VOLUME I
SECTION I: Invitation by a Sinister Hand

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It began at the center of the world, a small and isolated world only a few knew. There in the desolate shadows lay salvation.

Years ago, a strange distortion in the Earth's magnetic fields led to the evolution of plants and animals. But the world had never been prepared for such evolution as they crawled towards their demise.

In this disaster, with the persistence of a stubborn weed, humanity evolved.

Those who survived the exposure to new diseases were given the gift of superhuman abilities; the title of the protectors of a selfish, dying species. These super humans were called Espers.

Highly unstable and destructive existences, tethering at the edge of insanity.

What is salvation if it came riddled with flaws and a disposition that brought a terrible and cruel calamity?

Amid uncertainty, the disaster birthed a new hope—the existence of Guides—a medicine that could ease the energy fluctuations and dysregulations in Espers.

Humanity, plagued with the sin of greed, sought to possessed this medicine; this key to a perfect salvation. They sought control the creation of born gifts, turning the mercy of lives into commodities.

As consequence, they made mistakes.

Histories buried, the destruction of cities. A sole figure standing in the center of destruction, as hair billowed in the aftermath of their ruination.

They could never amend their mistakes; instead, they sought to bury the truth.

Forget how strong you are, forget the extent you can fly. Forget how deep your control runs.

Forget all that you are and all that you should have been.

'There's an old language, Ian. I read this phrase, and I think it suits us well. Hey, are you listening?'

The distant hum of acquisition, and a young male's voice. 'Of course,' he said. 'What else do I exist for if not to listen to you?

'Oh shut up.' A soft breath fades into the wind. 'Memento mori, memento vivre."

There, in the darkest pit of the special holding cell, a man sat in darkness with his body bound in a straitjacket. Chains dangled at his bare feet, and an emptiness plagued his eyes.

'Remember Ian. Remember death.'

A light cracked open from the scrape of a heavy metal door, and a guard crudely tugged him forward. The locks thudded to the cold ground, and he was dragged outside. He didn't resist, long raven hair draping over his angular, malnourished face.

The shadows obscured his expression. Blue and black rained underneath his white clothes, peeking vividly against his pale skin.

Later, he knew, those same foolish brats would return with another rain of beatings, and he'd retaliate and end up in this familiar darkness once again. The known rebel of the base—the worthless cure.

His peers wore badges of superiority and a facade of pride when they were nothing more than prisoners to the underground. When they were no more significant than he.

'Remember you must live.'

The guard spat, scowling at him to move faster and he obeyed. They couldn't see the hollowness of his gaze. An empty, endless void that simmered with years of quiet rage, a resentment so deep it no longer had any colour.

Seven years ago, even hatred had numbed with the disappearance of the one light in his life. His loveliest treasure made to dance under the sunlight, and instead reaped of her future.

But he remembered still, the stench of blood as he'd laid beside a cold corpse in the morgue. The feeling of wrinkled, textured skin pressed against his, and the permeating smell of rotting flesh.

He remembered the voices, devoid of humanity. "Another failure," one had said with disappointment. "None have been as successful as the Strelitzia."

"Her elimination was a mistake," said another in frustration.

"The orders came from above, and you know better than to question them."

"Have you tested her family? There's a significant chance his genes will..."

"...his mentality has declined...will test him soon..."

The voices had faded, footsteps retreating against the cold tiled floors as Ian covered his mouth and his chest rose and fell rapidly. In that trapped space, their words echoed against his mind.

Lies unraveled themselves before him, and a flicker of fury seeded itself in the depths of his heart.

His sister, a prodigy among the Flower class—

—eliminated.

This small world he'd known from the day he opened his eyes, and he knew better than to dream of the world beyond, even if his sister always rattled with aspirations and desires. He wanted to protect her in this small world.

She died in a mission fulfilling what they had been born to do; she died with purpose, but if that purpose cast her somewhere far away, he wished she had none.

Yet that evening in the morgue, under the flickering white lights, he learned of the lies.

The guard shoved him into a chair where a woman in a white coat waited with a syringe grasped in her fingers. Crudely, she drove the needle point into the dozens of small holes by his veins. The liquid sank into his body.

His eyes lowered quietly, following as he was directed towards the sliding door and shoved out. "Stay out of trouble, hear me?" snarled the guard. "I'm tired of seeing your face."

Ian's eyes rolled sideways without a smile, but a mocking snarl creeps at his lips. "Much better than seeing your filthy mug."

The hand flew out before he blinked, connecting with his face. His head snapped sideways, and he spat out a mouthful of red as blood tore against his tongue. It dropped to the ground, staining the white ground.

"Get out, 1839."

Ian stumbled out, hunching his tall body and disguising his broad build into a mask of a disgusting, pitiful and frightened shape. He heard a snort as the door slid closed and he stood silently with his neck bent.

"You're a mess," said a gentle voice from the side, and he turned his head towards the man leaning against the wall. His brown hair curled softly over his face, a mole underneath his soothing gaze. "Won't you stop purposely getting yourself thrown there?"

Ian swiped his hand across his lips, smearing red. "I'm too old to be an obedient child."

The man shook his head, scoffing. "You're 24. Older than the others, yes, but by far old enough to pretend you've neared your end."

Ian ignored him, walking past stiffly as a dragging numbness weighs his limbs, and a shooting pain sparked over his body. "How long has it been?"

"A week. Tomorrow is the Culling. Ian, can't you just find somebody?"

Ian's eyes strayed towards the endless, empty halls, leeched of life. The Culling—a night of debauchery where Guides of the facility were presented to high-ranking Espers seeking a partner or a temporary session.

To be chosen was to be given a facade of freedom.

In reality, it was merely moving from a small prison to a larger cage. However, it brought an opportunity to return to the above ground.

He suspected the secrets to his sister's elimination were woven in the lies of the base. If he remained a bottom feeder, a mere tool to suppress madness in more powerful tools, then he would never claw his way to the truth.

They arrived at the door to their shared room, a four-walled square space that had little room for more than two skinny beds. The other man stared at him, sighed and left him to stew in his thoughts.

Ian sat quietly on the bed, his long legs hung off the side and feet pressed against the cold floor. The longer he waited, the more his worth dropped. For years, he made certain that his value was little more than scraps.

But he couldn't choose recklessly. He needed to wait for the perfect moment. The perfect person.

He couldn't risk failure.

He fell back against the stiff mattress and flipped his right hand, pressing the palm against his bleeding lips gently. A slender, long scar marked across his skin.

"Memento mori, memento vivre. I remember it. I remember you."

The soft, affectionate whisper was left unheard in the small cell-like room in the soulless facility. A broken light flickered against the edges of the empty wall, dimly granting a semblance of brightness.

Silence cocooned around his body and he leaned into the quiet, turning his lowered gaze to the expanse of the ceiling.

These walls represented his years of living.

He spoke to the ghost of his past.

"I'll always remember you."

——xxx——

[Code Red! Code Red! Energy levels are unstable—please return to the shelter immediately! Repeat! Please return to the shelter immediately to receive emergency—]

A bloodied fist wrapped in wisping shadows slammed into the wall device. A shrill beep sounded as it spluttered, the mechanical voice slowly draining. The man pulled his defined hand away, curling his slender, sharp fingers as he swept his gaze across the space.

The others in the room formed a distant circle around him, warily eying his body.

Sharp and vicious black shapes retreated into his back, shadows draped over his body like a bleeding cloak.

He stood leisurely, with a smile upon his youthful features, but there was nothing in his cold eyes. He was likable, in every movement of hand precisely calculated, but there was a sense of danger that lapped against his skin.

Nobody knew if they stood at distance because he stood too tall, too bright against the visage of normalcy, or because they feared the darkness lurking in his body.

A large man strolled towards him, throwing an arm around with a hearty laugh. He too was young, with the rebellious school-large charm against his defined features. "Good battle, Victor! How many Monsters did you take down today—and not even a scratch on that beautiful face of yours? What's say we hit the bars tonight to celebrate?"

Victor slowly dragged his gaze down, peering coldly at the familiar man. The other shuddered, but hid it under an arrogant facade.

The other man—named Karl—spoke quickly. He leaned closer and winked. "Listen, I have an invite to this special event. Nothing illegal or anything, but they're really particular. They have the top-graded materials, hear me?"

Victor offered a noncommittal hum that could only be understood as indifference. Karl pretended that it was a human agreement. "You'll be in for a good evening, alright? Anyway, your disposition doesn't matter. Whatever consequences, it'll be dealt with."

Victor felt the torrent of energy pounding in his chest, a thousand knives scraping along the lining of his flesh, screaming for escape. There was a deep agony in his bones, worn from today's battle, but he regarded it from an outside view with calmness. Frightening calmness.

The tall man was nothing more than a still lake that couldn't form any ripples. He consumed everything into his vast pool, disregarding all else.

He looked at Karl, this proud Esper who liked to sleep around and indulge in debauchery while hiding behind the front lines. Some considered it a handsome face, this construction of lines and shapes that formed an unimportant thing.

A Guide's energy couldn't appease the murkiness that lied still in his body, as if he were born without blood but only this simmering, chilling darkness instead.

One day, everybody estimated, he would lose control. He would fall prey to the Infection and become a calamity that nobody could face. Yet they kept him, eager to hold onto sources of power, fearful for their pathetic, pointless lives. He saved them; he could just as easily condemn them.

For now, the violence of battle could ease the chaos in his heart.

One day, it would not be enough.

He wrapped his bloodied fists with gauze, pulling it tight with his teeth as Karl prattled about a time and location.

Although a Guide couldn't satisfy him, he felt the energy tethering at his teeth, licking the edges of his sanity. He could indulge in pointless pleasures of the body, watching the foolish, slender bodies shrivel underneath him until they regretted sliding into his bed.

He did not force anybody; Victor was a revered Esper, and rumours told enough. But there were always those eager to prove superiority, eager to claim his power for their own.

He pulled on a long, draping black coat and adjusted his high-neck collar. His eyes, deep and empty, fluttered, and a still smile sat on his sharp features. There was something strange about him, something sinister and almost frightening.

Karl swallowed, but he did not look away. It was impossible to. "Let's get going?"

"Alright," agreed Victor, his tone flat.

Once again, another senseless night would repeat itself. Once again, he would face the combination of simple, pointless faces and listen to useless chatter.

Once again, the day would repeat in a cycle of nothingness.

And one day, the madness would consume him. And he'd let it.