The Cross estate looked the same.
Broad gates. White stone pillars wrapped in faint golden ivy. Motion lights tucked discreetly beneath hedges.
Too clean, still.
I stepped through the foyer with my hands in my pockets, white shirt collar turned up. The marble caught my footsteps with a soft clap-clap like it wanted to remind me how rich this place sounded.
Inside, the lights were warm. Familiar. There were still family photos on the walls — me, my sisters, and brother, everyone younger. My dad hadn't changed anything.
I found him in the kitchen.
The man stood by the counter in his dark green scrubs, sleeves rolled to the forearms, a glass of something amber in his hand.
His face lit up just slightly when he saw me.
> "Didn't expect you home this early."
> "well I do live here."
> "Still allergic to walls, huh?"
> "Only when they come with expectations."
He gave a soft chuckle and nodded toward the fridge.
> "You eating or just brooding?"
> "Thought I'd mix it up."
We didn't hug. We rarely did. But the silence between us wasn't cold. Just old.
I leaned against the counter and pulled out my holo-tab, fingers already swiping through layers of data. Frequencies. Rifts. Reports.
> "You're still on that case," he said after a beat. "The one that I'm sure, doesn't even concern you."
> "just leave me alone" I murmured, in a hused tone
His eyes softened, but there was something else beneath it. Worry, maybe.
> "Huey…"
I didn't look up.
> "Don't. I know what you're going to say."
> "Then let me say it."
> "Why?"
> "Because you're not listening."
He stepped closer, voice quiet.
> "You're brilliant. Smarter than I'll ever be. But this path you're chasing… it's dangerous. Too dangerous."
I didn't reply. Just stared at my tablet. The signal graphs were dancing. Something was off near the Goretti district again.
> "you're disabled, And this is not an insult, just the reality youre trying to ignore."
I exhaled slowly through my nose.
> "You think I don't know that?"
> "I think you forget it when you're trying to solve a nearly century old puzzle."
I turned, jaw tight.
> "I'm not forgetting. I'm trying to prove it doesn't matter."
> "But," he went silent for a minute.
"What If it does"
The air thickened between us.
I slid the holo-tab shut and shoved it into my bag.
> "Thanks for the drink."
I didn't give him a chance to respond.
The Goretti Fringe was quiet.
Too quiet.
Buildings sagged from decades of heat. Burned-out drones hung from tangled wires like metal vultures.
Nothing here, just me and the buzz of my interceptor scraping through encrypted frequencies.
I crouched near the cratered wall of a collapsed factory, adjusting the cracked dial.
Something was here.
Slippery. Wild. Wrong.
> "Come on… show me something. Something real."
The scanner ticked.
Then I heard him.
> "You dig well."
I turned sharply.
The man was leaning on a steel beam. No footsteps. No warning. Just there.
Mid-forties maybe. Sharp jaw, graying hair slicked back like a film noir villain. All black coat. Black gloves. Black smile.
> "You're not from around here," I said slowly.
> "Neither are you," he said with a soft Italian lilt. "But at least I have reason to be."
> "Name?"
> "Raphael."
> "No last name?"
> "Do I need one?"
He walked closer, boots crunching ash and dust.
> "What does Kaiser want".
He smiled at the name.
> "Kaiser, many things. Mostly the expensive ones."
He pulled something from his coat.
It looked like a coin. Glowed like an omen.
He let it drop to the ground.
The thing that rose from it wasn't human.
screamed without sound. A blue plasma shape — jagged, limbless, shifting like liquid heat. An Echoe,
The lowest level of genetic anomalies born from rifts.
The moment it screeched, I bolted.
I leapt over a broken beam, heartbeat rattling in my throat.
Then a voice behind me:
> "Huey!"
I whipped around.
Him.
He was panting, eyes wide with fear — and anger.
> "You followed me?"
> "Of course I followed you!"
"I'm sure you can see it for yourself now, that I was right!!!" I screamed at the top of my voice, emotions between longing for recognition and content.
The Echo shrieked again, leaping toward us like a bullet of light and rage.
> "Run!" my father said springing foward
But I didn't. Not fast enough.
It lunged.
And in a blur of motion, he slammed into me — shoving me aside.
We crashed behind a wall. I heard his grunt. Felt the heat.
My vision spun. Blood in my mouth. Dust in my nose.
We stumbled, arms dragging, legs limp. Made it a few feet before the air warped—
—Boom.
The blast threw us like paper dolls.
I landed hard.
And saw him slump, chest rising too slow.
> "No no no—" I crawled toward him, grabbing his coat, pulling him, dragging.
Another shriek.
The Echo loomed again.
I slumped to the ground myself in defeat.
No strength left.
Just breath.
Fading.
> "This is it," I thought. "I killed us."
I closed my eyes.
The light came.
And then—
> "Are you afraid of death?"
Last thing I heard before...
I gasped awake.
Sheets clinging to my chest.
Sweat down my back.
The world was quiet again.
Except for one voice still echoing in my mind.
The smell hit me before the stairs even ended.
Tomato, basil, and something pan-fried — heavy with oil and comfort. Mum was cooking.
I stepped down into the wide kitchen of the Cross Estate, the marble cool against my bare feet. Sunlight spilled in through the tinted windows, making the red tiles glow like low embers.
She was at the stove, swaying lightly to some classical-jazz fusion playing on the radio. Apron tied at the back, hair up in a bun that had already begun to fall apart.
Still the best cook in the house, no contest.
> "You didn't have to cook," I said.
She didn't turn around. Just hummed.
> "My baby came home from school. Of course I did."
> "I'm not a baby."
> "You're the last born, so you'll always be my baby."
I didn't argue. She won that one years ago.
> "How's Hermione?" I asked, pulling a chair.
> "Night shift at the hospital. She'll probably sleep all day."
> "Hailee?"
> "Still on tour. She sent a picture from Naples. The filter was... aggressive."
> "And Hermon—"
> "Right here."
I turned, already knowing that voice.
Hermon Cross walked in like he owned the morning. Tall, charming, hair slightly disheveled like it was part of his personal brand. He wore a fitted polo and grey joggers, phone in one hand, smoothie in the other — effortlessly put together.
I froze. Didn't meet his eyes. Couldn't.
He didn't seem to notice — or maybe he did and chose not to care. He just walked up and pulled me into a hug. Firm. Familiar. Safe.
> "Still ducking me, huh?" he muttered with a small grin.
I didn't answer. Just let my arms hang at my sides. Eventually, he pulled back and looked at Mum.
> "He's still like this?"
She sighed, wiping her hands on a towel.
> "Mmh."
> "Classic."
He dropped into a chair like it owed him rent.
> "Alright then. Breakfast."
The table was quiet save for the clinking of forks.
Scrambled eggs, thick tomato sauce, toasted ciabatta, grilled onions. Comfort food. The kind that said I love you without asking for a response.
Mum tried first.
> "So, Huey... first week back. Virelia Institute. How's it feel?"
> "Fine."
Hermon leaned in.
> "No crazy lectures? No hot professors?"
> "I mostly stick to the schedule."
> "Still quiet, huh?"
> "Depends on the noise."
They tried. Really. But I wasn't in the room.
I stood, plate barely touched.
> "Where are you going?" Mum asked.
> "Not upstairs," I said vaguely.
The living room was dark except for the TV glow.
I dropped onto the long velvet couch and reached for the remote. The flat-screen flicked to my current obsession — Who Stole It? — a reality-style detective game show.
The screen lit up with three suspects standing dramatically in front of a wailing toddler.
> "Who do YOU think stole the candy bar from the baby?" the host announced with far too much enthusiasm.
> "hmm, it was his mum," I mumbled.
Dramatic pause. Drumroll.
> "It was… his mum!"
> "Haha. I knew it."
Muffled clatter from the kitchen.
Just for a moment, I forgot the tension. Forgot the weight.
Let the ridiculous wash over me like static.
"Heading back to the dorms today?" Mum asked as I passed by the kitchen again, plate rinsed and mood stable.
> "Yeah," I said. "Today."
I didn't break stride. No point adding sugar to something that still tasted like guilt.
My room upstairs was just how I left it.
Still.
Tidy bed, dark grey sheets. One shelf crooked from how many books it had endured. Desk lamp still slightly flickering at the neck, too stubborn to replace. An old leather football under the bed. The scent of musk and cedar lingering — someone had sprayed the air freshener. Mum, probably.
I dropped my bag on the chair and sank into the bed with a sigh. Head tilted back, eyes half-lidded, I stared at the ceiling like it might rearrange into answers.
But still — nothing.
The itch wouldn't let go.
I stood up.
> "Feel like I should have a read."
I stepped toward the bookshelf.
And the room changed.
The entire shelf folded backward like sliding puzzle pieces, each one clicking into its new position with silent, mechanical grace. Behind it: glowing panels. Thin filament wires stretching like spiderwebs. Dozens of icons floated in midair — scattered maps, ID profiles, signal waveforms, missing persons reports, encrypted files — the entire digital gut of Virelia's unofficial underbelly.
My private investigation board.
Hidden in plain sight.
> "A read on the Topplers' database," I muttered.
The holo-interface rippled.
Jazzinho, my personal AI, greeted me with a neutral voice.
> "Welcome back, Huegen Cross. Last sync: 9 hours, 22 minutes ago. Uploading rift frequency scans."
One waveform glitched. Then another.
I narrowed my eyes.
> "LUCE NERA toppler reports Rift #018B as Level 2… but the variants pattern's too high."
I pulled the waveform apart and enhanced the energy graph.
> "It's a Level 3. Sloppy."
Onscreen, a file from LUCE NERA blinked, requesting backup. Minimal operatives. No confirmation from any other agency yet. Not yet public. Not yet swarmed.
> "Perfect."
I stepped to the closet.
The sliding panels gave way to a darker side of me.
Futuristic black leather jacket — reinforced padding, stitched with hidden fiber tech. Matching tactical cargos. Combat-grade boots. Not flashy. Efficient.
I pulled the jacket on slowly, the collar rising on its own as the internal system booted up. The fibers adjusted to my frame like skin.
Then my eyes fell on the blade.
The katana.
Resting across its frame mount. Silver and slick. Handle worn with age.
A gift from Luan. My twelfth birthday. She said it was ceremonial.
She lied.
I grabbed it and slung it across my back.
Then the gloves — open-fingered black leather. Already creased perfectly around the knuckles.
The last piece: the mask.
Sleek. Curved. A hybrid mouth-and-nose guard, jet black with glowing deep-blue trim. It hung on the wall like it had been waiting.
I held it for a moment. Then fitted it over my face.
The HUD activated in my vision as the hood of my jacket slid upward and over. Jazzinho's voice filtered in.
> "Interface locked. Combat protocol standby: 70% sync."
I flexed my hands.
The lights on my wall dimmed.
My reflection in the window stared back — glowing blue irises in pitch-black eyes. The mark of a Crest. A secret I wasn't ready to tell.
Not yet.
I cracked my neck, backed up, and leapt out the window — coat flaring.
The wind swallowed me whole.
I shot into the telephone pole, yes into the telephone pole
as a static flash of blue lightning.
And vanished.
The jump felt different tonight.
There was something about the static — thicker in the air, like the city was grinding its teeth beneath the moonlight.
I zipped through the telecom lines with practiced ease, appearing in brief blinks — one rooftop, then another. Hands brushing steel vents, soles tapping against ceramic tile. Parkour came second to breathing at this point.
Jazzinho called in my ear.
> "Approaching site sir: 2.1 km aways. Estimated density: 3.2 per square m."
> "I'm taking a detour," I muttered.
> "Deviation registered."
I peeled right and silently slid in through a window barely a whisper of sound as I ghosted through the gap. I landed silently on tiled floors, my breath instantly fogging the cool air.
Fluorescent lights buzzed low overhead.
Beeping monitors, automated vitals, the sterile scent of too much caution and not enough hope.
Ospedale saint' Alviero,
Uppermost floor,
My father's ward.
> "Jazz," I whispered, "Lock the door."
A soft click responded.
Only then did I pull the mask down to my chin.
Atticus Cross lay still in the medical bed, body almost unrecognizable from the man I once tried to out-talk at breakfast. Oxygen mask snug over his nose and mouth. Monitors scanning the damage. Skin pale against the dark sheets.
I wanted to say something.
Didn't.
My throat scratched with something I wouldn't call grief, but maybe something like shame, wearing its coat.
I stepped closer and for a moment… it all came back.
Then
I remembered that day.
The beeping machines, the clean uniforms, the doctor's half-apologetic tone.
My siblings had stood in my room. I kept my eyes closed.
Hermon's voice was sharp — bitter, almost.
> "This isn't the first time he's done this… but this is the first time it's cost someone else."
Even Hermione, eyes rimmed red, couldn't mask the anger.
> "Stupid. Always trying to prove something."
Only Hailee looked like she was debating whether to hold me or hit me.
Mum tried — really tried — to stand neutral ground. But even her hand, brushing my forehead, had the weight of disappointment.
They moved to Dad's room.
I followed, steps silent behind theirs.
I didn't expect him to speak.
> "Don't be too hard on him," Dad rasped. "He fears failure, the same way you all fear trouble."
Hermon clenched his fists.
> "But he—"
> "Isn't like you," Dad said. "Or me. He has… a harder road."
They all went silent.
Dad's eyes softened.
> "No matter what happens , promise me — no blame. He doesn't deserve it."
And they nodded.
Even Hermon.
I didn't feel understood.
I felt... pitied.
Now
My fingers brushed the metal of the bedframe.
I sighed, whispering just loud enough for the machines not to hear.
> "Still watching out for me… huh, old man?"
I tucked the mask back onto my face, turned toward the door.
And behind me barely, a smile tugged at his lips.
The night cracked open again.
I dropped from the hospital wing, flashed through a telephone line, and landed three streets away, crouched against the wall of a half-cracked plaza. Debris littered the concrete. The streetlights flickered unnaturally — like they were trying to blink out.
> "Jazz?" I muttered. "Is this it?"
> "Rift activity confirmed. Level 3, anomalous frequency detected. Displacement field forming."
The world bled red.
I looked up.
The sky above the block shimmered like torn velvet. Buildings warped at the edges. A hovering hexagonal ripple tore open between the clouds — the Rift finally blooming in.
I moved through the rubble — eyes sharp, instincts louder.
Then I saw her.
A woman — early thirties, trapped under the bend of a leaning wall structure. A massive chunk of concrete teetered above her like divine judgment.
She didn't scream. She was too frozen to.
I leapt. Fast. Too fast. Plasma surged down my arm as I unsheathed my katana in one fluent spin. The blade hissed blue — flames dancing along its edge like lightning shaped into a whisper.
Slash.
The rubble split clean.
I landed beside her. She stared. Gasped.
> "you alright, yh, then get out, go." I said in an almost sarcastic tome, wondering why she hadn't evacuated in the first place.
She didn't need to be told twice.
People tend to stay behind in the area during evacuations to get things they forget or pack more stuff, forgetting their lives are way more valuable than those stuff .They can count themselves lucky to have been guided out under protection, to not have to struggle to survive the horrors of a rift.
The minute she ran…
A whisper slid behind me.
> "Found you."
I turned.
It was tall — too tall. Skinless muscle structure wrapped around a semi-humanoid frame, glowing red arteries pulsating beneath transparent flesh. Its skull resembled something human... if the human had been left to burn alive and rebuilt in hatred. Its voice was like four people speaking at once.
I didn't speak.
I couldn't.
My hands tightened around the hilt.
Its eyes glowed with intelligence — an Echoe?? Worse… an Aberrant.
And it smiled.
Then it lunged.