Lilith steps out of the hideout, the heavy door closing behind her with a metallic groan. The cold air bites at her skin, but she barely feels it. The streets stretch out before her, dark and broken, the wasteland humming with the quiet desperation of those who never left.

She walks quickly, keeping her head high, her movements sure. She knows the rules here. Move with purpose. Look like you belong—even if you don’t.

A few blocks down, the transport waits, sleek and armored. The other officers stand nearby, their faces shadowed under the dim glow of street lamps.

One of them glances at her. “Took your time.”

Lilith doesn’t answer. She just steps inside.

The doors seal shut, locking them away from the wasteland.

The vehicle hums to life, gliding forward.

She doesn’t look back.

The city shifts around her. The cracked roads give way to smooth pavement. The air clears. Towering buildings rise on either side, bathed in artificial light.

The Golden Land. The land of richness.

Lilith watches it pass through the window, but she doesn’t feel like she’s coming home.

She exists here. She functions. But belonging? That’s something else entirely.

Her transport slows as it nears her family estate—a towering structure of polished marble and glass, untouched by time or failure.

The gates slide open at her arrival.

She steps inside.

The house is still, its silence absolute. Everything is arranged, controlled, deliberate. Nothing is out of place. Nothing ever is.

Her parents are waiting in the dining room.

Her father, Victor Castellan, doesn’t look up immediately. He’s scanning reports on his tablet, fingers tapping rhythmically against the glass. A man who speaks in expectations rather than words.

Her mother, Evelyn Castellan, adjusts the lighting settings, ensuring everything is set to perfection. She acknowledges Lilith with a glance, nothing more.

Lilith removes her coat, draping it over the chair with precise movements before sitting down.

The meal before her is untouched, arranged like an art piece rather than food.

“You’re late,” her mother says, her voice smooth, neutral.

Lilith picks up her fork. “I had work.”

Her father finally looks at her. “Still spending time in the wasteland?”

Lilith doesn’t answer immediately. She takes a bite, chews, swallows.

“It’s my work, someone has to do it.”

Her mother exhales, adjusting the temperature controls. “That place is a dead end. Your future is here. You know, you could be an officer here too.”

Lilith doesn’t argue. It’s pointless.

Victor sets his tablet down. “Your evaluation is coming up. We expect you to surpass your last results.”

Lilith grips her fork a little tighter. She always surpasses expectations. She always does more.

She has to.

Her father watches her for a moment, then nods. “Good.”

The conversation moves on. Business. Politics. The latest in security advancements.

Lilith listens in silence.

She knows they care. In their way.

But care, in this house, has always meant pressure. It has meant excellence or nothing.

And she has always risen to meet it.

Because she doesn’t fail.

Not like her uncle did.

The thought is unwelcome, but it lingers anyway.

Her uncle. The man who cracked under pressure, who drowned himself in whiskey and bad decisions. Who had once been brilliant before he lost everything.

Lilith had watched it happen.

She had seen the way his hands shook when he thought no one was looking. The way his laughter became something empty, something forced.

She had seen the way her father looked at him in the end.

Like he was already gone.

Weakness has no place in this house.

Lilith straightens her posture. “I’ll have the report ready by tomorrow.”

Her father nods. “Good.”

Nothing more needs to be said.

Her room is quiet. Too quiet.

The city outside hums with life, but in here, everything is still.

She stands by the window, staring at the glowing skyline. The perfect, unshaken Golden Land.

And yet, all she can think about is Musa.

That dark room. The scattered vials. The sharp, bitter laugh.

Lilith tells herself she doesn’t care.

That it isn’t her problem.

She shouldn’t waste time on people who refuse to change.

And yet…

Lilith exhales sharply. She shouldn’t care. She doesn’t care.

But the image of Musa—her sharp grin, the cold laughter—won’t leave her mind. I don’t have reasons to care for her. I don’t know her, not at all.

Lilith closes her eyes. She should let it go. Move on. Focus on her own future. Not on random people.

But the question lingers, clawing at the edge of her thoughts.

Should she go back?