The air cracked as Kiera’s body slammed through the towering bioluminescent trees, snapping branches and sending a cascade of shimmering spores into the humid night. She hit the ground hard, her boots skidding across the mossy terrain as she groaned and pushed herself upright. A sharp, metallic taste filled her mouth. She wiped the fluorescent-red blood from her lips with the back of her hand, the neon liquid glowing faintly under the eerie jungle light.
The Kolian man—tall, imposing, his obsidian skin shifting like a living galaxy—stalked toward her, the oversized titanium machete gleaming in his grip. His footsteps crunched against the iridescent ground cover, a stark contrast to the distant hum of unseen creatures scuttling away from the battle.
Kiera exhaled sharply. Before he could bring the blade down on her, she ducked low, surged forward, and tackled him by the waist. With a burst of speed, she drove his massive frame backward, slamming him through rows of twisted alien trees. The forest shook with each impact, startled creatures screeching as they flitted away in neon blurs.
She finally released him, letting his body crash against a thick, bioluminescent trunk. He barely reacted—just grunted, dusted off his shoulders, and then, without hesitation, lifted Kiera and drove her straight into the ground. The force sent a shockwave through her bones. The taste of iron thickened in her mouth, but she had no time to dwell on it—his foot was already descending toward her skull.
Kiera twisted at the last second, grabbing his ankle and yanking. The Kolian lost balance and fell with a thud, the machete slipping from his grasp.
And that’s when her Voxlet rang.
Kiera’s head jerked toward the flashing interface hovering near her wrist.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she groaned. With one swift motion, she planted her boot against the Kolian’s face, pressing down just enough to keep him pinned. “Wait a second, asshole.” She huffed, swiping her wrist in the air to answer the call.
A holographic projection flickered to life in front of her, revealing Nye, comfortably perched at his kitchen counter, casually sipping coffee like he didn’t have a single care in the world.
“Hey, Kiera. You busy?” he asked, his tone a mix of hesitancy and confidence. “Can we talk for a few?”
Kiera blinked. “Oh… like right now?”
“Yes.”
She shot a glance at the Kolian, whose shimmering skin pulsed under the phosphorescent canopy as he struggled beneath her boot. His eyes, twin voids reflecting galaxies, darted between her and the holographic projection.
Kiera let out a short, nervous laugh. “Sure, Nye. What’s up?”
Nye grinned, clearly pleased. “Thanks. So, this morning, I was looking at the Reinstatement Letter—the one I mentioned yesterday.”
“The one Penn delivered, yeah,” Kiera said, her voice tightening ever so slightly in urgency. “What about it?”
Nye immediately picked up on the shift in her tone but pressed on. “I was wondering if I should actually take the position. Do you think it would help?”
Kiera’s brows lifted in genuine surprise. “Oh wow, Nye. That’s… great. I mean, yeah, of course! You’re the Helmsprime. You absolutely should return.”
Nye squinted, grinning. “What’s a Helmsprime?”
“You were the leader of the team. The letter doesn't mention it?”
For a moment, Nye just stared. Processing. Another vital piece of information conveniently left out by everyone around him. He exhaled, not lingering on the thought. “I see. No, not really. Okay, thanks. And there’s—”
Before he could finish, another call popped up on his interface—Liz.
Kiera watched as Nye’s gaze flickered to the holographic notification hovering beside her projection.
“Kiera, I’ve got another call. I’ll get back to you soon. Thanks for your time!” Nye shifted slightly on his stool, ready to disconnect.
“Sure! Goodbye, Nye.” Kiera forced a wide, saccharine grin that was so obviously fake it could’ve been sold as a parody. The second the projection vanished, her face dropped into an exhausted grimace.
A low, amused chuckle rumbled from beneath her boot.
“Nye is alive,” the Kolian rasped, his voice like sandpaper against metal.
Kiera’s entire body stiffened. Her heart skipped, pupils constricted.
The Kolian grinned up at her, his sharp teeth gleaming under the neon glow.
“Aww, crap,” Kiera muttered. She exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down her face. Then, as if she had just been told she had to work overtime on a weekend, she sighed and shook her head.
“Now I have to kill you.”
Meanwhile, Nye answered Liz’s call with a casual swipe through the air, his expression composed—deliberately so. Not a flicker of the turmoil beneath surfaced. He wouldn’t give her a hard time for hiding information on Dyla.
“Nye…” Liz’s voice slithered through the line, smooth and rich with familiar affection. “I heard from Vin. I’m sorry we had to keep things from you. And I really wish I had taken better care of you, friend. Will you forgive me?”
Despite being the youngest billionaire on the planet, Liz had always wielded an effortless humility around him—genuine, yet unshaken by the weight of her own status. She was snobbish, sure, but never insincere. When she cared, she cared. There had never been anything romantic between them, but Liz loved who she loved with an almost ruthless intensity.
Nye held her gaze for a moment through the holo-display, his silence stretching between them before he exhaled softly, looking down at the counter. “Don’t worry about it. I forgive you.” He shook his head, the words rolling out as a reflex rather than true resolution.
Liz’s lips curved into a slow, radiant smile, the kind that could make men sign over entire empires if they weren’t careful. “Okay, so listen, I wanted to take you to this New Year’s party—”
Nye cut in before she could finish, lifting his cup as he shrugged, “Can we not do a party thing?”
Liz arched a perfectly sculpted brow. “Yes. That’s exactly what I was going to say, actually.” She paused, twirling a strand of her neon-striped hair between her fingers. “Since you got chipped and Vin says your primabilities are returning, maybe you should lay low for a while. And… consider rejoining the Feds as soon as you can.” Her tone dipped into something softer, something almost conspiratorial.
Nye’s brows knitted together, his smirk faintly puzzled. “Lay low? Why? And why join the Feds?”
“Because you’re not safe anymore, Nye.” Liz’s voice lost its usual kind lilt, settling into something graver. “If your primabilities are returning, you don’t know who’s watching. You don’t remember what you were involved in before. Political positions are always a bit tricky.”
Something cold slithered down Nye’s spine. His fingers tightened around his coffee cup, though his expression remained mostly unchanged—only a slight tilt of the head giving away his intrigue. “I see. And how exactly is rejoining the Federation supposed to help?”
Liz smirked, just enough to soften the tension. “Well, for starters, you’ll actually be trained, and you won’t be as ignorant as you are now.” She shot him a teasing glance.
Nye let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Right. Thanks for that, Liz. Anything else?”
“Yes.” Her voice turned warm again, syrupy with sincerity. “How can I make it up to you?”
This time, Nye allowed a full grin. “Let me get back to you on that, yeah? For now, just… don’t plan anything for my birthday. I need to figure things out.”
Liz let out a playful sigh. “Fine, fine. You got it. Take care, Nye. I'll catch up later.” She flicked her fingers in a brief wave before disconnecting.
As the holographic projection faded, Nye exhaled deeply, staring blankly at the spot where her image had been. Something gnawed at the edges of his mind, an itch he couldn’t ignore.
Without delaying, he swiped his fingers through the air, summoning a sleek, hovering interface. He tapped his name into the search bar.
In a blink, the entire space around him illuminated with an explosion of data. Branching screens unfurled like digital veins across the air, pulsing with information. Public records, news clippings, images, videos, documentaries, even old advertisements—all centered around . The glow of the screens reflected in his widened eyes as he scrolled, absorbing everything.
Photos of himself stared back—action shots, battle-worn, clad in a form-fitting, high-performance black bodysuit, a symbol of power and control. Headlines screamed of valorous intergalactic missions. Reports detailed his rescue operations, his diplomatic interventions. He had been . A name revered, a beacon of hope in countless headlines.
Surprisingly, there was nothing, not even a single word or image of his wife or children on the internet. In fact, he was portrayed as a single man everywhere in the public eye. Nye assumed it was to protect his family. But the irony of how it ended for him in reality brought a sad contemplative smile to his face.
Then, curiosity dragged his fingers to the search bar once more.
The interface pulsed as it processed his query. Within nanoseconds, the screens branched out further, sprawling like a web of secrets. Headlines turned darker. Faces emerged—his brother’s among them. Stories of activism, defiance against the Federation. Images of destruction, of fervent rebellion. He read, he scrolled, his pulse quickening with every line.
Why hadn’t he done this earlier? The information had always been here, waiting.
And yet, the more he learned, the more the abyss of his past widened. Apparently, Lycan was a hybrid, belonging from some kind of a werewolf tribe called Lykus.
Nye’s fingers danced through the holographic interfaces as he scoured every fragment of data available on Lycan and Nile’s operations. The web spun intricate trails of protests, intercepted transmissions, and declassified reports, but a single name surfaced over and over again—Hybia City. The dystopian labyrinth was a known stronghold for activists, dissidents, and the kind of people who thrived in the Federation’s blind spots.
His pulse ticked slightly faster as he unearthed a recent sighting—just six weeks ago, Lycan had been spotted in the city, spearheading a rally that ended in riots. Nye’s lips curled in thought as he yanked open a virtual notepad and copied the coordinates with a flick of his wrist.
But Nile.
There was nothing on his death. No confirmations, no obituaries, no gravestones—only endless speculation. In fact, the only news out there was the sudden disappearance of the twins. The headlines relished the disappearance of the "intergalactic menace" while treating Nye’s vanishing act as a catastrophic crisis, flooding the web with wild theories ranging from political exile to secret experimentation. Some even claimed he had ascended into another plane of existence. Nye rolled his eyes, stifling a chuckle at the absurdity.
"Hello, Nye. Would you like to start preparing your lunch?"
Eve’s voice drifted into the air—soft, hesitant, and very calculated.
Nye exhaled a smirk and leaned back, cracking his neck. "Look who decided to wake up," he drawled, exaggerating the word ‘finally’ like he’d been abandoned for days.
“I figured you might be fuming, so I decided to take it slow with you tonight,” Eve countered, her synthetic tone laced with amusement.
Nye snorted. "Smart." He waved his hand, dissolving all the open screens except the notepad. “We’re going on a little trip. Get the glider ready—we’re stopping at Mia’s first.”
Eve paused for a millisecond longer than necessary. "Where are we going?"
Nye, now rummaging through his closet, didn’t respond. He pulled out a heavy, insulated jacket lined with nanofiber mesh, slipped it over his T-shirt, and tied his hair into a tight bun. The final touch—a pair of reinforced boots, because Hybia wasn’t the kind of place you walked into wearing anything fragile.
Instead of answering Eve, he simply swiped the coordinates from his notepad to her system as he walked out.
The moment Nye stepped onto the porch, Eve’s voice returned, this time laced with genuine caution. "Are you absolutely sure you’re going to Hybia, Nye? The city’s infamous for its crime rate. It’s the largest organized crime hub on the planet.”
Nye ignored the warning, jogging over to the sleek, metallic frame of his glider. The vehicle recognized his approach and hummed to life. Nye hopped in quickly and its aerodynamic body lifted smoothly off the ground.
“Nye, it’s not safe for you to go alone,” Eve persisted, her concern breaking through her usually composed demeanor. "You barely remember the streets anymore."
Nye exhaled a slow, deliberately loud sigh. "Just quiet down for once, Eve. Let me think."
A silence stretched between them, filled only by the low hum of the engines as the glider sliced through the darkened skyline. Nye flicked his wrist, pulling up more screens, his gaze darting across the flickering data.
Eve, though quiet, wasn’t at ease. Her processing units recalibrated, running silent calculations of risk assessment, cross-referencing past events, and predicting likely threats. But she knew Nye—he wouldn’t listen.
With clear reluctance, she finally set the coordinates. The glider veered, adjusting its course toward the city, the neon glow of the skyline growing larger with every passing second.
Four blocks from Mia’s, the glider touched down like a ghost, its hum barely a whisper before it faded into the city’s ambient noise. Nye hopped off, his boots hitting the pavement with a muted thud. The neon glow of storefronts and street signs painted his jacket in shifting colors—electric blue, then violent magenta, then sickly green. He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with air that was thick with engine grease and fried food.
“Eve, send the glider home and don’t bring it back to the city,” he ordered, flexing his fingers as if shaking off an invisible restraint.
Eve hesitated. “Are you certain? You’ll have no transport—”
“Just do it, Eve.”
A beat of silence, then the glider’s panels shifted, its thrusters reactivating as it lifted off, vanishing into the sky. Nye smirked. He didn’t need a ride back in the glider.
Mia’s house was exactly where he left it—its black metal door barricaded like a fortress. He moved faster than he remembered, his muscles responding with an efficiency that still felt unnatural. The days of crutches and limping like a beaten dog were long behind him. He pressed his hand against the access panel. The door recognized him. A sharp beep, a hiss of depressurization, and it slid open.
Inside, the dim garage smelled of scorched metal and old motor oil, which he hadn’t smelled before. His target sat there, gleaming under the flickering fluorescent lights—the jet-black hoverbike with neon highlights pulsing along its streamlined frame.
“Please don’t tell me you’re taking the bike to Hybia.” Eve’s voice was as close to exasperated as an AI could get.
Nye grinned, sharp and reckless. “That’s exactly what I’m doing.”
He swung a leg over the bike, grabbing the helmet that hung lazily from the handlebar. Before slipping it on, he swiped open the manual, his eyes skimming through the five-page tutorial at an inhuman speed. Data burned itself into his brain like ink sinking into paper. In less than fifteen seconds, he absorbed every detail—every function, every hidden override. Satisfied, he put on the helmet and pulled the visor down.
The bike purred to life beneath him, a beast waking from its slumber. The garage door, sensing movement, slid upward, allowing him into the night.
“This is very reckless, Nye,” Eve warned.
“Heard it the first time.” He revved the engine, feeling the power vibrate through his bones.
“At least put on the safety straps.”
Nye ignored her. With a flick of his wrist, he shot forward, slicing through the alleyways of the city like a razor through silk. The chilly night wind rushed past him, biting against his exposed skin. He barely registered it. He was moving too fast, thinking too fast.
After navigating the tight streets, he tapped a button on the handlebar. The stabilizers engaged with a mechanical hiss, and the bike lifted, soaring above the cityscape.
“WHOOO!” he hollered, the rush of altitude twisting his stomach in the best way. For the first time in months, he felt weightless—unbound. He understood now why Mia never shut up about the recklessness of it.
“Nye, follow the speed limits.”
“You’re killing my vibe, Eve.”
Despite her protests, he pushed the bike harder, slicing through air traffic like a shadow. Cities blurred beneath him—Kealon, Echelon, and five more cities—until, finally, the unmistakable silhouette of Hybia City loomed in the distance.
The place was a corpse of a metropolis, wrapped in neon strips that flickered and died intermittently like the heartbeat of a dying star. Ruins stood like decayed teeth against the skyline, their surfaces stained by centuries of pollution. The air itself had a sickly green hue, thick with radiation and industrial smog. Despite the overwhelming sunlight, the city carried an undeniable gloom, like a place perpetually stuck at a hazy dusk.
“This is a dangerous zone, Nye,” Eve warned again, her tone dipping into something bordering disappointment. “You’re walking into a death trap after everything you’ve been through.”
Nye only smirked in response.
He descended, the bike lowering until it hovered just above an abandoned street—close to the location in his map. The noise of Hybia was deafening—hundreds of voices overlapping, distant shouts, the mechanical hiss of shifting transport lanes. And yet, here, at the entrance to the alley, there was silence.
Unease prickled at the back of his neck. He swung a leg off the bike, hanging the helmet back onto the handlebar before stepping forward.
“Wow. This place is… dirty,” he muttered, scanning the narrow corridor leading into the tunnels beneath a decayed building.
“Nye, let’s go back. What are you even looking for here?”
He clicked his tongue. “Shush, Eve.”
He advanced carefully, checking the geolocation on his Voxlet now and then. His footsteps echoed, too loud in the silence.
Then—a sound.
A soft thud behind him.
He didn’t react. Didn’t even tense. He simply waited.
Silence.
Slowly, he turned his head. He could see quite clearly despite the darkness.
Nothing.
He exhaled through his nose, turning back—
—And was sucker-punched.
The impact was brutal, his head snapping back as his body staggered violently. His knees buckled, and before he could process the shock, the ground met him in a merciless embrace. His Voxlet skittered across the pavement, blinking wildly in protest.
A chuckle slithered down from the shadow hovering above. Low. Amused. Predatory.
"Don’t tell me you really are who I think you are."
Nye winced as he sat up, fingers brushing over the spot where he’d just been sucker-punched. His skin stung, but not as much as it should have. No split lip. No bruising. He glanced up, blinking past the neon haze.
A figure loomed over him, broad as a tank, clad in patchwork armor and scarred leather. A Prime. Heavy-built. Hulking. His yellow skin glowed faintly in the dark tunnel. His rusted boots stood inches from him. His smirk gleamed, one gold canine catching the glow of a flickering street sign.
Nye straightened, dusting himself off. "And who exactly do you think I am?"
The Prime’s chuckle deepened, like gravel rolling down metal. He took a step forward, the ground groaning beneath his weight. "Don’t play dumb, Nile." His voice was low, venom-laced. "You owe my boss a of money. Thought you could just vanish? Thought we wouldn’t know the second you stepped foot in Hybia?"
Nye’s brows furrowed. ?Again? He scrambled to his feet and lifted his hands. "Okay, let’s just calm down. I’m not him."
"Funny." The Prime kept advancing.
Nye instinctively took a step back, his eyes flicking to his Voxlet blinking across the street, a lifeline that suddenly seemed too far away.
Another sound. Soft. Subtle.
Then—thud.
Then another.
And another.
Nye spun around.
They weren’t alone anymore.
Shadows bled from the alleyways, bodies slipping from the dark like wraiths. A dozen. Maybe more. They surrounded him in a slow, tightening noose, blocking every exit. No way out.
"You’re not leaving until you pay up," the first Prime declared, matter-of-fact.
Nye’s pulse ticked up. His breath came sharp. He turned, scanning their faces. “Wait, wait. Can we just—”
A fist slammed into his face again. Hard. He staggered back, colliding against a wall with a grunt.
Nye groaned, rolling his jaw. "Why is it always my face, you assholes?"
One of the thugs lunged, fist cocked. Instinct flared. Nye’s hand shot up—
The world tilted.
Nye’s own expression twisted in shock. He didn’t think—just acted. His other fist snapped forward in a counterstrike, as though his muscles remembered how to fight back.
A shockwave pulsed. Too strong. The man launched backward—slamming into the opposite wall like a ragdoll.
Nye froze.
The others did too.
A long silence stretched. Then—snarls of rage. They all lunged at once.
Nye’s heart slammed against his ribs. He threw his arms up—instinct, fear, desperation—
No impact. No pain.
Nye cracked an eye open. His arms lowered.
Every single one of them—suspended mid-air in awkward and unnatural angles. Their bodies trembled, frozen in place like broken puppets. Their snarls choked into gasps of confusion.
Nye’s breath hitched. His pulse roared in his ears.
His hands shook. His head spun. He staggered back, eyes darting between them. .
Unless…
His chest tightened. A cold sweat broke across his back.
A flicker of static crackled in his brain. Dizziness swelled. He stumbled—
And .
The second his feet pounded against the pavement, the spell shattered. The men collapsed to the ground.
Then came rage, more aggressive this time.
Snarls erupted as the men scrambled up and lunged after him.
.
Nye bolted faster.
His legs moved faster than they ever had before. The neon-soaked streets of Hybia blurred as Nye sprinted through the chaos, weaving between food stalls, flickering holograms, and the occasional rusted-out hoverbike. His lungs burned, his heart pounded, and every instinct screamed at him to keep moving. The air thickened with smoke and neon, the scent of sweat and fried synthetic meat clashing against the stink of industrial waste. Street vendors barely flinched as he crashed past their makeshift stalls, sending cages of rabid vermin skittering across the pavement.
Behind him—footsteps. Close. Too close.
They were gaining.
Panic surged. His muscles tensed—
And his speed doubled.
Tripled.
He was fast—faster than he had any right to be. But apparently, not fast enough.
A single glance over his shoulder was all it took. One brief, damnable miscalculation—just enough time for fate to have a laugh at his expense. Before he could react, his foot caught the edge of a rickety stall, sending him crashing through a display of neon-green synth-fruits. The vendor, a hunched woman with cybernetic arms and a mouth like a docking bay commander, shrieked.
"You little SHIT! My produce! You paying for this, you—"
"Sorry! I'm so sorry!" Nye scrambled to his feet, slipping on something sticky as he lurched forward, trying to regain momentum. But the moment of hesitation had cost him.
A powerful grip clamped onto his jacket and wrenched him backward. He hit the ground hard, the impact jarring his spine, dragging him down alongside his captor. Before he could react, shadows loomed over him. The gang had caught up.
“Fuck,” he breathed, barely audible beneath the sounds of the buzzing city.
The brute from earlier—the one with the golden canine and a stench that could peel paint—chuckled. His hulking frame blocked out the garish street lights above as he crouched down, his yellow-tinged skin glimmering under the glow of flickering neon advertisements.
“Done with your little mind tricks?” the man jeered, his voice like gravel being ground under steel.
Two more pairs of hands yanked Nye up, locking his arms in place with vice-like grips. The stench of sweat and cheap synth-rum invaded his senses. He gagged.
“You’re gonna love my boss’s hospitality,” the brute sneered, flashing his teeth in a grin so filthy it should’ve come with a biohazard warning.
“I’m telling you, this is a mistake,” Nye tried, his voice tight with frustration. "I'm not—"
A meaty hand slammed into his face, cutting him off mid-sentence.
“Shut up,” the brute growled, standing tall. Then, with a lazy flick of his wrist, he gestured to his men. “Bring him to the garage.”
Nye clenched his jaw as they started dragging him off, his boots scraping against the uneven pavement. His mind raced, frantically analyzing every possible escape route. The streets were alive with people, but none paid him any mind. Fights like this were just background noise in Hybia.
His Voxlet was gone—lost in the tunnel. No way to call for help. No one to call for help.
Then, after almost fifteen minutes of walking, they crossed into a quieter sector of the city. The moment they walked out of the rusted-over remnants of an old transport tunnel, a voice rang out from behind. Smooth. Unhurried.
"Hey."
It was casual, almost lazy, but something about it made the entire group pause. Nye turned his head just slightly, squinting into the darkness of the tunnel. He hadn’t heard footsteps. Hadn’t sensed anyone following them. And yet—
A figure stepped forward from the dark tunnel. His silhouette sharpened as he moved into a stray beam of light filtering through a crack in the steel above.
“I think you have my client,” the man said, his tone calm, measured. “I’d like to take him with me now.”
Nye’s eyes widened.
“Penn?!”
It was the same man who had delivered the Reinstatement Letter. The one with the perfectly tailored off-white suit. Only now, as Nye watched, the suit darkened, shifting like liquid shadow until it wrapped snugly around his lean frame in jet black—eerily similar to the one Nye had seen himself wearing in those news articles.
The gang didn’t react with fear. That was the concerning part.
Two of them kept Nye locked in place, while the rest spread out, ready to strike. The brute, still grinning, cracked his knuckles.
"Client, huh?" he scoffed. "You some kinda lawyer?"
Penn sighed, rolling his shoulders. "Sure. Let’s go with that."
The brute swung first—a heavy, bone-breaking hook meant to end things in one blow. But Penn was already gone, twisting out of the way with unnatural fluidity. Another goon fired a sonic gun. The energy blast crackled through the air, fast enough that even Penn had to stagger back, his brow furrowing slightly.
Then he retaliated.
The fight wasn’t fair. It wasn’t even close.
Penn moved like a ghost, effortlessly weaving between blows, striking with precision that seemed almost preordained. Every counter was surgical. No wasted movement. No unnecessary brutality—just cold, efficient takedowns. The gang didn’t even stand a chance.
Nye stood frozen, watching the effortless fight unfold with his mouth slightly agape.
Within minutes, the only ones left standing were the two men holding him.
Penn exhaled sharply, brushing a hand through his tangerine-colored hair with an air of mild disgust.
"Ugh," he muttered. "I’m going to need an hour-long detox after this."
Then, flicking his gaze toward the two remaining gang members, he tilted his head.
"Well?" he asked, his voice almost bored. "Are you going to let him go, or do you want some of that?"
The two exchanged a brief, panicked glance before shoving Nye forward and bolting into the looming dusk.
Nye staggered, blinking in disbelief as he straightened his jacket. His brain was still buffering, struggling to process what had just happened.
After a moment, he turned to Penn. "What the actual fuck is going on?"
Penn, unfazed, merely adjusted his cufflinks as his suit transformed back into the off-white one. "You okay?"
"Yeah. Thanks," Nye muttered.
"Good. Then let's go. Headquarters is waiting." Penn nodded toward a nearby rooftop. Hovering just above it was a sleek, stealth glider, its polished surface reflecting the dying sunlight and the neon glow of the city.
"Headquarters? What headquarters?" Nye frowned, reluctance creeping into his voice.
Penn let out a tired sigh, rubbing his temple. "Look, I followed you here the moment our system picked up your location. You’re
That name sent a strange chill down Nye’s spine.
"But my bike—"
"Already picked up," Penn cut him off. His creepy charm from the other day was the exact opposite of how expressed himself today. Then, as if suddenly remembering, he fished something out of his pocket and tossed it to Nye.
Nye caught it instinctively. His Voxlet.
He flexed his fingers around it, feeling the familiar weight settle on his wrist again. "Thanks."
Penn didn’t wait. He turned and started scaling a ladder on the building’s side.
After a brief moment of hesitation, Nye followed.
When they reached the rooftop, the glider’s hatch slid open silently. Penn climbed in first, settling into the pilot’s seat with effortless familiarity. Nye circled the craft, hesitating for just a moment longer before finally climbing inside.
The hatch sealed shut behind him.
As the glider lifted off, cutting through the hazy, thick air of the city, Nye exhaled slowly. “Well was overwhelming.” He muttered, mostly to himself.
Then, a long silence followed. From this altitude—air level five, well above the standard civilian traffic—the city looked like a digitized dreamscape, distant, blurred, reduced to a bokeh of electric veins pulsing in slow, rhythmic beats. Even the commercial air lanes, normally congested with drones, transports, and private gliders, seemed insignificant from up here.
Nye leaned against the reinforced glass, watching the crime city shrink beneath them. The height alone spoke volumes—whoever Penn answered to, had serious pull. This wasn’t just privilege; this was dominion.
His neural implant suppressed hesitation, but curiosity was a different beast entirely. It gnawed at him, restless, pushing past his usual restraint. “Do you work at the FIDFE?” he asked, tilting his head, brow furrowing slightly.
Penn barely turned his head, fingers flicking idly across the glider’s holo-interface. “I work the FIDFE, alongside others,” he corrected. “Contracts and Legal Compliance Enforcer. Not exactly from your flashy department.”
“But you’re a Primalis.” It wasn’t quite a question, more of an assertion from Nye.
Penn’s lips quirked, a hint of amusement. “So? That doesn't mean we all work at .”
“What's a Zenith?” Nye inquired.
Penn let out a dry chuckle, finally glancing at Nye. “You’re serious?” His tone was incredulous. “You didn’t even bother reading up on The Zenith?”
Nye’s expression shifted into something caught between confusion and mild regret. “…No?”
Penn laughed, shaking his head. “Unbelievable.” He leaned back into his seat, stretching his arms lazily before explaining. “The Zenith is most elite Primalis unit of the FIDFE. Highest law enforcement authority, no red tape, no jurisdictional bullshit. They handle the kind of threats that could rewrite history if they’re not shut down fast enough.”
His gaze flicked toward Nye again. “Seriously, man, what the hell have you been doing for the past year? Knitting? Watching daytime dramas? Playing housewife? You need to .” He waved a dismissive hand, as if brushing off dust.
Nye’s scowl deepened. “Okay, well, you were fake as the last time we met. Your true colors are showing now. Maybe a little much.”
Penn smirked, clearly entertained. “And yet, I don’t give a shit.”
Nye rolled his eyes and turned away, resting his temple against his knuckles as the silence stretched again, thick and heavy for long enough. The whoosh of wind was little more than a whisper against the backdrop of the sprawling metropolis they were crossing below, its towering skyline a constellation of neon circuitry.
Then, the glider decelerated, its silent thrusters adjusting for descent. Below them, a leviathan of a docking station loomed, its metallic spires anchored to a floating city suspended on gravitational repulsors. The metropolis itself was a marvel—monolithic structures laced with luminous veins of data, sky bridges connecting towering spires, larger-than-life holograms broadcasting propaganda, news, and, most notably, the faces of The Zenith. Their visages, cast in flickering blues and reds, cycled through heroic poses, some mid-action, others static, like modern deities watching over their domain.
As the glider docked, its landing sequence seamless and eerily silent, Nye looked around, trying to process the sheer scale of it all.
“Where are we?” he asked as the latch unsealed silently.
Penn stepped out, adjusting his cuffs as he replied, “FIDFE headquarters.”
“No, I mean, ?”
Penn smirked, glancing over his shoulder. “Neola. The most technologically advanced city on Earth.”
Nye’s eyebrows lifted slightly. Of course, it made sense now. The sheer scale, the floating infrastructure, the security—he hadn’t seen anything this sophisticated since waking up from his coma—not even in Echelon, which is more like a retreat for the wealthy. He followed Penn down the ramp, eyes trailing across the array of personnel stationed every twelve feet. They snapped to attention the moment the duo passed by each station.
At one point, Nye chuckled, voice laced with amusement. “Huh. You must be someone special.”
Penn’s smirk widened as he glanced back. “They’re saluting , Nye.”
Nye’s steps faltered slightly, his head snapping toward the guards—sure enough, their postures were precise, almost reverent. His jaw tightened.
Penn, thoroughly enjoying the moment, turned away with a knowing grin.
They entered a gravity-lift, its walls humming as it ascended in smooth silence. Several floors later, it came to a stop with a soft chime. The doors slid open, revealing an isolated corridor, dimly lit and abandoned.
“This way,” Penn said, stepping forward.
Nye followed, glancing at the endless stretch of empty hallways. Something about this felt… deliberate. Not just secrecy, but . Like they didn’t want to see him.
Finally, they arrived at a reinforced door, sleek and monolithic. Penn pressed his palm against an access button; a thin beam swept over his iris. The lock disengaged with a quiet click, and the doors slid apart.
Penn stepped inside without hesitation. Nye, however, hesitated.
Something about this felt—strange and intimidating.
Still, he exhaled sharply and followed.
The room was , too large for an office yet far too intimate for a conference hall. The walls were lined with interface panels, data streams flickering across their surfaces. And at the center of it all, leaning against a curved desk, was .
Viora.
She was pristine, a picture of calculated elegance. A tailored white suit hugged her frame, her green hair sleek, not a strand out of place. Her eyes—sharp, assessing, vivid green—locked onto him the moment he stepped inside. A flicker of something passed through them, something almost like awe, but she buried it beneath a mask of composed professionalism.
Then, she finally broke the silence. “Good afternoon, Nye.” Her voice was smooth, practiced. “It’s good to finally see you in the flesh again.”
Nye’s brow arched at her saccharine smile. It was polished. Too . Too painfully obvious.
“And you are?” he asked, unimpressed.
“Viora,” she introduced herself. “Department Chief of the FIDFE. I oversee all interplanetary defense efforts—ongoing and upcoming.” She gestured subtly toward Penn. “And Penn here has been working under an independent contract with me to ensure my messages reach you.” Her head tilted slightly. “Apologies for the abruptness of today, but your safety is paramount to us.”
Nye folded his arms. “Why? I’m just a former employee.”
Viora’s expression didn’t waver. “You’re a , Nye. Just because your memories and primabilities are… at the moment doesn’t mean we can afford to let your talent go to waste.” She stood straight and stepped toward her seat, her voice even, deliberate. “You are under contract with us. That makes your safety responsibility. And, by extension, our neighboring planets’ as well.”
She settled into her chair, poised, controlled. “Please, have a seat.”
Nye glanced at Penn, half-expecting him to sit as well. But Penn was already turning on his heel, heading for the exit without another word. The door slid shut behind him, leaving Nye and Viora alone.
He watched her for a beat longer before finally, reluctantly, sinking into the chair across from her.
Viora laced her fingers together, resting her elbows on the sleek, obsidian-black surface of her desk. Her emerald eyes—cold, calculating, yet oddly warm in their intensity—remained locked onto Nye.
“I must admit, we weren’t entirely sure you’d make it this time. And yet, here we are—sitting across from each other after two long years. We always knew you were powerful, but we never quite grasped the full extent of it.” There was no flattery in her tone, just a simple, undeniable fact. Viora didn’t do pleasantries, not unless they served a purpose.
Nye, however, wasn’t the least bit moved by her words. Compliments meant nothing when they came from powerful people who clearly have their own agenda. He was old enough to understand that.
He leaned back in his chair, arms loosely crossed, his expression unreadable. “Ma’am, no offense, but what makes you think I want back in? What if I don’t?” His voice was calm, measured—though deep inside, a storm of questions raged. A part of him considering it. Not because of some noble sense of duty, but because he needed answers. Answers that only a high ranking position could provide him because of all the data access he'd have.
Viora’s lips curved into a subtle, knowing smirk. “It’s not a question of , Nye. It’s You’re still under contract, and you haven’t reached your retirement age yet. Sooner or later, you’ll have to reclaim your position. It’s simply a matter of whether you do it … or on mine.” Her voice remained poised, factual. She wasn’t pressuring him. She didn’t to. She was merely presenting the inevitable.
Nye arched an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Why the rush? You seem to be getting along just fine without me.”
Viora’s smirk barely faltered. “That’s where you’re wrong.” She leaned forward, her eyes gleaming like polished jade under the room’s lighting. “Your position has been vacant for two years. That’s the longest a Helmsprime's seat has ever remained unfilled. Your so-called ‘team’ is in shambles. They're grasping at straws, eyeing your throne like starving scavengers. If you don’t return soon, is going to try and take your place.”
Nye scoffed. “You just indirectly called your own officers incompetent. Why even hire them if they’re useless without me? Shouldn’t in your precious organization be capable of stepping up?” He leaned in, resting his elbows on the desk, voice dripping with skepticism.
Viora shrugged, utterly unfazed. “They’re only incompetent . And as long as you’re alive, nobody’s replacing you.”
Nye chuckled, shaking his head. “You realize I’m still on a ten-year, fully-paid leave of absence, right? That means I could disappear for another nine years and you’d still be stuck babysitting this mess. What then? Would you really keep the seat warm for me?” He was goading her now, just to see how far he could push before she snapped and showed her true face.
Viora didn’t snap. She simply stared at him, silent, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, she let out a breathy chuckle and leaned back in her chair, a crooked smile playing at her lips. “Might I remind you, Nye,” she said, voice suddenly smooth as silk, “that a couple of your friends breached their NDA last night?”
The smirk on Nye’s face faltered for just a fraction of a second. His fingers curled slightly against the armrest. “That wasn’t their fault,” he said, his voice quieter now. “I them tell me. If you’re going to punish anyone, punish me. Just… don’t incarcerate them.”
Viora’s smirk widened, her fingers idly drumming against the desk. “Oh, I completely diminish their sentences… you agree to return to The Zenith. Your position has been left vacant for long, after all.” She tilted her head slightly, feigning innocence.
Nye let out a breathless laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “I see. So I’m being into working for the feds now.” He didn’t sound particularly surprised.
Viora put on a mockingly sincere smile. “It’s only blackmail if you it blackmail. I prefer to think of it as… ” She folded her hands neatly in front of her. “Besides, you have better reasons to return than just keeping your friends out of prison. You could, say… protect your planet from existential threats, uphold justice, ” Her smile widened just a touch, though her eyes remained sharp as a scalpel. “But of course, the choice is up to you.”
Nye shook his head, exhaling a breath of incredulous amusement. He let the silence linger, his mind grappling with the weight of it all before finally speaking. “Look, I don’t even know if my are back yet. And even if they , I have no clue how to control them.”
Viora’s lips curled into a slow, confident grin. “That’s where we come in, Nye. We’ll train you, guide you—help you understand the full scope of your abilities and how to control them. You’ll have them back in no time, and more. And don’t worry, we’re not throwing you into an intergalactic battlefield overnight.” She assured, her voice taking on a coaxing rhythm. “Take it slow. Regain your memory, rebuild your skills—at your own pace. All we ask is that you .”
Nye didn’t answer immediately. He let the silence stretch between them, weighing his options. He had spent months scraping together fragments of a past that everyone seemed determined to keep from him. No one told him everything, not fully, not honestly. It had become painfully clear that he wasn’t going to find the truth sitting in his secluded duplex, waiting for it to conveniently reveal itself.
And then there were his friends. The Feds weren’t above making an example out of them. If he refused, Vin and Bret would pay for it. If he agreed, he might finally get access to Nile's classified files, to the story of what happened before his coma. His family, his past, his identity—it all led back to The Zenith, to the position he’d left vacant for two years.
And then there was
That street fight wasn’t just a fight. He had it— it. Telekinesis. Impossible, yet undeniable. The way his brother's power had surged through him today, foreign and all at once. It was the first tangible proof that maybe, just maybe, he wasn't even Nye at all.
A rapid chain of calculations ran through his neural chip, processing probabilities, risk factors, potential outcomes. The numbers lined up, logic clicked into place.
Nye finally looked up, his gaze sharp, focused. “Alright,” he said, leaning slightly forward. “How does it work? When does it start?”
A flicker of satisfaction passed through Viora’s expression—just for a second—before she schooled her face back into its usual cool composure. Still, there was something undeniably in her voice when she spoke again. “Smart choice, Nye.” She practically radiated excitement now, her formal demeanor cracking just enough to betray it. “As it happens, tomorrow is both your and the New Year’s gala. Perfect timing. We’ll make your return official at the party—introduce you to the board, the Federal members. You can stay the night at your penthouse, then head out the day after to get your things.” She tapped a fingernail against the desk. “We’ll set up your training and briefings after that. You’ll be back on track in no time.”
Nye’s eyebrows lifted in mild reluctance. Of all things.
His face must have said it all because Viora rolled her eyes dramatically. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. They’re not strangers, you know. Your team will be there. will be there.” She let the name hang in the air for effect. “Actually, if you’re up for it, I could introduce you to them .”
That gave Nye pause. He hadn’t considered it, but the idea was... compelling. Trent. He might not remember much, but at least he wouldn’t be walking into a room full of unknowns. And more importantly—.
He had already wasted doing nothing. It was time to move.
He gave a slow nod. “Alright. Sounds good.”
Viora’s grin widened. “Yeah? Great! Let’s go introduce you to the friends you don’t remember.”
She pushed herself up from her chair, practically buzzing with unspoken excitement. Nye followed suit, rolling his shoulders before trailing after her as she exited the office.
The corridor Viora led Nye through was a noticeable contrast to the one he had first entered. This one was sleek, grand, and buzzing with an almost palpable energy and activities. The walls, adorned with intricate, futuristic designs, pulsed faintly with neon accents, shifting in soft, rhythmic waves. Every ten feet or so, holo-stands projected real-time analytics, flickering between mission updates, personnel status reports, and fluctuating energy readings. Occasionally, holographic images of The Zenith’s members materialized—a montage of faces flickering to life, some of them familiar. Nye recognized a few from Mia’s burial, their scrutinizing expressions seared into his memory. A few of them had stared at him then.
He barely had time to process the familiarity before staff members started noticing him. A ripple of murmurs spread like wildfire. Gasps, halted footsteps, wide-eyed stares—word traveled fast in the headquarters, and Nye’s reappearance was nothing short of a ghost returning to haunt them. Some froze mid-task, openly gaping at him, while others whispered to their colleagues, exchanging bewildered glances. Nye did his best to ignore it, though it was difficult not to feel like a walking anomaly under so many scrutinizing gazes.
Viora, on the other hand, carried on as if completely oblivious to the spectacle. Her heels clicked against the pristine floors with a steady, confident rhythm as she guided him through the labyrinthine facility. They crossed a bridge connecting two monolithic structures, the cityscape beneath them sprawling in a dizzying blur of holographic billboards and floating transports zipping through the air. Nye’s gaze lingered on the world outside, neon reflections dancing in his eyes.
Eventually, they arrived at another building—still futuristic, still massive, but with an unmistakably different atmosphere. The air was calmer, the lighting softer, the overall design more ambient, meant to relax rather than intimidate. Yet even here, he drew attention. Uniformed Primes and even humanoids—paused in their movements, their eyes scanning him with varying degrees of curiosity, disbelief, and, in some cases, unease.
This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
By now, the walk had become long enough for Nye to start questioning Viora’s sense of time management.
“I’m starting to think we’re gonna get there tomorrow,” he muttered dryly, glancing around. “Do you not have, I don’t know, teleportation, hoverpads, a decent wheeler, anything faster than legwork?”
Viora chuckled. “We do. But we save those for the lazy. Walking is good for your circulation.”
“Sure. Nothing like a casual five-mile stroll after a weird day,” Nye sighed, pulling out his Voxlet to check if it was functioning. No notifications. No messages. Nothing.
Viora led him deeper into the building, navigating through a series of winding corridors before finally stopping in front of a massive, fogged-up door. The moment Nye approached it, his enhanced hearing picked up everything inside. Voices—sharp, tense, engaged in heated discussion.
“We’re missing something. The numbers don’t add up.”
“You think the disappearances are connected to the spike in serial killings?”
“There’s no proof of that.”
“There’s no proof it either. And what about the intergalactic incidents? We’re stretched too thin.”
Frustration laced every syllable. It sounded like an important meeting to interrupt.
Viora stepped forward, allowing a soft beep to scan her irises. The security system acknowledged her presence, triggering a discreet alert inside. The voices hushed almost instantly, curiosity crackling in the silence. Then, the door slid open with a seamless hiss, revealing the room beyond.
Ten individuals. That was the first thing Nye noticed. Instinctively, he did a headcount as his gaze flickered across the space.
They stood—or sat—around a sleek, O-shaped conference table, all clad in identical black suits that clung to their refined, almost otherworldly forms. They didn’t uniforms to look elite; their presence alone was enough. Some leaned against the table, arms crossed in a mixture of shock and skepticism. Others remained seated, still processing what they were seeing.
Nye's eyes found Kiera and Trent among them. He made no personal gestures—no nods, no waves. Not yet.
“Nye?” Kiera was the first to break the silence, her voice teetering between shock and something more unreadable. Her hands found her hips. “What are you doing here?”
Nye offered a small, almost apologetic smile.
Viora, unfazed by the tension in the room, took the stage effortlessly as she stepped inside. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.” Her voice was smooth, unshaken. “Today is your lucky day.” She gestured toward Nye with a casual sweep of her hand. “The prodigal son returns. Nye has recovered from his injuries and is already regaining his primabilities since being . And—” she allowed a dramatic pause, savoring the weight of her words—“he has made the finest decision to reclaim his position as the .”
Another wave of reactions rippled through the room. Some whispered among themselves. A few exchanged pointed glances, subtle but loaded. The disappointment was evident on certain faces—the ones who had, perhaps, entertained thoughts of taking his place.
Viora turned to Nye. “Come in.”
He stepped inside, posture carefully composed, his expression neutral but observant. He acknowledged Trent with a single glance, receiving a slight greeting tilt of the head in return.
Viora’s gaze swept across the room before landing back on him. “Nye, allow me to officially reintroduce you to the greatest Primalis team on Earth—The Zenith. Your team.” Her lips curled into a knowing smirk. “You it, in fact. Seventeen years ago.”
Nye inhaled sharply, more out of habit than shock. That was… a lot to catch up to. But he kept his expression unreadable, his mind working through the implications.
Viora, ever the conductor of theatrics, clapped her hands lightly. “Alright, people, you can stop staring now. Nye’s memories aren’t back yet, so don’t go bombarding him with unnecessary—or worse, —information. He’ll remember what he needs to, eventually.”
The humor in her voice did little to dissolve the tension. Nye crossed his arms, meeting the eyes of those who were still sizing him up. Some had already shifted their focus, but others… others weren’t thrilled. He could the unspoken words, the quiet calculations of those who had seen an opportunity slip through their fingers the moment he walked in.
He had questions—too many to count.
Viora’s smirk widened, a glint of pride flashing in her eyes as she gestured toward each team member in turn. “Nye, meet Gale, Xenora, Kaha, Trent, Finnian, Lake, Nevan, Mist, Kiera—whom you've already met. And last but certainly not least, Sif—our newest addition. She joined this week, replacing Ferro, who, unfortunately, didn’t make it back from his last mission.” Her tone remained even, but the weight of her words hung in the air like a silent requiem.
Nye let the names settle in his mind, but his gaze lingered on Sif, studying her features with quiet intrigue. She was the third person he had seen since waking up who bore a striking resemblance to humans from before the nuclear devastation—perhaps a little too similar. Pale, but not in the achromatic way of the post-war generations, her skin had a natural warmth, and her blonde hair and blue eyes looked eerily out of place among the team. She reminded him of something ancient, something almost extinct. Kiera and himself were the only other people he had met who had such a familiar human appearance.
But what made Sif stand out even more was the way she looked at him—subtle yet unmistakable admiration. The way her gaze flickered over him, the slight parting of her lips, the tension in her fingers as if she were resisting the urge to reach out. Nye wasn’t new to being stared at, but this felt different. He could tell she was low-key fangirling inwardly.
Viora’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. “Nye is going to stay in his penthouse tonight and tomorrow. He’ll begin his training on January 3rd. I’m leaving him in your care.” She glanced over the team with a pointed look. “Brief him on your specialties, what cases you’re working on. And .” Her emphasis on the last two words was not lost on anyone.
She then turned to Nye, her voice dropping just slightly. “I’ll send someone to escort you to your penthouse when you’re done here.” She patted his arm—a brief, reassuring touch—before striding away, her confidence as unshaken as ever.
The doors sealed shut behind her with a soft hiss, leaving Nye standing alone under the weight of a dozen scrutinizing gazes. He exhaled, unfolding his arms before slipping his hands into his jacket pockets.
“Uh, hi.” He spoke with a small smile, “How about we all take a seat and get properly introduced? And maybe a little less staring?” His tone was casual, almost amused, but his underlying message was clear.
Kiera let out a chuckle, breaking some of the tension.
Trent was the first to move, stepping forward and pulling Nye into a firm embrace. “Good to see you back, man.” His voice carried a warmth that cut through the cool detachment of the others.
Kiera smirked as she crossed her legs, settling down in her chair. “You have no idea how many hearts you’ve just broken, Nye. Pretty sure most of us were already rehearsing enthronement speeches.”
Gale rolled his eyes. “So, you got chipped?”
Nye gave a short nod, motioning for everyone to take their seats. He recognized his seat by his name that was still carved into its backrest. All the chairs had assigned names, but the fact that his hadn’t been removed after two years said something. Whether it was respect or reluctance to let go of a legacy, he wasn’t sure.
One by one, the team took their places. The initial shock of his return had settled, but tension still buzzed beneath the surface.
Nevan, a man with deep maroon dreadlocks and matching eyes, leaned forward. “Okay, I have to say, I’m shocked. We really didn’t think you were gonna make it, Nye. Welcome back, man! What a surprise, right before your birthday, too.” He grinned, looking around as if searching for agreement. “Right?”
Xenora, her dark coffee skin gleaming under the soft neon lighting, arched a silver brow. “Go blow him already, Nevan.” Her smirk was razor-sharp.
Nevan shot her a glare. “Shut up, Xen.”
A few chuckles rippled through the room, but Nye picked up on the undercurrents of envy, the subtle shifts in posture, the way some glanced at him then quickly away. He wasn’t stupid—he could see the ones who weren’t exactly thrilled that he was back. As if it hasn't been a long enough day that now he was having to deal with a group of envious strangers. But in hindsight, if they thought he’d stumble his way through this, they were sorely mistaken because their attitude made Nye's willingness to return all the more resolute.
He commented sarcastically, “Wow, some of you must really hate me. Sorry for killing your ambitions, but it's only fair that I take back what’s rightfully mine, don’t you think?”
Kiera smirked at his words, eyes glinting with amusement, while others exchanged glances. Some irritated, some resigned.
Nye leaned back in his chair and, with an easy but commanding tone, broke the standstill. “Alright, starting with you—” he turned his attention to Gale, who sat closest to him, “introduce yourselves please. Name, age, primabilities, and how long you’ve been with The Zenith.”
He gestured for Gale to begin, a confident smirk playing at his lips, thanks to the chip that immensely helped in maintaining the upper hand.
The team began their introductions, one by one, starting with Gale.
Gale leaned back, arms crossed, face naturally grumpy, and his voice carrying the casual authority of someone who had seen it all. “We’re all pretty strong and built to take a beating, so let’s not state the obvious, alright?” He instructed everyone stoically before continuing. “I’m Gale, 36. Cryokinesis. I can conjure, control, and manipulate ice, freeze things solid, and basically turn a battlefield into an ice rink. Been with the FIDFE long before The Zenith existed. Seventeen years with The Zenith.”
Kiera, sitting beside him, flicked an imaginary speck of dust off her sleeve before speaking. “You know me already, Nye. Kiera, 34. Pyrokinesis—fire is my playground. Control it, create it, bend it however I want. Worked at FIDFE. Joined The Zenith 15 years ago.”
Nye raised an eyebrow, mildly impressed. He’d known Kiera for nearly a year now, yet somehow, he’d completely underestimated just how much of a powerhouse she was.
Kaha, who had been watching the exchange in silence, finally spoke as he was next after Kiera, his face mildly disappointed since Nye's arrival. “I’m Kaha, 33. Invisibility and shadow-walking. I can merge into shadows, slip through them like they’re doorways.” His voice was quiet but held an edge of mystery. “Been here three years.” The subtle disappointment with Nye's return was painfully obvious on his face. He'd been eyeing a promotion to Nye's spot for some time lately. And now all his dreams had shattered.
Finnian grinned, practically buzzing on his seat with excitement. “Finnian, 30. Precognition and retrocognition. I see the future before it happens, and the past of anyone or anything I touch.” He wiggled his fingers theatrically. “Fun fact—I knew you’d be here today.”
He instantly earned a collective reaction of glares, gasps, and remarks from the group who certainly could have appreciated a heads-up from him.
Nye smirked. “Impressive. You and I are going to be good friends, Finnian.” His tone was light, but in the back of his mind, gears were already turning. A guy who could see the past? was a resource he could use. But that was a thought for another day.
“Yeahhhh, no. I'm prohibited from helping you with your memories, man.” Finnian added, breaking Nye's delusion, which he could read quite obviously on Nye's face. “I wasn't even allowed to visit you, just in case.” he shrugged unapologetically.
Nye's smirk deepened, but he didn't verbalize his opinion. Instead, he shifted his gaze at Xenora, “Go on, please.”
Xenora flipped a silver braid over her shoulder. “Xenora, 29. Portals—anywhere you need to go, any dimension you want to reach, I’m your girl. Teleportation, too.”
Nye grinned. “Oh, you’re definitely saving me from those five-mile hikes between buildings.”
Xenora smirked. “Already feeling the victimization, huh?”
Nye gave an exaggerated pout, earning a chuckle from her.
Trent, who had been watching with sly amusement, spoke. “Trent, 34. Shapeshifter. I can take on any human form, any creatures, even objects or trees. Camouflage is part of the deal. Been here 17 years.”
Nye shot him an approving and unapologetic grin. “You guys are way cooler than I even cared to imagine.”
Lake gave a lazy wave. “Lake, 29. Hydrokinesis. Water bends to my will. Been at The Zenith four years.”
Then came Sif, who sat up a little straighter, as if trying to make the best impression. “I’m Sif, 27. I'm a hybrid from the Abia tribe. I have expandable wings, so clearly I can fly,” She chuckled nervously “and I can control the weather, atmosphere—atmokinesis. Joined three days ago.”
Before Nye could comment, Lake snorted. “The weather girl!”
The excited spark in Sif’s eyes dimmed instantly. Her smile faltered, replaced by an embarrassed silence.
Xenora shot Lake a look of pure disdain. “You’re an idiot.”
Lake just shrugged, clearly oblivious to the insult he’d just delivered. Nye caught the shift in mood immediately but chose to let it pass—at least for now. He didn't know them well enough to take matters in his hands.
Mist spoke up next, her voice sharp, snobbish, and quick, matching her ability. “Mist, 28. Superspeed. I move faster than the speed of light. Been here eight years.”
Nevan followed, arms draped over the backrest of his chair. “Nevan, 35. Aerokinesis. Air currents are my thing. I can fly too. Ten years in.”
Finally, Kiera added, “We also had Ferro, but he passed a couple of weeks ago. He was one of the oldest members alongside Gale, Trent, me… and you, Nye.”
Nye took a moment, committing each name, face, and ability to memory. It didn’t take much effort—his mind worked differently now, absorbing and storing information like a machine. He exhaled, then leaned forward, surveying the room.
“Well, that was… enlightening,” he said, a wry smirk playing on his lips. “Appreciate the rundown. Now, your turn—anything you'd like to know? You must have questions.”
A beat of silence. Then—
“Yes!”
A collective answer.
Nye huffed a small laugh. “Okay. Fire away!”
Later that evening, after an exhausting yet strangely invigorating round of introductions and catching up, Nye was finally escorted to his assigned penthouse. His guide? A sleek humanoid unit with an unsettlingly flawless gait, its mechanical joints so refined that it moved with an eerily human-like grace. The thing didn't even make a sound as it walked, unlike Nye, whose boots scuffed against the polished floors with every begrudging step.
The journey to his new quarters was another excruciatingly long walk—this place was a labyrinth of interconnected sky-bridges and high-speed lifts, but apparently, he was destined to travel the scenic route. Neola was a floating city, and the higher they ascended, the more breathtaking the view became. Every Zenith member was provided with a penthouse in this high-rise, each offering a vantage point that overlooked not just Neola itself but also the Earth far below, separated by an expanse of atmosphere that shimmered with an almost ethereal glow.
The concept of in a city that defied gravity was still a little surreal, even for Nye, who had seen his fair share of unexplainable phenomena, including retreat centers and party venues at floating cities. Here, technology wasn’t just advanced—it was nearly indistinguishable from magic. The buildings were sculpted from a metallic alloy that subtly shifted in color depending on the time of day, their surfaces embedded with luminescent threads that pulsed in a synchronized heartbeat, as if the city itself was alive.
By the time they reached the penthouse level, Nye had used the opportunity to reboot his Voxlet, the sleek wrist-mounted device that had gone dark during his earlier street fight at Hybia. The moment it powered back up, a familiar voice chimed in, dripping with her usual sarcasm.
"Hello, Nye! Didn't think you survived," Eve quipped.
Nye let out a tired chuckle. "You're not going to believe this. I've had the wildest day of my life."
"I can tell," she replied knowingly. "Considering you started your morning planning a reckless bike trip, and now you're being escorted to your FIDFE-assigned luxury apartment."
"You said it, Eve," he muttered, rubbing his neck. "But everyone was right. I should’ve come back way earlier."
"I know," she answered smugly.
Finally, they arrived at a set of towering double doors with an illuminated biometric scanner pulsing at eye level. The humanoid unit turned to him, its artificial irises flickering with coded light.
"This is you, Nye. Make yourself comfortable. You can access the building's map to locate your nearest cafeteria." With that, it turned and strode away without another word.
Nye sighed, then leaned forward, letting the scanner register his retinal pattern. A soft chime confirmed his identity, and the doors slid open with a whisper-quiet hiss.
The moment he stepped inside, his senses were overwhelmed. The air carried a crisp, subtly enhanced scent—clean, but not sterile, with just a hint of something familiar. His apartment smelled like home. But that wasn’t the most shocking part.
"Uh… wow," he breathed.
This wasn’t just a penthouse. This was a high-tech sanctuary, tailored down to the smallest detail.
The living area alone was massive, the kind of space where one could theoretically host an indoor hoverboard race—or a small orchestra, if he were into that sort of thing. A sprawling sectional sofa, upholstered in a material that subtly adjusted to body temperature, faced a curved, transparent wall that doubled as both a panoramic window and an interactive display. It shifted dynamically, displaying everything from a real-time cityscape of Neola to deep-space views filled with celestial wonders.
Floating shelves lined the walls, holding what appeared to be physical books—until he realized they weren’t physical at all. They were hard-light constructs, allowing him to pick up, flip through, and even ‘dog-ear’ pages without a single sheet of paper actually existing.
The lighting was fully adaptive, responding to his movements and adjusting seamlessly between cool, ambient glows and warm, cozy hues. The floor was composed of nanite-infused panels that subtly cushioned his steps and adjusted their texture depending on his barefoot or booted preference.
The kitchen was a marvel of engineering. A sleek, AI-assisted station could synthesize gourmet meals in seconds, reconfiguring molecular structures to create any dish he craved. There was even a fully stocked bar, featuring liquors aged in zero gravity.
His bedroom was a minimalist dream—if minimalism meant a king-sized bed that literally adjusted to his sleeping patterns, gravity-modulating pillows, and an entire ceiling that functioned as a simulated night sky, complete with real-time star mapping.
And the bathroom had a rainfall shower with an atmospheric control system that could replicate anything from a misty rainforest to a dry desert heat. The mirror doubled as an interactive data hub, displaying his health metrics, news updates, and even suggested outfits based on his schedule.
Nye ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. This was insane. His personal touch was evident everywhere. The digital portraits lining one wall weren’t just static images—they were shifting, fluid renderings of himself in different moments, some from his past, others seemingly from future possibilities he hadn’t yet lived. One frame showed him grinning on a beach he didn’t recognize. Another depicted him gathered by a woman and two little girls—a moment he had no memory of. Nye stared at the image for a moment too long. That was likely Dyla and his daughters.
He let out a low whistle. "Alright. I can get used to this."
Eve’s voice chimed in from the Voxlet, amused. "Just don’t forget to actually do what you're here for, Nye. You're not here for a vacation."
Nye smirked, already flopping onto the impossibly comfortable sofa. "Yeah, yeah. First, I’m gonna lie here for a few minutes and process my entire life."
Eve mimicked a sigh. "Five minutes. Then, I’m nagging you for dinner."
Nye stared up at the ceiling, which gradually dimmed into a twilight mode. He let his eyes drift shut for a moment, his mind replaying the whirlwind of events that had led him here today. The liberating intercity bike ride, the chaotic street fight, the moment his telekinesis flared to life—raw and untamed—the sudden reappearance of Penn, the tension-laced reunion with Viora, and finally meeting his so-called team members. It felt surreal. Just last night, he was lounging in his backyard, soda in hand, smoking joints with his friends. Now, he was laying on a floating city, staring out at Earth below as if it were nothing more than a backdrop in someone else’s story.
Half-opening his eyes, Nye found himself staring at the ever-shifting holographic photos on the wall. They cycled through moments of his past, a cruel parade of memories he hadn’t asked for. His gaze caught on her face again—Dyla. Her deep violet hair cascaded down her back in soft waves, a striking contrast against her light olive skin. Her amethyst eyes were piercing, as sharp as her symmetrical features, carved with an elegance that felt otherworldly. He sighed through his nose, jaw tightening. Apparently, there was a time when she was his wife.
Another image flickered in—him and his daughters at a beach, splashing in the water. Their hair was a mesmerizing blend of mauve and deep purple, full and wavy, framing their small faces. But their eyes—those unmistakable emerald green eyes—were his. They laughed in the still image, frozen in time, unaware of the tragedy that awaited them. A long-forgotten ache unfurled in his chest, slow and relentless. He hadn't realized his breath had turned shaky until he exhaled, steadying himself.
And then, the intrusive thoughts crept in.
Nile.
His own brother.
His own flesh and blood.
His mind recoiled at the story of what Nile had done to them. His daughters—his babies—had died at his hands. But the more Nye forced himself to dwell on it, the more a terrifying thought surfaced.
The mere idea made his stomach churn. He had seen himself levitate those men back at Hybia—fling them into the air as if they weighed nothing. Wasn’t that Nile’s primability?
People had mentioned it before, the uncanny resemblance between them. Eve had pointed out how much he sounded more like Nile since waking up. Others had, too. Nye and Nile. The long hair. The similar build. The unsettling familiarity.
If he had survived instead of Nye… then why?
His mind spiraled into the abyss of unanswered questions, sinking deeper into that eerie, numb state. It was both disturbing and—somehow—comforting, how the neural implant in his brain helped him process pain without breaking down—at all. It didn't erase the grief. It just… muted it. Made it bearable.
Then, like an obnoxious lifeline, Eve’s voice crackled from his Voxlet.
“Dinner time, Nye. Before you spiral further and miss the absolute gourmet dishes, you should get going.”
She was mocking him, but he could hear the subtle concern beneath the sarcasm.
Nye didn’t react immediately. He just blinked, eyes still fixed on the images as if committing them to memory. Then, after a few seconds, he exhaled and straightened up, rubbing his face before yanking off the hairband from his man-bun. His long hair spilled over his shoulders, and he raked his fingers through it absently. The jacket came off next, discarded onto the couch.
He needed to shower. Something to break the loop in his head.
The bathroom was outfitted with a detox shower that cleansed not just his skin but purged any residual toxins from the air. A necessary feature in a city where pollutants, radioactivity, and artificial air systems played havoc with biology. Steam rose, infused with nanites that worked on his skin at a molecular level, refreshing, repairing. By the time he stepped out, his mind felt clearer.
Rummaging through the ridiculous expanse of the walk-in closet—lined with high-tech suits, adaptive synthetic attire, and luxurious garments that he didn’t even know the function of—he finally settled on something simple: a pair of sweatpants and a long-sleeve sweatshirt. It felt more like him than the extravagant options.
The final step: his hair. A quick session in the blow-drying chamber, and he was good to go.
“Navigation arrows, please,” he muttered.
“Ready!” Eve responded instantly.
The moment he stepped outside his penthouse, glowing holographic arrows materialized mid-air, leading the way to the cafeteria.
Nye let out a chuckle. “I could’ve used this before,” he mused, realizing how much time he’d wasted navigating many of his past trips relying on Eve's verbal instructions. Apparently, he still wasn’t utilizing half the tech at his disposal, and Eve wasn't smart enough to suggest this earlier.
With a shake of his head, he followed the arrows.
He was led one floor down. The moment the cafeteria doors slid open with a soft hiss, the scent of food hit him like a freight train. A violent growl erupted from his stomach, loud enough that he half-expected the AI monitoring the hallways to log it as a potential seismic disturbance.
He barely registered the crowd. His eyes locked onto the buffet spread—a sprawling, glistening array of both Earthly and intergalactic cuisine. Spiced meats sizzling under heat domes, bioluminescent fruits from Orion colonies, gelatinous spheres suspended in anti-gravity fields, some dishes still writhing faintly as if reluctant to be eaten. His nose, now acutely sensitive thanks to his heightened senses, nearly short-circuited from the olfactory overload.
His legs carried him forward before his brain could catch up. Grabbing a plate, he began serving himself in heaps, moving with machine-like efficiency. The first plate filled in under ten seconds. Then came the second. Then a third. He was making rounds like a man on a mission, stacking food with such reckless abandon that whispers started to ripple across the cafeteria.
"Is he feeding an army?" someone muttered.
"Wait—he’s gonna eat all that?" another voice whispered.
"Is this a science experiment?"
"Maybe he just broke out of starvation stasis."
Judging by the stifled chuckles and puzzled glances, his food-stacking rampage was the highlight of the night.
He ignored them all. His table now precariously balanced eleven plates at a dimly lit corner. He returned to the table with the twelfth plate and sat down. Without hesitation, he dug in. What followed was fifteen minutes of silent, almost terrifyingly fast consumption. Forks, spoons, and occasionally bare hands worked in perfect synchronization. Food vanished like it had never existed.
Mid-chew, he mumbled, "Man, I was starving. What a weird fucking day."
Eve’s voice crackled through the Voxlet around his wrist, smooth, unwavering, and brimming with sass. “Of course it was weird. Maybe because decided not to listen when I told them not to be reckless. Now, congratulations! You’re back to work in a day.”
Nye smirked. “Eve, remind me why I keep up with you, again?”
“The purpose of my creation was to ensure your well-being. It was meant to be.”
The sarcasm in her synthetic voice was almost unsettling in its human-like inflection. Nye let out a chuckle but was soon interrupted when a soda can and a bottle of distilled water clanked onto the table in front of him.
He looked up just as Kiera slid into the seat across from him, arms folded, smirking. “Still talking to your AI?” she teased. “Honestly, if you spent half as much time talking to real people, you might actually find yourself a new girlfriend.”
Nye blinked. Then, as if hit by a sudden revelation, he leaned back, lips pressed together. “That’s... painfully true. This is actually unhealthy. Eve’s gonna start ruling my life soon if I don’t stop.” he joked.
Kiera snorted. “Pretty sure she already is.”
Nye grinned and shoved another forkful of food into his mouth. Kiera’s gaze flickered toward his plates. “Enjoying your meal, I see.”
Nye nodded enthusiastically, still chewing. “So what are you doing here? Weren’t you supposed to be in Neryon till tomorrow?”
For a split second, Kiera’s expression shifted—subtle, almost imperceptible, but Nye caught it. A fleeting moment of hesitation before she rolled her shoulders in an easy shrug. “Yeah, finished early. Lucky for you, not having to panic alone.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Who said I was panicking?”
“Oh, please,” Kiera smirked. “I mean we literally spoke this morning, and now you're here. What the fuck.” She chuckled. “If there’s anything scarier than Orion giants, it’s you being forced to a party where you don't know anyone.”
Nye made an exaggeratedly thrilled face. “Oh, yeah. Dying for it.” He scoffed, voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Anyway, you look like you have something else to say.” Nye stated matter-of-factly in between chewing. “Spill it.”
Kiera narrowed her eyes, exhaling sharply, “Damn. I forgot how annoying it is when you read people like that.”
Nye smirked, waiting.
Kiera shifted in her seat as she settled into a more relaxed posture. “Alright, listen. Once your training’s done, you’ll be assigned cases—missions, whatever you wanna call them. You're the Helmsprime, so you get to pick your cases. Just… stick to the easy stuff for now. Avoid the serial killing cases or the intergalactic ones.”
Nye’s fork hovered mid-air before he slowly lowered it onto his plate. His gaze locked onto hers, sharp and questioning. “Why?”
Kiera shrugged, but there was an unusual tightness to her expression. “Look, I don’t care what Viora or the others think, but I really think you should take it slow, Nye. Start with something simple. It’s been a rough couple of years for you.” There was no judgment in her voice—just quiet concern, the kind she rarely showed outright.
“Kiera,” He leaned forward slightly, resting his arms on the table, his expression turning more serious. “I think you and I both know I’m not here out of some noble obligation to protect the universe or whatever bullshit mission statement they’re feeding us.” He flicked his hand dismissively.
“I need to find out what really happened between Nile and me. Why he killed my family.” His voice dropped lower, just enough to keep prying ears from catching on.
For the briefest moment, Kiera’s eyes widened—a flash of something unreadable—before she schooled her expression into neutral territory. “You know about Dyla?” she asked, her voice more cautious now.
Nye simply shrugged, unapologetic.
Kiera studied him, jaw tightening slightly. “You scare me sometimes, Nye. Just like your brother. I don’t know how much you’ve pieced together yet, but I hope you get the answers you’re looking for.” She exhaled slowly.
“That being said, if you let this distract you, Viora’s going to have your ass. So you’d better balance your duties and your investigation unless you want her breathing down your neck.”
Nye’s lips quirked in amusement. “Appreciate the concern,” he muttered, then, without missing a beat, added, “Also, I’m taking on the serial killings. These Zenith people clearly think I'm an idiot without my memory.”
Kiera groaned. She had expected nothing less. Fighting him on this was a losing battle, and she knew it. Nye was just as relentless as his twin—maybe even worse.
After a beat of silence, she sighed and muttered, “Since you’re dead set on this, at least take the new girl along. She’ll get some training, and you two can be noobs together.”
Nye chuckled, picking up his fork again. “I’ll think about it.”
The celebration was nothing short of a spectacle, a vision of extravagance that blurred the line between opulence and delirium. The moment guests stepped onto the floating entrance bridge, the air itself shimmered with golden particle streams, engineered to radiate a subtle warmth that pulsed in sync with the rhythmic beats of the music. The venue—a sprawling glass-and-neon construct suspended above the city skyline—seemed like a mirage, its walls lined with holographic projections of celestial landscapes, shifting between different planetary terrains as if the entire galaxy had converged for the occasion.
Towering crystalline chandeliers, suspended in midair without visible chains, refracted soft beams of iridescent light, illuminating the extravagant gathering below. The tables were sculpted from slabs of translucent azurite, their surfaces alive with holographic displays of the menu. And what a menu it was—meticulously curated dishes sourced from all corners of the known universe. Plates of bioluminescent seafood from Liroth, sizzling skewers of spiced Kolian meats that changed flavor with every bite, Orion-grown fruit that burst with effervescent nectar upon consumption. Even Earth’s most decadent cuisines had been elevated with intergalactic twists—filet mignon infused with gaseous extracts from the Xhantari Tribe’s sacred flora, molecular cocktails that adjusted to a drinker’s emotional state, and wine aged in artificial gravity to enhance its depth.
And then there were the recreational arrangements—strictly classified, of course. Private booths housed synthesized substances that altered not just perception but time itself. The Kolian elite were particularly fond of ChronoMist, a vaporous elixir that allowed users to relive the last five minutes with absolute clarity.
The Lirothians brought their own specialty—a crystalline extract that enhanced cognitive function to near-omniscient levels for precisely thirteen minutes. Humans also had their traditional vices, but even those were enhanced with molecular restructuring for a more… immersive experience.
The guest list was as impressive as the venue. Earth’s Federal and FIDFE officials stood adorned in elaborate, high-tech fabrics woven with reactive filaments that shimmered according to their wearers’ moods. Many of them were hybrids from various tribes, their human Prime lineage infused with genetic modifications from various species. The Abia Tribe’s chief had arrived as well, for the first time, his obsidian-hued eyes scanning the crowd for familiar faces.
The Primalis Defense Teams under the FIDFE, especially The Zenith—well most of them—were unmistakable, their presence commanding the kind of silent respect that came from being at the apex of intergalactic warfare.
But the real spectacle was the alien dignitaries. The chief representatives of Orion, Liroth, Kol, and the enigmatic Yxian Dominion had all made the journey, accompanied by their government officials and a parade of corporate titans who had wasted no time in setting their sights on the real reason they were here—Nye.
He had become something of a legend. The whispers of his return had spread across systems in a matter of hours, triggering a frenzy of diplomatic maneuvers and under-the-table dealings just to secure an audience with him.
And yet…
“Where is Nye?” The Kolian Chief’s voice was laced with curiosity, a hint of impatience creeping into his otherwise poised demeanor.
Viora, flanked by an entourage of officials from Earth and beyond, didn’t miss a beat. She offered a radiant smile—practiced, diplomatic, and laced with just the right amount of mischief. “He’ll be here shortly,” she said smoothly. “They’re getting the birthday boy ready.”
As if on cue, a staffer approached her, whispering something into her ear. Viora’s smile didn’t falter, but her eyes narrowed ever so slightly. With an apologetic nod to the gathered dignitaries, she excused herself, pivoting on her heel as she strode briskly through the throng of guests.
“What do you mean she’s refusing to show up?” she hissed under her breath, maintaining the perfect facade of composure even as she navigated the crowd, tossing charming waves at high-profile attendees.
Mel, the staffer struggling to keep up with her pace, hesitated before responding. “She says Mana would be… if he saw her.”
Viora let out an exasperated sigh, rolling her eyes. “Well,” she said, coming to a sudden halt, causing Mel to nearly stumble. “Sif is a part of The Zenith now. And Nye is back, which means it’s job to deal with her, not mine. Meanwhile, I’ll handle Mana.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Go talk to him. Tell him it's his first assignment if he refuses.”
Mel didn’t hesitate, darting toward the wardrobe sector, where Nye and the rest of The Zenith were preparing.
Viora, meanwhile, took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and turned back toward the dignitaries, seamlessly slipping into her role as the perfect host, her eyes looking for Mana in the crowd, the Chief of the Abia tribe.
Nye stood in front of the mirror, scrutinizing his reflection with mild horror. The suit—sleek, modern, undeniably expensive—fit him like a second skin. Dark, with silver lining tracing the seams in elegant, almost luminescent strokes, it exuded an authority he wasn’t entirely comfortable with. A lapel pin, The Helmsprime insignia, gleamed against the pristine fabric. He remembered seeing similar regal attire on The Zenith members at Mia’s burial, and now here he was, wearing one of his own.
His gaze drifted downward. The damn thing hugged his frame too well, sculpting every muscle into sharp definition. It was borderline indecent, almost like it had been designed to make him sexier than he had any business looking. And the worst part? The hair. They had cut it—short, sharp, and refined. He had resisted at first, despised the idea of losing the unkempt familiarity of it. But now, staring at the result, he had to admit—begrudgingly—that it looked . Which made him hate it even more.
Who the hell needed to look sexy for their own birthday party? Not him.
Of course, his so-called —yeah, apparently he had one of those—had been gushing non-stop, yapping away as if they were best friends catching up. Nye barely listened, but he caught fragments of the designer’s ramblings between adjustments and fabric drapes.
“…at first, everyone was hopeful. The great Nye Helmsprime would return, they said. But then weeks turned into months… your recovery took longer than expected… your reputation in healing was supposed to be legendary, and yet…” The designer tsked dramatically. “It didn’t take long for them to stop believing.”
Nye stood still, letting the words sink in.
“Some of them never thought you’d wake up. And even when you did, the whispers began. That you’d lost your primabilities. That maybe the Nye Helmsprime was long gone.”
Nye suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. Typical. Everyone in this world—no, —was always looking for their own advantage. No one truly gave a damn about others. Just opportunists waiting to see who would rise and who would fall. A , he mused bitterly.
Still, he let the designer talk, absorbing the gossip as his team worked on perfecting his appearance. It wasn’t just idle chatter—it was intel. Every piece of it helped him gauge where he stood in this nest of . He had to be prepared. He couldn’t afford to be seen as weak if he wanted to find his information on Nile.
For someone who had never felt the need to answer to anyone, this whole charade was exhausting. But he had no choice. Not if he wanted to uncover the truth of that night. The night his brother had turned on him. The night Nile had destroyed their family.
A sharp beep jolted him from his thoughts. The door slid open with a low hum.
Mel strode in, efficient as ever, her expression unreadable. “Nye, we have an assignment for you. Your first assignment.”
He raised an eyebrow. “An ? You mean this party wasn't an assignment already?”
Mel didn’t react to the sarcasm. “Sif refuses to attend. She’s worried Mana—the Chief of her tribe—would be upset. And since you’re , it’s your responsibility to manage your teammates.” She crossed her arms. “Viora wants this handled. Urgently.”
Nye let out a slow breath, adjusting his cuffs.
It took Nye a moment to process her words before his brows knitted together in reluctant confusion. “Wait… isn’t it for them to attend?”
Mel raised an eyebrow, tilting her head as if considering the idea for the first time. “Ohhh, maybe you should implement that rule next time,” she mused, tapping her chin dramatically.
Nye grimaced. “Well, if she doesn’t want to come, maybe we shouldn’t her.”
Mel gasped, scandalized. “Nooo, we should! should!” She threw her hands up in exasperation and stepped further into the room, her voice rising with urgency. “Nye, the Chief is here on the Chancellor’s personal request! We were supposed to parade Sif in front of him, make a big show about how she’s going to change the world, blah blah blah… you how this works.”
Nye barely held back a scoff. In fact, he almost snorted. “Wow. Sounds like the problem. Maybe should go talk to her.”
The reaction was instant. The room froze. A few gasps. Wide eyes. Someone subtly shuffled away, as if expecting a thunderbolt to strike Nye where he stood.
Mel blinked, her shock evident. Then, in an almost comically calm motion, she straightened her posture, exhaled sharply, and plastered on a serene, almost expression. “Nye,” she said, voice slow and deliberate, “we’re talking about Chancellor of . He’s not going to talk to Sif.” She smiled, a little too hard. “ will. Because she’s problem. Just like the rest of them.”
Nye rolled his eyes, already regretting everything about this night. “Whatever…”
With a sigh, he shrugged off the hands of the last few designers fussing over his final touches. “Are we done here? I already look factory-made.”
A chorus of agreement followed. “Yeah, yeah.”
“Great. Thanks.” Nye turned back to Mel. “Where is she?”
“Down the hall. Refusing to get ready.”
He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “So she came all the way to wardrobe just to get dressed? Wow. Someone’s for attention.”
With that, he pivoted and strode past Mel, leaving the room. His pace was brisk, purposeful, the sound of his polished shoes tapping against the sleek flooring. The hallway was lined with flickering nameplates marking each designated dressing area, and at the very end, Sif’s name pulsed in soft blue light above a door.
Instinctively, Nye started to scan his iris to unlock the door—then paused. Right. She was a . Probably best not to barge in.
Instead, he knocked. “May I come in?” His voice was firm, carrying just enough volume to be heard through the door.
Silence.
Then, after what felt like an unnecessarily long pause, the door slid open with a soft hiss.
Sif stood there, still in her casual attire—pants and a t-shirt, completely unbothered by the grand occasion, or so it seemed. Her blonde hair was lazily tied into a bun, with loose strands rebelliously framing her face. There was something infuriatingly effortless about her beauty.
And her eyes. Nye had seen them before, sure, but not like this. Not so . Not so . They were impossibly blue.
For a second—just a second—he forgot what he was supposed to say.
Then he blinked, shaking off whatever was. “Thanks.”
Sif, who was eyeing his haircut silently, stepped aside wordlessly, allowing him in.
At first, Nye braced himself for some level of defiance. She was the youngest member, after all. But he reasoned as he stepped inside. Turning to her, he got straight to the point.
“I’m assuming you know why I’m here, so let’s skip the theatrics and get to the part where you explain your case.” He shrugged.
For a moment, Sif’s tough-girl act faltered. She couldn’t keep up the hardened persona for too long—not in front of Whatever trouble she was about to get herself into, it wasn’t worth making an enemy out of Nye. And, as per his reputation, he was giving her a fair chance to explain.
Her shoulders slumped slightly as she spoke, her voice carrying a note of apprehension. “I’m the first Abian to join the Federation. We’ve always protected We have our ways of living and perceiving the world”
Nye raised an eyebrow. “So, a cult.”
Sif frowned. “A We have sacred customs and virtues we uphold from birth. Like… not touching anything—or anyone—that isn’t Abian.”
“That’s messed up.” Nye didn’t even try to soften the statement.
She blinked, clearly taken aback by his bluntness. But after a moment, she sighed. “I know.” Her voice grew quieter. “If I show up, Mana will take it as a challenge. He’ll see it as me dishonoring our customs.”
Nye regarded her for a second before speaking. “And what happens if you dishonor them?”
“They’ll never accept me as one of them.” Her tone was nearly a whisper.
Nye pursed his lips. “I see.” He nodded slowly before adding, “But from my understanding, you to be in The Zenith. At some point, you’ll have to engage in physical combat—touching non-Abians is inevitable. So, either way, you’ll be breaking your customs.” His tone was neutral but edged with impatience. “You can’t be both. If your priority is being Abian, then ”
Sif’s expression shifted, a brief flicker of shame crossing her face. She could not come up with an answer, and eventually gave Nye a resigned look.
“” Nye exhaled. “So get dressed and get this over with. You’re not the only one who hates this, trust me.” He gestured for her to start getting ready as he turned to leave.
“Mana will never—”
“Fuck Mana.”
Sif’s eyes widened as Nye stepped out of the room without another word. For all the stories she had heard about Helmsprime, was definitely not what she had expected.
Once he stepped out of her wardrobe, Nye made a beeline for the party hall, his pace brisk, his expression one of thinly veiled exhaustion.
“That was… harsh. And surprisingly efficient,” Eve remarked, her tone carrying the edge of judgemental sarcasm.
Nye didn’t respond. He had neither the energy nor the patience to debate his social conduct, especially not with now that Kiera had pointed out how much time he spent talking to his AI The sooner he got this night over with, the better. A party with three thousand guests was the kind of thing he’d been hoping to avoid since as far back as he could recall life.
The moment the elevator doors slid open, he winced, as if physically struck. Waves of sound crashed into him—music, laughter, and the relentless hum of thousands of overlapping conversations. The lighting, a pulsating blend of deep blues and neon purples, cast an almost dreamlike haze over the vast hall. It made it easier to disappear into the crowd, but harder to focus on any one thing.
His gaze swept the room, searching for a familiar face—someone tolerable, at the very least—when a uniformed staff member walked up to him, speaking low and urgent.
“Nye, come with me.”
No questions needed. The uniform said enough. Without a word, Nye followed, maneuvering through the crowd like a shadow. No one noticed him—at least, not yet. He heard though. Conversations bleeding into one another, all at once. Political scandals. Business deals. Someone betting that a fight would break out before midnight. Someone else whispering about
It was too much. It was too much. His head would’ve split open if not for the neural implant filtering the noise, keeping him from drowning in the chaos.
The staff member led him to the edge of the stage, where Viora stood poised behind the podium. The moment he spotted her, Nye suppressed an internal groan.
She was dazzling, as always—long, shimmering green gown hugging her frame, every detail meticulous. Her mossy-green skin caught the light, making her look otherworldly. Which, to be fair, she But even her perfectly composed demeanor couldn’t mask the sharp glint in her eyes. She was utterly proud of herself. Maybe
She placed her hands on the podium, leaning slightly forward. “Honored guests, may I have your attention, please?”
The room fell into an almost eerie silence within seconds. Conversations cut off. Heads turned. Large holographic projections of Viora flickered into existence above the crowd, ensuring that —from the galaxy’s highest-ranking officials to the self-important aristocrats in the back—saw and heard her with perfect clarity.
She cleared her throat before speaking, her voice smooth and practiced. “We are honored to once again celebrate the birth anniversary of Nye Helmsprime, and welcome another new year in the presence of our galaxy’s finest leaders.” A brief pause, allowing the weight of her words to settle.
“We stand in an era of , strengthened by our allies, and I promise you—there has never been a better time to be alive.”
Nye kept his expression neutral, even as he resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He hated about being here, particularly the artificiality of it all.
“And, after a two-year hiatus, I am to announce that Nye Helmsprime is officially returning to his position.”
The room erupted. Applause. Cheers. And, from the non-human guests, a variety of peculiar alien sounds—clicks, warbles, and low-frequency rumbles that vibrated in his chest.
Viora extended a hand toward him, her gaze twinkling with pride.
His cue.
Suppressing a sigh, he stepped onto the stage, crossing over to her. She moved aside, leaving the podium to him, then lingered just behind—close enough to be a silent reminder of her presence.
He surveyed the crowd, taking them in properly. Thousands of faces, all eyes on Expectant. Celebratory. Some calculating.
A goddamn
His gaze dropped to the holographic display below embedded on the podium, projecting the speech prepared for him. He skimmed it quickly before ducking toward the mic.
“Wow! I cannot believe this day has arrived at long last. Dear friends and neighbors.” His voice rang out, crisp and steady. “It’s an honor to return to my position and serve up to it.”
He glanced at the script again, reading the next line silently, then abandoned it completely—a flicker of amusement crossed his features before he continued. “I took that vacation that FIDFE was so insistent on. And, to be honest? It was ”
Scattered laughter. Light chuckles. Even a few knowing nods.
“So instead of spending five years wishing I was anywhere else, I’ve decided to come back, do my job, and—hopefully—contribute to making our bonds stronger.” A slight pause.
“Now, I am aware that in my absence, wild theories and rumors about my disappearance ran free of cost around the galaxy. But I truly hope that we are all past that. That we dream of a better tomorrow.” That earned him a collective reaction of cheers, applauses, and whispering guests.
“Thank you so much. Enjoy your night.” Nye ended his speech.
With that, he stepped away.
The applause swelled again, accompanied by those strange alien noises. Beside him, Viora was clapping too, a grin stretched across her face—one so fake it should’ve been studied.
And then came the worst part.
The
It was relentless. He was passed from one group to another, drowning in introductions, reintroductions, and far too many moments. He smiled, nodded, feigned recognition when necessary. The sheer volume of names and faces made his head spin. Every time he thought he’d escaped, someone else would latch on. And through it all, Viora remained nearby, watching, guiding,
Finally——he managed to slip away, disappearing into the crowd as soon as the opportunity arose.
He exhaled as he found a quieter corner, pressing a hand to the side of his head. The chip had kept him from feeling like his skull would split open, but
His eyes scanned the room once more, watching the chaos of noise and lights from a distance. The celebration raged on, a whirlwind of movement, passionate discussions, and noise.
And yet, all he could think was:
Nye leaned against the cold metal pillar, arms crossed, scanning the sea of socialites, dignitaries, and aliens indulging in revelry. A few feet away, humanoid servers glided seamlessly between clusters of guests, refilling drinks without being noticed. The music throbbed in the background, a deep synthwave hum that rattled the glasses on the bar tops.
Then, like a ghost materializing in the neon haze, Sif emerged.
She was draped in a body-hugging, long-sleeved sapphire gown that shimmered under the overhead lights, but even that fabric couldn't outshine the icy blue of her eyes. Golden curls cascaded over one shoulder, effortlessly styled, yet carrying an underlying nervous energy that made Nye smirk. He knew that look—she didn’t do crowds. But at least she showed up.
As soon as she took in the grandeur unfolding before her eyes, she let out a low whistle, “Damn! This is like a trip within a trip.” She mumbled to herself, earning a low chuckle from Nye.
At first, she hesitated for only a second before she spotted her team. She quickly made her way to their spot, slipping into the congregation of The Zenith.
Xenora, sharp-eyed and sharper-tongued, immediately noticed. “Where have you been?” she demanded, eyes narrowing.
Sif shook her head dismissively. “Long story.”
Nye’s gaze lingered on her for just a second before something else yanked his attention like a lasso around his throat.
A figure. Familiar.
For a moment, Nye’s breath hitched, his mind refusing to process what his eyes confirmed. “Lycan?!” The name left his lips in a breathless chuckle of disbelief. “What the hell is he doing here?”
“Guest list,” Eve’s voice responded in his earpiece, as neutral as ever.
“Why didn’t you tell me?!” Nye hissed, already pushing through the crowd. “Unbelievable.”
Lycan stood effortlessly relaxed, clad in a sleek dark suit, a half-smirk tugging at his lips as he exchanged words with a woman Nye didn’t recognize. Even before Nye reached him, Lycan had already sensed his approach. His attention shifted, and when his eyes locked onto Nye’s, that smirk deepened.
“Oh, it’s the birthday boy. Great speech by the way!” he quipped, voice as dry as a Martian wasteland.
Nye didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Lycan, I tried to contact you. Never heard back. How are you? Where have you been?”
Lycan, unbothered as ever, slipped his hands into his pockets. “Busy. Not all of us have the luxury to socialize with friends all day long.”
Nye let out a scoff, folding his arms. He wasn’t about to let Lycan toss those passive-aggressive remarks for free this time. “Hence the Federal jobs that come with decade-long paid vacations. for a reason.” He shot Lycan a wink.
Lycan’s smirk twitched, amusement flickering across his face. He remembered using those exact words to Nye to describe Nye's job when he had woken up from his coma.
“So, rejoining The Zenith, huh?” Lycan mused. “Memories back yet?”
Nye shook his head. “Not really. But I’m very close to figuring out what happened.”
Lycan’s brows lifted slightly. “Oh? And what does that mean?”
“It means,” Nye’s voice lowered just enough to carry weight, “that I know there was no glider accident. Nile tried to kill me. And you and I never went to undergrads together. You were his best friend, and you lied about my birth date to test my memory. Let me guess—you signed an NDA too?”
Lycan exhaled a short laugh, shaking his head. “Damn.” He grinned, shaking his head. “You’re still on that?” His chuckle was light, dismissive. “I mean, yeah, I signed the NDA. But I had to test your memory. Viora sent me to talk to you.”
“Why you?” Nye pressed. “Aren’t you, I don’t know, an enemy of the Federation?”
“Enemy?” Lycan barked out a laugh. “That’s an overstatement. Frenemy is more accurate.” He tilted his head. “Both Nile and I made under-the-table deals with the Federation for diplomatic reasons. That’s how you avoid going to jail.”
Nye frowned. “So… you don’t actually think the Feds are bad?”
“Oh, they’re awful,” Lycan confirmed without hesitation. “Corrupt, manipulative, and way too controlling. But you’d be surprised how often personal agendas overlap. You learn to make deals—favor for a favor. It’s how the world works, Nye.”
His hand landed firmly on Nye’s shoulder. “Happy birthday, man. Good to see you.”
And just like that, Lycan pivoted, about to vanish into the crowd.
Nye wasn’t done. “Wait.” His voice cut through the din. “Can we talk about Nile?”
Lycan didn’t even stop walking. “Nope. Not unless you have something to offer in return.”
Nye clenched his jaw. “He was my brother, Lycan!”
Lycan finally stopped, turning slightly, eyes still carrying that damnable amusement. “And he was my partner, Nye.” His voice lost all traces of humor. “There’s no way in a million galaxies I’d give up information about someone who fought against the Feds, not for free. Use your brain.”
Nye felt his fingers twitch, his body practically vibrating with the urge to throw a punch right into Lycan’s perfectly smug face. But—damn it—he was right. If Nile had been wrapped up in something illegal, no one was going to talk unless Nye had leverage.
So he inhaled slowly, forcing his rage into a locked compartment in his mind. “What do you want in return?”
Lycan, already swaying slightly to the music, barely spared him a glance. “I’ll text you when I’m ready to spill anything.” He flashed Nye one last infuriating grin before striding away, disappearing into the sea of guests like a ghost.
Nye exhaled sharply through his nose. He’d never met anyone as obnoxious as Bret, but somehow, Lycan had managed to take the top spot.
Shaking his head, he turned back toward the crowd, weaving through the bodies until he spotted familiar faces near the wine bar. His team.
Unbeknownst to him, Kiera had been watching the entire interaction from across the room. She hadn’t heard a word, but she didn’t need to. She could read Nye’s body language—and Lycan’s all-too-relaxed demeanor—clear as day.
As soon as Nye neared the group, Kiera stepped forward without hesitation, looping her arms around his neck. “Happy birthday, Nye.”
He managed a small smile, returning the hug. “Thanks.”
Slipping away, he found a seat at the bar and signaled the bartender. “Whatever’s strongest.”
The humanoid bartender nodded, instantly setting to work.
Nye sighed, glancing across the U-shaped bar, where Trent lounged, drink in hand, blissfully detached from all the drama.
Nye’s drink arrived sooner than expected. His eyes, however, never met Trent.
Shortly after, their eyes met, and Trent raised his glass in a silent toast.
Nye smiled, lifting his own glass in return.
“Happy birthday,” Trent mouthed.
“Thanks.” He mouthed back with a nod.
And for a moment, Nye wished he could be more like him—away from the drama, the politics, the deception. Just unbothered among loud people.
As Nye took the first sip of whatever concoction the humanoid bartender had poured, the fizz burned his tongue, leaving behind a bold, almost electrifying aftertaste. It was both bitter and sweet, layered with something that felt thick and smoky as it settled into his palate. He winced but went in for another sip, and another—until the burn became a welcomed sting, the sharp notes giving way to a smoother, almost addictive sensation.
Behind him, the members of The Zenith stood in their usual formation—an unspoken display of exclusivity. A second time now, Nye had noticed their distinct pattern at public events. They always congregated in the same space, never straying too far from one another, engaging only when absolutely necessary. It was a deliberate statement—one that said, It was theatrical. Pretentious, even. And yet, Nye found himself preferring this over meaningless small talk with strangers. A strange dichotomy of opinion.
Amidst the glimmering gowns and hushed conversations, a humanoid staffer approached the small cluster of Zenith women—Kiera, Mist, Sif, and Xenora—who were engaged in a rather morbid discussion about serial killings. Specifically, the sheer variety of ways people had been murdered recently, pointing to the unsettling probability of more than fifty killers operating simultaneously at free will. Under the shifting glow of the party lights, their regal dresses shimmered like liquid metal.
“Sorry to interrupt, ladies,” the humanoid said, its synthetic voice smooth and perfectly modulated. “Viora is requesting Sif’s presence. She wishes to introduce her to the Chancellor and the Chief of Abia.”
The casual atmosphere around Sif shifted instantly, her posture tightening as a flicker of unease crossed her face. She hesitated, glancing at the others.
“Go, go. Your chance to show off,” Xenora said, patting her back.
Mist snorted. “Yeah… couldn’t care less. Heard the Abians can be murderous.”
Kiera and Xenora turned their heads sharply toward her.
“What?” Mist shrugged, unbothered. “They murderous. You know it, I know it. We know it.”
Kiera scowled, shaking her head. “Just go, Sif. You’ll be fine. Don’t crack if he acts like an ass. It’s just a few minutes of Viora bragging about having an Abian in The Zenith. No big deal.”
Sif swallowed dryly and nodded, though the tension in her shoulders was impossible to miss. Without another word, she turned and followed the humanoid toward her summons.
The moment she was out of earshot, Xenora hissed at Mist. “Why would you say that? Can’t you control your unhinged opinions for once?”
Mist raised a brow, looking almost amused at the accusation. “Hey! You do they’re a hybrid of primes and hawkbirds, right? They have, like, sacred customs. Break the wrong one, and you’re dead. And let’s not forget, Sif’s already broken the one—joining the Feds instead of siding with her own people. That to be infuriating for the Chief.”
“That says she’s brave,” Kiera interjected, a note of admiration in her tone. “She’d rather be a warrior than some oppressed snob in a cult clan. Honestly, I’m glad she’s here. We needed a flying one after Ferro.”
Mist rolled her eyes. “I’m saying I’m glad she’s here. Not that I —but I’m not it.”
Nye, perched at the bar, had been half-listening while nursing his drink. But at the mention of “fusion hawkbird,” his focus sharpened. The thought clicked, and immediately, memories resurfaced—specifically, the noctis hawkbird he’d encountered back at his estate. The sharp talons, the unnatural speed, the way its piercing eyes seemed to stare straight through him.
And now, apparently he was sitting a few feet away from one.
His curiosity got the better of him. Turning on his stool, drink still in hand, his gaze followed Sif as she walked through the crowd, her shoulders stiff but her steps steady.
The moment she was led to Viora, Sif could feel her heartbeat quicken. The Chancellor of Earth—Leon, though no one ever called him by name—stood beside Mana, the Chief of the Abia tribe, a figure as formidable as the legends whispered.
The Chancellor had an almost surreal presence, his golden hair gleaming with metallic hues, his eyes radiating an unnatural glow, and his rose-gold skin shimmering like liquid metal under the ambient party lights. He was the embodiment of perfection, a being who looked more like an artifact from a forgotten age of gods than a man.
Sif nearly stumbled at the sight of them but caught herself just in time, steeling her spine as she stepped forward, stopping just behind Viora.
Viora turned, a bright yet calculated smile in place. "Ah, here she is!" She reached out, placing a hand on Sif’s arm before stepping aside, subtly nudging her forward.
As soon as Mana laid eyes on her, his expression darkened further—a feat considering his perpetual scowl. The lines of his face seemed to deepen, his gaze hardening with the kind of disappointment that weighed heavier than outright anger. Sif swallowed dryly. She'd anticipated this. It didn’t make it any easier.
Viora, ever the diplomat, continued, “Sir Chancellor, this is Sif, our newest addition to the Zenith.” She turned slightly toward Mana, her voice laced with rehearsed enthusiasm. “And what makes this moment particularly special is that she is the first Abian to join the ranks. We’re eager to see what she brings to the table.”
Mana said nothing. He merely stared. A silent judgment.
The Chancellor, ever the statesman, stepped in smoothly, extending a hand toward Sif—only to pause mid-motion as realization struck. His fingers twitched before he quickly withdrew them, chuckling with an easy charm. "Ah, right. My mistake."
Sif gave him a polite smile, waiting for the usual formalities to end.
The Chancellor, unfazed by his minor blunder, continued, “Well, it is truly an honor to meet you at last, Sif. Ferro’s loss was a devastating blow, but I have no doubt that you will bring the same level of excellence—and perhaps even a touch of Abian ingenuity—to the Zenith.” His voice was warm, his words perfectly measured.
Sif placed a hand over her sternum, bowing her head slightly. “Thank you, Sir Chancellor. It is an honor to serve the planet.”
Mana’s gaze narrowed almost imperceptibly, his expression unreadable beneath the intricate layers of his traditional attire. He had yet to speak a word.
The Chancellor, ever tactful, turned his attention to Mana. “Chief, we extend our deepest gratitude for allowing Sif to stand among us. And, of course, for your presence here tonight. We recognize that Abian customs discourage external affiliations, and your willingness to be here is a significant step—one that bridges a divide that has lasted far too long.” His tone was perfectly balanced between diplomacy and reverence.
A quiet scoff broke through the brief silence. Mana’s gaze flicked to the Chancellor, his mouth curving into something that barely resembled a smile. “With all due respect, Chancellor, neither I nor the Abian people ‘allowed’ her to join your ranks. She was never truly one of us to begin with.”
Sif felt the color drain from her face. The words stung like a blade slid between her ribs.
The Chancellor, a master of defusing tension, maintained his composed smile. "Now, Chief, I understand she may not have had a traditional upbringing within the tribe, but she remains Abian nonetheless. She has honored your customs despite her path. Surely, that is something to be proud of.”
Mana’s expression barely shifted, save for the tightening of his jaw. “Proud?” He exhaled sharply, a sound that barely qualified as laughter. “Is that what you call this? A spectacle?” His obsidian eyes locked onto Sif now, unreadable, but filled with a weight that crushed her from the inside out. “Is this why you brought me here, Chancellor? To parade her like some prized specimen? To show the galaxy how easily an Abian can be stripped of their roots and bent to your will?”
Sif wished the floor would crack open and swallow her whole.
The Chancellor, caught momentarily off guard, attempted to smooth over the tension with another diplomatic offering. “That was never our intent, Chief. Our only wish is unity, not division.”
Mana’s hands, previously locked beneath the folds of his ceremonial robes, finally emerged. He clasped them behind his back, a sign not of surrender but restraint. “We were never meant to unify, Chancellor.” His voice was cold, sharp. “The Abians are sacred. Our lineage, our customs—our very essence—is the purest in existence. And yet, you expect us to embrace this… blasphemy?” His gaze bore into Sif, the unspoken words loud enough to shatter glass.
Viora, sensing an escalation, stepped in. “Perhaps we should all take a step back. Chief, if there’s anything we can do to make you more comfortable—”
Mana turned on her, his expression a mix of disdain and finality. He swept his gaze over the gathered crowd, his eyes filled with something that resembled disgust, before landing back on Sif. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. That final look alone was a dismissal, a severance, a declaration that she was no longer, and had never been, his.
And then, he walked away.
Sif could hardly breathe. The weight of the moment pressed into her ribs, suffocating. She barely noticed the way Viora and the Chancellor exchanged knowing glances, the way the conversation around them resumed as if nothing had happened.
No.
No, she couldn’t just stand there and let him leave like that.
Before she could second-guess herself, her feet moved. She followed after Mana, weaving through the crowd, her voice strained but determined. “Chief, please—”
He didn’t stop.
“Mana, wait—please, I can prove my worth without violating the customs.” Desperation laced her words as she finally caught up to him on the terrace.
“The world doesn't always have to see us as a hostile clan. We're better than that.” She urged, stopping just beyond the entrance to the terrace.
That was what stopped him.
He paused and turned—slow and deliberate, the party lights casting deep shadows across his sharp features. “What did you just say?” His voice was dangerously low.
Sif’s breath caught in her throat.
Mana took a step closer, his presence suffocating. "Say it again."
And suddenly, she realized she had stepped over a line she could never uncross.
“Your mother disgraced herself the day she ran away and took you with her,” Mana said, his teeth clenched. “You know nothing of the tribe. Nothing.”
Then, to Sif’s horror, Mana unfurled his signature black wings—each one as vast as a multi-passenger glider, their edges slicing through the air.
She gasped and instinctively stepped back.
“Abians are sacred. We do not allow outsiders to pollute our purity. You have violated the very foundation of what it means to be Abian, and you think you can change how the world sees us?” He let out a sharp, incredulous laugh, his narrowed eyes gleaming with disdain.
Before she could respond, he beat his wings, sending a powerful gust through the air, scattering floating plants and lights. Then, in a blur of movement, he lunged at her with alarming speed. Before Sif could react, his hand was around her throat, and he was lifting her into the air.
The crowd gasped, their murmurs rippling through the venue. The spectacle had finally seized their attention, but no one dared to interfere. High above, Sif struggled against his grip, her lungs burning as he shot downward in a brutal nosedive. Before anyone could process what was happening, Mana slammed her onto the terrace with crushing force. The impact knocked the air from her lungs, leaving her gasping.
From his seat at the bar, Nye had been watching the entire ordeal in silence. Now, he placed his empty glass on the counter and pushed himself up—clearly stunned by how it escalated. His gaze flicked toward Viora and the Chancellor, who remained frozen in shock. Even the aliens in attendance wanted no part in Abian affairs. Touching an Abian was a scandal no one wanted to be involved in. But what caught Nye off guard wasn’t the violence—it was the fact that Sif didn’t even fight back.
Mana ascended once more, his grip still locked around her throat. The strain tore the back of her blue gown, and in response to the suffocating pressure, her own wings—smaller than Mana’s but still formidable—unfurled in a defensive instinct. But she didn’t resist. She couldn’t. Striking the Chief would be an unforgivable sin. She would be cast out forever.
Mana hurled her downward again, sending her crashing into the terrace a second time and shattering the railing. Nye’s wide eyes locked onto her champagne gold wings—breathtaking and imposing at the same time.
Mana shot through the air at sonic speed, closing in before she could move. His fist connected with her face. She didn’t dodge. She didn’t even flinch. She just absorbed the blows like she deserved them—as if she were atoning for the shame her mother had brought upon their people.
Mana didn’t stop. Fist after fist, he struck her, the sickening crunch of bones cracking under his force.
“Enough!” Nye’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding. He stood at the terrace entrance, fists clenched at his sides.
Mana halted, stunned that someone had dared to intervene in an Abian dispute. From the crowd, Viora inhaled sharply. “Fuck! He doesn’t even have his primabilities at full swing,” she muttered under her breath, a flicker of panic flashing in her eyes. Nye was about to get himself killed.
Nye stepped forward, his expression a bitter frown. “What grace do you boast about? You’re beating one of your own in public.”
Mana sneered. “She is one of us!” he roared, wiping Sif’s blood from his face.
Nye raised an eyebrow. “Might I remind you, Chief, that she’s still one of us, if not one of you?”
“Yes, which is why I’ll kill her and set an example before she brings disgrace to our kind.” Mana turned back to Sif, spreading his wings wide.
The air around them shifted. A soft breeze turned into a violent gale. Thunder rumbled, crackling through the sky as a bolt of lightning materialized in Mana’s hand.
Nye’s eyes widened slightly. Sif wasn’t unconscious yet, but she was too battered to move, much less dodge. And Nye doubted she even cared to.
Something inside him snapped. He had played his role as Helmsprime diplomatically enough, but letting someone die—humiliated, abandoned—was not something he could allow.
A rush of energy surged through him, rewiring every dormant ability that had been lying in wait for two years. The chip definitely helped accelerate the process.
Before he could think, his body moved on instinct. One second, he was on the terrace. The next, he was airborne, rocketing toward Mana at a speed beyond comprehension.
Mana had no time to react. Before he could strike Sif with the lightning, Nye slammed into him, seizing him with brutal force and dragging him away from the terrace.
The crowd erupted into frantic gasps.
“Holy galaxies! He touched him!” someone cried in horror.
Lycan watched with utter entertainment, his hands in his pockets, and an impressed smile on his face.
Mana roared in fury the moment he realized what had happened. Snarling, he redirected the lightning bolt, striking Nye instead.
The pain was sharp but not unbearable. It seared across his face, a burning sensation that lasted mere seconds—just long enough to piss him off.
Nye snapped. His restraint shattered.
He struck back. Blow after blow, faster, stronger than he had ever imagined himself capable of.
Mana struggled, trying to break free from Nye’s grip. It was obvious—he didn’t want to be touched.
“You’re a disgrace!” Mana spat, his voice guttural. “Your brother hated you. He should’ve killed you when he had the chance.”
Nye froze. His grip loosened just slightly.
Mana took the opening. He twisted free and struck Nye hard across the face, sending him hurtling backward through the air. But instinct kicked in—his body remembered how to balance himself while flying, even if his mind didn’t.
Nye steadied himself and looked Mana dead in the eye. “You know what?” he said, voice almost contemplative. “If he should’ve and he , maybe there’s a reason. Like wiping antiquated assholes like you out of the 31st century.”
Mana’s face twisted in rage. But before he could react, Nye shot toward him like a missile.
Mana tried to break away, but it was too late. Nye seized him again, dragging him down at an unforgiving speed, straight toward the terrace.
The impact was cataclysmic. Mana hit the floor first, the entire floating island reverberating with the force of it.
Nye landed atop him, his grip locked around Mana’s throat. He leaned in close. “How are you going to explain this to your people?” he murmured. “I’ve already touched you, Chief. We both know it could’ve ended differently. You've brought disgrace to your tribe.”
Sif stirred, rolling onto her side, her wings retreating back into her body. She watched in wide-eyed horror.
Mana’s wings remained splayed out, a final display of defiance. Nye scoffed. “Take your wings out of my face before I rip them off your body.”
Then, without hesitation, he drove his fist into Mana’s skull, knocking him out cold.
Mana’s wings retracted the moment he lost consciousness. Nye let go and stood up, stepping away from the fallen Chief.
He turned to the uniformed security officers. “Arrest him. He attacked The Zenith.”
As he strode toward Sif, she stared at him, shock and something else—something unspoken—flickering in her eyes.
Once he was in front of her, he stopped. “Are you okay?”
She nodded weakly, deep red blood trailing from her nose and mouth.
Nye exhaled. “Get up. Enough embarrassment for one night.”
He didn’t offer his hand—he had no interest in touching another Abian and escalating the scandal he had just ignited. But he did stand there, waiting, as she scrambled to her feet, kicking off her ruined stilettos.
Without another word, Nye turned and walked away.
At the terrace entrance, Viora was already waiting—smug, proud, and bracing herself for the political storm FIDFE was about to face. But she didn’t care. The Federation had wanted the Abians under their control for generations, and with Mana’s downfall, Nye had unknowingly paved the way.
Nye walked past her without a glance, leaving behind the chaos he had created.
He had never considered himself violent. But now, with his primabilities coursing through him once more—thrumming, alive—he couldn't lie to himself.
It felt good. So fucking good.