Chapter One: The Trade
It was raining the night Asher Vale sold a soul.
Not that it mattered. In Ether District, it always rained—sometimes water, sometimes static. But Asher didn't mind. The noise gave him cover. The chill reminded him he was still alive.
He tugged the hood of his synth-leather coat lower as he stepped through the alley's shimmering veil. A green neon sign flickered overhead: "Forget-U"—a cruel joke of a name for what really happened inside. People came here to forget... but they always left a little less human.
The door hissed open with a whisper, admitting him into a dark hallway lit only by the glow of floating memory threads. They drifted lazily above his head—fragmented scenes of laughter, death, pain, desire. Ghosts of choices people paid to forget.
Asher passed them without looking.
At the end of the hall stood the chamber: glass walls, a sleek black podium, and an extraction chair that looked more like an execution device. Inside sat tonight's client—Elion Raze, former surgeon, current ghost of a man. His eyes were sunken. His hands shook. He looked like someone already halfway erased.
Asher stepped into the spotlight.
The digital auction interface materialized around him in thin air—hovering icons, balance displays, emotion meters. He didn't need them. The only thing he needed was the orb floating above the podium.
It pulsed faintly—blue, fractured, alive.
A soul capsule.
"This is Elion Raze," Asher began, voice smooth and practiced. "Age thirty-two. Former trauma surgeon. Guilt index: 94.7. Selling one high-weight memory—his wife's final breath. He chose another patient. She never forgave him. Neither did he."
He heard a low murmur ripple through the digital audience. Somewhere in the shadows, dozens—maybe hundreds—were watching. They didn't care about Elion. They wanted the emotion, the rawness, the pain. Bliss credits came cheap to the wealthy. Remorse was the new designer drug.
"Opening bid," Asher said. "Twelve Bliss."
The bidding began immediately. Numbers flashed across the air. Some anonymous, others bold and cruel: "PainCollector_09," "DeadInside78," "HolyFather77."
Asher's expression didn't change.
He was seventeen. Too young to have dead eyes, and yet—there they were. Sharp. Hollow. Controlled. He didn't care who bought the soul. Only that the price was right.
Ping.
"Sold. Forty-one point two Bliss. Buyer anonymous," Asher announced.
The capsule pulsed once, then dissolved into code. Elion's head slumped. His memory was gone. Not just the image—but the weight, the meaning, the regret. He wouldn't remember what he'd done, or why he ever hated himself for it.
Asher knelt and slipped a silver coin into Elion's limp hand. A small mercy. His signature.
"You're free," Asher said quietly. "You'll sleep again."
He left before Elion could speak—if he even still remembered how.
Back in the alley, the city roared around him. Drones zipped by overhead. Screens screamed ads for Bliss injections and neural rewrites. Somewhere down the block, someone screamed. Just another night in Ether District.
He checked his wrist console. The Bliss credits had transferred. Enough for another week's rent. A new jacket, maybe. He should've felt satisfied.
But tonight was different.
Because the moment he stepped into the rain, his vision blurred—and something snapped in his mind. Like a glass thought breaking free.
A name. A voice. A scent.
He gasped and grabbed the wall. His console buzzed. A system notification appeared:
> "Unauthorized memory fragment recovered."
Origin: Unknown.
Subject: Asher Vale.
Memory ID: Locked.
Would you like to access? Y/N.
He stared at it.
This wasn't possible. He hadn't authorized any retrieval. No one could send him a memory unless...
He tapped YES.
The world fell away.
He was in a burning room.
Flames roared. A child screamed. Smoke filled his lungs. A small hand clutched his fingers, then slipped.
"Asher—don't let go!" the voice cried.
He screamed—but he was already too late.
And then—
Darkness.
Rain.
Back in the alley.
Asher staggered back, clutching his head. The memory was gone again. But the echo remained. A heat in his chest. A void he'd long forgotten.
He had remembered something he shouldn't have.
Something someone had paid him to forget.
And in that moment, for the first time in years…
Asher Vale—the Soul Auctioneer—was afraid.
[End of Chapter One]