost divinely transfigured—crowned by his own creation.

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OFFICIAL MAIN THEME SCORE FOR THE ANIMA PROJECT

I wrote The Anima Project to feel immersive. It is written in a way to carry the sweep, tension, and intensity of something cinematic while living fully on the page. The story itself was penned by me, but to deepen the experience around it, I created original music to accompany the novel.

Using AI as a tool for the soundtrack, I developed songs for each chapter along with a cinematic score shaped to reflect the emotion and scale of the story. The goal was never to replace the writing, but to give the world of my story a texture and a sound that matched its scope.

The Anima Project is meant to be felt as much as it is read. Press play, and step into its world.

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40 YEARS LATER • YEAR 347

Chaos. That’s the only word for it. The room erupts in hysteria. Wick tries to stay still, but the crowd surges and slams against him from every direction, bodies clawing for a way out. The noise becomes a single, blinding rush of panic that swallows every distinct sound.

The space is dim and narrow, its walls dark and stony, no windows in sight. He’s caught in something like a mosh pit under a low ceiling—except this isn’t a club. Wick doesn’t know exactly where he is, but he’s been here before. Again and again, it repeats. The same walls. The same chaos. The same teardrop tattoos carved into the bottom of wrists. Every time, the scene ends the same way. Then, he wakes up.

Was it a dream or something else—something waiting to happen? Wick runs his hands across the comforter to steady himself. The soft fabric grounds him. Beside him lies Alexa, still asleep, her body rising and falling with the slow rhythm of her breath.

He touches her cheek, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath his fingertip. Her lashes catch the spill of city light pouring through the bay window. For a moment, he watches her, unmoving. Then his eyes shift to the city beyond. The sky sleeps, but the skyline thrums awake, alive as ever. The clock on the nightstand confirms what he already knows—it’s too early. He sits up, draws a long breath, and waits. Sleep never returns after the dream.

“How long have you been up?” a voice murmurs. Wick glances down at Alexa. Her eyes stay shut, her face half-buried in the pillow. He brushes a hand through her dark hair, and her lip curls instinctively. “Don’t tell me,” she says, still feigning sleep. He traces the faint fuzz on her cheek, the warmth beneath his fingertips.

Sunlight from the bay window breaks through, pushing against her eyelids until she squirms. Accepting defeat, she sits up, shifting into the shade of the bed, and opens her eyes. They lock in a silent stare. Her hazel irises shimmer with flecks of green, catching the light.

“Four hours,” Wick says.

Alexa lets out an exaggerated pout. “Ugh, I was gonna guess.”

“You took too long.”

“You’re never patient.”

“I’m always patient.”

“It’s not like we don’t have time… What time is it, anyway?”

“We’ve got lots of time. Don’t worry.”

Alexa sits taller, thinking for a beat, then throws off the covers. “I have to shower. Do my hair. You know, girl things.”

Wick leans back against the headboard. “And I’ll do boy things.” He scratches his head lazily.

The bathroom door closes behind her. Wick’s gaze lingers a moment before he looks back to the window. The city glows, glass towers catching the rising sun. From up here, it’s impossible to tell he’s fifty stories above the ground.

He rises and steps closer to the pane, craning his neck to gauge the height of the building opposite—twice his own, maybe more. Then, still scratching his stomach, he wanders into the tall, open kitchen. The space flows into a sprawling living area, both bathed in the golden hue reflecting off the skyline beyond the glass wall.

He pulls a pan from the cabinet, cracks eggs, lays bacon to sizzle. The smell fills the room, drawing Alexa out. She reappears, hair damp, twisted into a loose bun, and glides toward him with a hungry look. Rising on her toes, she kisses him lightly.

“Haven’t done that yet today,” she says with a grin. “Sorry.”

“You owe me double.”

She rolls her eyes, then kisses him again. This time, he doesn’t pull back. Her arms hang loosely, her hair slipping free over her shoulders. The moment stretches, soft and slow.

When they part, Wick closes the gap once more, making her laugh. “And that’s for leaving me,” he says.

“I’m not leaving you,” she replies, reaching for a plate.

“For seventy-two hours, you are.”

She studies the bacon, choosing her pieces carefully. “And then I’ll never leave again,” she says, glancing back to blow him a kiss.

Wick moves behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist. “It’s still seventy-two hours,” he murmurs.

“You could do it too,” she says gently.

“It’s expensive.”

“They’re doing mine for free.” She slides an omelet from the pan.

“Exactly.”

She spins around, holding the plate close. “Exactly,” she repeats. “You just need to apply for the assist.” Then she slips away and settles on a stool, the plate clinking softly on the counter.

Silence settles as Alexa takes her first bite. She looks up mid-chew, watching Wick stare off somewhere distant. “Just do it,” she mutters through a mouthful. “Nearly half of Penumbra’s gone through the transfer already. The Elders are helping everyone.” She swallows, her voice firming. “Plus, it’s safe.”

Wick leans on the counter across from her. “I’ll wait for Gen Seven.”

“You can always upgrade later.”

He straightens, unwilling to argue, and moves back to the stove. He scoops up the last of the bacon and slides two omelets onto his plate. The motion feels final, like a quiet shift away from the topic.

“I just wish we could transfer together,” Alexa says to his back. “At the same time, you know?”

“The pre-process takes three months. It’s too late now.” The hot pan slips from his grip, crashing onto his foot. He curses under his breath and kicks it aside.

Alexa shoots up. “Are you okay?” She looks down at his foot. “Didn’t that hurt?”

“Maybe a little,” he says, brushing it off. “It’s fine. Just stubbed my toe.”

“I’d be crying,” she says. “You really are a man of steel.” She walks over to him, smiling. “My man of steel.”

“And you’re my wimpy little girl.” He wraps his arm around her, smiling back.

She hits his chest with the back of her hand. “Hey. I never said I’m a wimp. I just said I’d… cry… a lot… if a searing pan smashed my foot.”

“Fine,” he concedes. “I’m your man of steel, and you’re my woman of steel… who cries a lot.”

She snatches the fork from his hand, pointing it at him with mock warning. “Soon,” she says. “In seventy-two hours.”

He glances at his watch. “More like seventy-seven.”

“Whatever,” she mutters, placing the fork back on his plate.

She returns to her seat, finishing her breakfast as Wick grabs a rag and retrieves the fallen pan. The rest of their time in the kitchen passes in quiet—only the faint noise of the city beyond filling the silence.

The streets of Penumbra pulse with motion as Wick and Alexa weave through the crowd. Men, women, and androids flood the boulevard, their footsteps merging into a restless rhythm. The couple moves in stride with the flow — polished, modern, indistinguishable from the rest. They are products of their time, anonymous among the sleek chaos. Yet today, unlike the others chasing distractions among the neon storefronts, their purpose is fixed. They are headed for Anima Corp.

The tower looms ahead, black glass glinting in the sun. Its holographic name ripples across the facade, declaring its presence to the city like a living banner. A steel spire crowns the structure, spearing the halo above. As they near, its massive shadow swallows them whole. The sight stirs something in both of them — awe, unease, anticipation. Until now, they’ve only seen this place through screens.

Two hulking androids guard the doors. One raises a hand, halting their approach. Without a word, Wick and Alexa lift their wrists. Their watches flicker from timekeepers to digital IDs. A scanner replaces the display, followed by a soft chime.

“Welcome, Alexa. Welcome, Wick,” the android says. The tone is unsettlingly human, almost warm. Wick can’t help wondering if some remnant of life hides behind the machine’s eyes. “When you enter, you’ll find a door to your far left. Please sign in there.”

The second android extends two pairs of sleek glasses. “Wear these inside.” Wick accepts them, passing one to Alexa. They nod their thanks and cross into the building.

A pulse of text blooms in the air before them, greeting them by name. Wick peeks over the rim of the glasses and realizes the illusion vanishes — the spectacle is entirely within the lenses. Around them, others wander the rotunda, each immersed in their own private layer of augmented reality.

The marble floor lights up underfoot. Arrows shimmer ahead, pointing the way. Alexa flashes him a grin. Together, they follow the glowing trail.

The arrows lead left, to a blank wall crowned with floating letters: TRANSFER. They stop before it, waiting for it to open, but it doesn’t move. Wick lowers his glasses, and the illusion collapses. The door never existed — only the frame remains.

“Do we just walk through it?” Alexa asks.

He shrugs and pulls the glasses off completely, glancing down another corridor. But before he can take a step, a voice crashes from above. “Glasses are required within the visitor center of the building. Keep glasses fastened at all times.”

Wick doesn’t move. Down the uncovered passage, he catches sight of several women holding children, their faces pale and uncertain.

“Glasses on, please,” the voice repeats, sharper this time. The strain in its tone is unmistakable. Wick hesitates a beat longer, then obeys.

With the glasses on, the hallway dissolves into a seamless barricade. The expanse beyond it vanishes, replaced by uniform stone.

“What do you think is happening down there?” Wick asks quietly.

Alexa turns, seeing only what the glasses allow. “What do you mean?”

“Those women. With the children.”

“What children?”

“Down the hallway,” he insists.

“There’s only a wall,” she says flatly.

“Take your glasses off.”

“Didn’t you hear them? We’re not supposed to.”

“Just for a second.”

“And get escorted out? No thanks.”

“Then look over them, Alexa.”

She ignores him, turning back to the blank façade ahead. “Open, please,” she says, testing it.

Nothing happens.

Wick stares another moment at the invisible obstruction concealing what he knows is still there, then forces himself to look back at Alexa. “Maybe we just walk through it,” he says. “It’s not real anyway.”

She takes his hand. Together they step closer, cautious, fingers tightening as they approach. When they’re only a few feet away, the illusion flickers and drops. The doorway reappears, exactly where it was. Alexa exhales in relief. “That was easier than I thought.”

Still holding hands, they cross the threshold. The gap beyond is empty—too empty. Before either can speak, a young woman materializes in front of them, bright and smiling.

“Oh, good morning!” she greets, her voice channeled through tiny speakers in their frames. “Welcome to Anima Corp. You’ve successfully arrived at the Transfer Center. My name is Eve.” She glances down at her tablet. “I see Alexa has an appointment with us today. Am I correct that Wick is just accompanying?”

Alexa shoots him a look. “Well, I’ve been trying—”

“Just accompanying,” Wick cuts in.

“Thank you for clarifying,” Eve says, still smiling. “For your awareness, the Anima Assist Program is currently active. Should you choose to transfer in the future, all you need to do is apply. It’s that easy.”

“That’s what I’ve been telling him,” Alexa says.

Eve turns her attention to Wick. “During our short tour, you’ll learn about the remarkable advancements in our Anima Generation Six model. And in three days’ time, when you see the new Alexa — or rather, when you notice no difference in her at all — we’re confident you’ll soon follow in her footsteps.” She laughs lightly. “But I’m getting ahead of myself. Follow me, you two. Let’s get started.”

Wick tightens his grip on Alexa’s hand as they follow the projected image of Eve. A door slides open, and they step into a narrow hall that leads to a dim elevator chamber. The door seals behind them, and a single spotlight drops from above, trapping the three in its glow.

“It’s probably best if we start at the beginning,” Eve says brightly. “For that, I have a very special guest to introduce to you.”

A man materializes beside her, fading into view like a spirit caught between worlds. His slicked-back hair is streaked with black, grey, and white; the lines across his face are deep and deliberate. Wick and Alexa recognize him instantly. They’ve seen that face before—on every screen, in every broadcast.

“I’m Dr. Renegade,” the man says, his tone rich and measured. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Alexa. Wick.” He nods to each of them. “I’ve come to give you a little history of Anima Corp.”

The space before them shifts. A holographic city blooms into existence, black and white, suspended in midair. At its center towers a massive structure—dark, angular, unmistakable.

“This is where we are,” Renegade says, pointing toward the tower. “But this building hasn’t always belonged to Anima Corp. For most of Penumbra’s existence, this place stood empty. Three centuries of vacancy. Yet it was never abandoned. The Elites who built this city always intended that life—true life—would one day awaken here. That purpose has finally arrived. And in our age, life is indeed manifest within these walls—quite literally.”

The hologram fades to black, and the room feels smaller. “In the year 293, I founded what was then known simply as The Anima Project,” Renegade continues, pacing across the spotlight’s circle. “It began with a problem. A universal one. A flaw that haunted mankind from its first breath. The problem—mortality.”

Figures flicker into being around them. First two, then five, then ten—pale digital bodies lay floating in the air. Their forms are unmistakably human, yet lifeless. Wick feels Alexa tense beside him.

“Take a good look,” Renegade says. “This is what follows every life. Death. Oblivion. This awaits all people. Yes, even you.”

Two more bodies fade in. Alexa’s breath catches. Wick’s stomach turns as he recognizes the faces—their own, eyes open but empty, skin drained of color. Alexa’s hand seizes his.

Renegade’s voice cuts through the thick silence. “It’s a shame, isn’t it? That our bodies betray us. But why must this be so? Is death truly natural, or is it a flaw in the system of life itself?” The holograms vanish into the dark. “I believe it’s an anomaly. A disease mistaken for design. Life is meant to thrive. We see it in birth, in growth, in the will to continue. Yet, over time, the body decays. It cannot sustain its own energy. But what if it could? What if you could live in a body that lasts a thousand years? What if you could live forever?”

The word forever hangs heavy in the air. He looks at both of them as though peering into their souls. “This is where The Anima Project takes shape.”

A bright beam flashes vertically beside him, splitting the dark. Wick squints against it, momentarily blinded. When his eyes adjust, the illusion gives way to something real—a vast warehouse stretches out before them, vibrating with cold machinery. Wick lowers his glasses to test it. The image holds. This part isn’t projection. It’s all real.

Renegade and Eve lead Wick and Alexa from the darkened chamber onto a high balcony that stretches above an endless grid of human figures. Each stands upright, perfectly still, their posture identical, their silence absolute. The scale is overwhelming — a sea of bodies reaching into the shadows.

“We have one simple goal here at Anima Corp,” Renegade says, his voice echoing through the cavernous hall. “Immortality.”

Alexa exhales sharply, the sound almost lost in the vastness. Wick grips the railing, his knuckles pale, eyes locked on the motionless crowd below.

“What you see before you are not bodies of flesh and bone,” Renegade continues. “There is no blood in them. Beneath their skin lie circuits and steel. Yet on the surface, they appear perfectly human. And that, my friends, is the wonder of it all.” He steps closer to them, hands clasped behind his back. “In the year 293, Anima Corp was born. Eighteen years later, in 311, came the breakthrough — the merging of mind and body, of man and machine. At last, our efforts carried purpose. And life itself could continue indefinitely.”

He breathes deeply, pride softening his tone. “For forty-nine years, we have worked to perfect this union, refining every detail of existence. Across six generations of the Anima model, the boundary between human and construct has vanished. Death, for those who choose the ways of Animas, is obsolete.”

Renegade’s gaze fixes on Wick, steady and knowing. Then the expanse around him begins to dim.

“Thank you, Dr. Renegade,” Eve says cheerfully as his image fades into static. She turns to them with a polished smile. “While much of that may sound familiar, it’s always a privilege to hear it from the man himself. Dr. Renegade has given so much — to Penumbra, to us, and to you, Alexa.”

Alexa returns a small, respectful smile.

“Now,” Eve says, gesturing for them to follow, “there’s more to see.”

She leads Alexa along the balcony toward a narrow, shadowed offshoot. Wick lingers, still staring down at the rows of motionless forms. He searches for any sign of movement — a twitch, a breath, a mistake. But every figure remains fixed, frozen mid-life.

“Keep up!” Eve calls from ahead. Alexa waves him on. Wick hesitates, then tears his eyes from the still bodies and follows.

As they enter the dim passage, he asks, “Why are they so still?”

“They’re in the process of transferring,” Eve replies, her tone casual, almost bored.

The left wall of the passageway is made of glass. Beyond it runs a parallel shaft that brightens as they step onto a slow-moving conveyor. Eve gestures toward the windowpane. On the opposite side, a figure appears — translucent, shimmering, unmistakable.

Alexa gasps. It’s her.

A perfect digital twin hovers in step with them, matching every movement as though walking the same invisible track.

“What you’re seeing is an augmentation,” Eve explains. “She looks exactly like you, Alexa, and that’s intentional. She’ll help demonstrate the latest advancements of our Anima Generation Six model — so you can see what you’ll soon become.” She claps her hands lightly. “Now, where to start? Ah! The exterior.”

She brightens. “Skin was introduced in Gen Two, but each iteration has refined it closer to perfection. In Gen Six, it’s indistinguishable from natural epidermis — it even tans.”

The holographic Alexa begins to peel away the top layer of her synthetic flesh, revealing the smooth lattice beneath.

“Under the skin,” Eve continues, “you’ll find a skeletal structure made from precision-forged alloy. Stronger, lighter, and adaptive. It expands and contracts to simulate biological growth. The SentiaChip, already gathering data from your mind, will combine with your DNA sample at the end of this tour. With those two inputs, your Gen Six model will know how you would age — if you choose to. Of course, many prefer to remain unchanged forever, so aging is optional.”

Before their eyes, the holographic head splits apart like a technical diagram, each layer rotating in perfect sequence, exposing the intricate machinery beneath.

“More innovations from this model are found within what we call the anima’s hive mind,” Eve continues, her voice bright and rehearsed. “Perhaps the most popular feature is its ability to interact with the SentiaChip’s stored data to generate dreams. True, vivid dreams. And yes, even sensations such as fear and pain have been carefully calibrated into the model. At first, that may sound unnecessary, but Dr. Renegade and the team at Anima Corp discovered that these instincts are essential for authentic human experience. They help the mind relate to the world with the realism it expects. But don’t worry—these sensations are faint compared to what a natural body endures.”

The layers of the holographic Alexa fold back into place, rebuilding her piece by piece until she stands whole again. Then the image fades, and the shaft’s light extinguishes. The corridor brightens in a slow glow.

“The transfer process itself is simple, Alexa,” Eve says. “It involves four stages: submersion, extraction, recreation, and resurrection. Once you reach the end of this hallway, you’ll enter through those doors. Inside, you’ll be asked to lie back in the reclining chair and drink a six-ounce cup of water. Within sixty seconds, submersion begins. It feels like falling asleep—only faster. From there, your physical body will be used for DNA sampling, and your SentiaChip will be extracted. The sample and chip are then passed to our Recreationists, who ensure your new anima body is perfectly calibrated. When complete, your model will be placed with the others in the main facility, where your mind’s data will be uploaded from the chip. Once that transfer concludes, you will awaken—same mind, new body.”

Eve smiles softly at the end, her tone carrying the rhythm of a practiced benediction. Alexa beams back and squeezes Wick’s hand.

“So,” Alexa asks, “does that mean the tour’s over?”

“That’s right,” Eve replies. “All that’s left is to say farewell.”

Wick’s hand tightens around hers, his jaw tensing. They face each other in the quiet hum of the corridor. Her eyes catch the halo, and he cups her cheek, thumb brushing her skin before kissing her gently.

“It’s not really goodbye, Wick,” Eve interjects, her voice too practiced.

“Just seventy-two hours,” Alexa whispers.

“Seventy-two hours,” he echoes. “Not a minute more.”

“Then get here early,” she says, pressing one last quick kiss to his lips.

Eve gestures toward the end of the hall—the door to the submersion chamber. Wick reaches after Alexa, their hands stretched between them, trying to hold the moment as long as possible. But the space widens, and the connection breaks.

She crosses the threshold and dissolves through the doorway, vanishing like a projection switched off. Eve follows her without pause. Wick lowers his glasses to see the truth. There’s no door at all. The space is empty. And still, Alexa is gone.

He stands alone now, utterly silent. Then, under his breath, he begins to count.

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YEAR 307

Blood swells on Renegade’s finger. The familiar sting already begins to fade. He stands locked inside the steel box, submitting to yet another identity check despite the hundreds of samples the facility keeps on file. He doesn’t care. Not today. Blood is the least of his concerns.

One leg trembles with restless tension while the android behind the glass watches in perfect stillness. Sweat cuts down his face and settles in his beard. His finger stays pinned to the scanner, waiting for the green flash. His gray eyes rake the walls for something—anything—to hold their focus, but the surface offers no imperfections.

The scanner finally blinks neon green, and the doors open with a low mechanical sigh. Renegade steps forward, but the android’s tinny voice halts him. “Cotton ball, sir?” it asks through the intercom. A metal arm dips into a jar of white fluff, retrieves a single ball, and deposits it into a drawer. A panel slides open on Renegade’s side, revealing the cotton ball. He presses it to the bleeding finger, saying nothing. He gives the android a short nod before stepping into the lobby.

The space feels more like a waiting area than an entry hall. Chairs line the back wall beneath humming fluorescent lights. The room is blindingly white. Another see-through partition separates him from that android’s cramped office. Renegade paces the perimeter a dozen times before stopping. “I’m here to see my son,” he says.

“Understood, Dr. Renegade. We know you are here to see your biological connection, August.”

“Now, android.”

“You could call me Android. Or C-2-1-4.” The machine points to the serial number on its chest. Renegade’s jaw tightens. “Again, we are aware of your request. Please wait while we review his file.”

Renegade’s foot taps against the floor. His gaze drifts upward to the silver lettering above the glass: BREED 000. He stares at the sign, unblinking, before sinking into a chair by the corner. Time drags until the main doors slide open and a man in a lab coat enters. Renegade rises at once. Both men are sharp-featured and immaculate, but only one bears concern in his eyes.

“Dr. Renegade,” the man greets coolly.

Renegade doesn’t respond. When the man extends a hand, he ignores it.

Together they move down the long passage, their steps echoing off the colorless walls. The lab coat flares behind the other man as he leads the way around corners lined with quarters. Renegade glimpses boys behind narrow windows, all wearing the same silver uniforms, all staring back with empty faces. But he knows that hollowness hides something else.

A chill creeps up his spine, raising the hair on his arms. The silence of the corridor gnaws at him, broken only by the faint electronic pulse that grows louder as they near the end. The rhythmic beeping becomes distinctly sharp now. His heartbeat quickens. When they enter the final room, Renegade freezes. A boy—no older than five—is strapped to a reclining chair. His small limbs are bound to its synthetic leather, wires running from his body into machines suspended above. The sight drains the strength from Renegade’s legs. The boy looks trapped in a web of cables, one of them snaking into his mouth.

Tears spring to Renegade’s eyes. “Auggie,” he whispers, barely audible though he hopes his son can hear him; he is not sure Auggie can hear anything at all. He turns on the man in the white coat. “This is all you can do? Hook him up to wires?”

“There is nothing else we can do,” the man replies. “At present.”

“He’s dying.”

“All men die,” the man answers, voice clinical. Renegade pins him with a stare, but the man keeps his gaze on the boy.

“Unstrap him,” Renegade demands.

“Then he certainly will die,” the man says, finally meeting his eyes.

“You heard me.”

“You are not authorized to make that call.”

“I said UNSTRAP HIM.” Renegade’s shout fills the chamber.

The man folds his hands behind his back, unnervingly calm. Renegade grits his teeth and scans the room; a few white-uniformed workers watch, silent and impassive. Helplessness presses down on him like a hand.

“It’s the weekend,” Renegade says. “I have the right to take my son home on the weekend.”

“You have permission to oversee your biological connection during that time,” the man corrects, “but I warn you, the boy will die. The moment he is unhooked, his life rests in your hands.”

“Safer than yours,” Renegade spits. A tiny grin—more like a sneer—flickers across the man’s face, and he nods to a colleague. “Unhook the boy.” The colleague hesitates, then moves to the wall terminal. His fingers fly over the digital keyboard and, with a final tap, the wires begin to unlatch. Straps unwind and retract. The tube that fed into the boy’s mouth withdraws into the ceiling with the rest of the tangle.

Left alone on the chair, the boy looks stripped of everything that made him alive to the machines. Though he wears the same silver uniform as the others, he seems exposed and small. Renegade studies him; to some he might appear asleep, but to Renegade he looks dead. He crosses to Auggie, brushes his hair, murmurs, “I’m here, I’m here,” and lifts him into his arms.

Renegade moves for the door, but the man steps into his path. “Whether the boy lives or dies is of no great importance to us,” the man says. “He was better off here. Now we leave him to your own devices.”

“Quite right,” Renegade says, sure and hard. They measure each other once more, then the man steps aside.

Renegade runs down the silent hall. The android behind the dividing wall stands idle until Renegade bursts into the room with Auggie in his arms. Its sensors flare to life as it registers motion. When Renegade passes it to reach for the locked doors, the android’s voice rings out, sharp and metallic. “Ah, ah, ah. You know the procedure.”

Renegade hesitates, then presses his finger to the scanner beside the window. A green flash confirms his identity. He takes Auggie’s small hand and places it next. Another flare of green. The doors slide open with a hiss.

“Cotton balls, sirs?” the android calls, but Renegade is already gone, vanishing through the threshold with his son.

Outside, the world hits him like a wave. The air is thick with humidity and the stench of rain on steel. Neon signs sputter against the wet night, throwing fractured reflections across puddles and slick pavement. Bass-heavy music pulses from unseen speakers. Women in silhouette lean in doorways, their gestures hollow and practiced. Renegade ignores everything. He rounds a corner, clutching Auggie close, until a black vehicle comes into view beneath a single lamppost. Sleek and curved, it gleams like oil.

A flick of his hand opens the door. He slips inside, lowering himself into the deep leather seat as the canopy seals them in. “Anima Corp,” he says. The car whirs to life, rises soundlessly, and drifts down the empty road.

Rain streams across the windows, smearing the city into streaks of color and light. Renegade doesn’t look out. His gaze stays fixed on the boy in his lap. Auggie’s breathing is shallow, his body still. A tear slides off Renegade’s face and lands on his son’s forehead. More follow, unbidden, glinting in the dim luster as he holds the boy tighter.

The ruins of the outer city fade behind them. The skyline shifts from rust and grime to reflective towers. Cracked streets become mirrored avenues. Above it all rises the dark monolith of Anima Corp. The name burns down its facade in towering letters, casting a violet sheen across the air. The building dominates the horizon, the heart of the city’s industrial rhythm.

The car descends into the depths of the structure, swallowed by a tunnel of darkness before bursting into a radiant atrium below. It hovers over its marked platform, then lands softly. The door opens.

Renegade steps out, shoes striking the polished floor with a sharp cadence. He strides toward the main entrance, his grip on Auggie firm. The boy’s skin has lost nearly all color; his limbs hang loose.

“Android!” Renegade shouts.

A sleek machine glides forward on wheels, its body streamlined and bright—an obvious upgrade from the one at BREED 000. Without hesitation, Renegade transfers Auggie into its arms. “Here,” he says, breath ragged. “Take him to the extraction cell.”

The android rolls beside him at first. “Go!” Renegade roars. “Don’t wait for me!”

At the command, the robot accelerates, vanishing around the corner in a flash of chrome. Left alone in the vast lobby, Renegade bends forward, gasping for air. Then, with renewed urgency, he takes off again, moving deeper into the complex until the light gives way to the shadows of the underground levels.

The ceilings on this level hang low, pressing the space into a confined, sterile hush. Chrome panels line the walls, reflecting the dim, antiseptic halos. The floor gleams with the smell of wax and chemical purity.

Renegade strides down the hallway, passing pane after pane of glass into pristine laboratories where faint movements flicker behind them. He doesn’t stop. His focus stays on the final door at the end of the hall. It opens into darkness. There is no connection to other labs; only a single pane of one-way panel looks inward to an adjoining chamber that at first appears empty.

Renegade enters and pauses, his breath catching in his chest. The room beyond seems hollow and still, its ashen walls faintly reflecting a shape on the floor. A small body. Auggie.

He rushes to the control panel and slams a button. Instantly, the experimental chamber floods with harsh light. The walls split open as automated, spider-like arms unfurl from their hidden recesses, more descending from the ceiling in perfect synchronization. They seize the boy without hesitation. His clothing rips away in shreds, and the machines begin their probing with accuracy, testing and scanning, indifferent to pain.

A surge of horror cuts through Renegade. He hurls himself at the controls, trying to stop it, but the sequence continues unchecked. The machines ignore him as they dismantle and examine the child he tried to save. His palms slick with sweat, Renegade grips the edge of the console. The room tilts. His vision folds into a haze of flashing color and whirring sound. Then the strength drains from his body. He collapses, and darkness closes over him like a sealed shroud.

A faint, high-pitched tone seeps into Renegade’s mind, dragging him back. The dim glow of the canisters above shimmers into focus. He blinks, disoriented, then turns his head slightly. He’s still in the control cell. When he tries to sit up, a wave of pain shudders through his skull, as if the inside of his head were vibrating. His hand reaches instinctively to the back of it. Warmth greets his fingers. He brings them before his eyes. Blood.

He can’t tell whether the ringing comes from the wound or the machines. The sound merges with the hum of the room. Using the counter for support, Renegade hauls himself upright, his breath uneven. He closes his eyes to steady the spinning world. Seconds stretch into a minute before he dares to open them again. The room sharpens, the haze clears, and the blinking red flare on the control board takes form—steady now, pulsing in slow rhythm. The words beside it read: SYSTEM FAULT.

Something breaks loose inside him. His gaze shoots past the console, up through the window. The lab beyond lies silent and stripped of movement. Only one thing rests in its center: Auggie’s small, still body.

Renegade gasps, the sound raw and animal. He lurches toward the door, grasping the cold handle. It resists before giving way with a rigid groan. He stumbles inside, collapsing beside his son. The air leaves him in a shuddering breath. Tears gather fast, spilling before he can stop them. Renegade’s hands shake violently as he tries to stir the boy, whispering his name through clenched teeth. But the truth settles heavy in his chest—Auggie is gone.

He gathers the small body into his arms, holding him close as if warmth could return through touch alone. His fingers trace the smooth curve of the child’s cheek, remembering how it once glowed with life. Tears fall freely now, splashing against the boy’s pale skin. His cries build, rising until the sound becomes unbearable, echoing off the barriers, returning to him like a mockery of grief.

Renegade clutches his son tighter, drawing him in as though he could hide him from death itself. He would trade anything for one more breath from that small chest—but the enclosure remains silent, and the boy remains still. The man bends over the still form, whispering fragments of plea to come back. If only that were possible…

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