EARTH, YEAR 2025
Mark took a slow drag from his cigarette, the faint ember casting a dim glow across his face as he leaned lazily against the edge of a sleek mahogany pool table. The penthouse stretched out behind him, almost sterile in its perfection. Smooth white marble floors reflected the recessed lighting above, and walls of glass revealed the city's jagged skyline beyond. A crystal chandelier hung overhead sparkling, so elegant that it felt like it belonged in a museum more than a home.
In the corner, a bar cart glinted with bottles of top-shelf liquor, labels James didn't recognize. A leather sectional wrapped around a massive flatscreen mounted on the far wall, where a news anchor's voice filled the room:
"In a stunning victory, tech magnate Julian Korran has been elected as the new mayor of Ashveil City. Supporters praise Korran's vision for a streamlined, corporate-led government and his promise to revolutionize Ashveil's private sector, opening new doors for foreign investment and innovation. "
The words barely registered with James. He stood at the open balcony door, one hand braced against the frame, the other loosely resting on the railing. The city sprawled out below him in a tangle of neon lights and dark alleyways, skyscrapers rising like jagged teeth through the fog.
Thirty stories down, the sound of sirens carried upward. Police cruisers lined the streets, their red-and-blue lights reflecting off puddles from a recent rainstorm. Helicopter blades hummed faintly overhead. Somewhere in the distance, a crowd was chanting—loud enough that he could almost make out the words.
Mark pushed off the table, his boots clicking softly against the stone floor as he walked toward James. He exhaled another plume of smoke, then flicked ash into a silver tray perched on the counter.
"So… this is it, huh?"
James didn't answer right away. His hoodie was pulled tight around his frame, sleeves pushed up just enough to expose pale wrists with faint lines—some old, some fresh. His dark hair hung in uneven tufts, pushed back from his forehead by the wind. He looked thinner than Mark remembered.
"Yeah," James muttered finally, his voice low, distant. "This is it."
Mark stepped onto the balcony beside him. The wind caught the loose hem of his coat as he looked down at the city. Flashing lights, angry shouts, a sea of moving shadows.
"Those gotta be the protests, hmm?" Mark said softly.
James let out a slow sigh, the kind that seemed to sag his whole frame. "I believe so…"
The shadows under his eyes were deep, sagging like heavy curtains that hadn't been drawn back in years. Sleep had eluded him lately—that much was obvious—but it wasn't just exhaustion. There was something heavier in his expression, a quiet, corrosive despair that had settled in over the last year.
He and Mark were both about to graduate high school at the top of their class, flawless GPAs that should have opened every door. Mark had the pedigree to walk into any university he wanted, full-ride scholarships practically begging for him.
And James?
Well, James didn't have to worry about money anymore.
Mark took another drag from his cigarette, the ember flaring briefly in the dim light. "So… did he give you the keys to this place in person? You finally got them yesterday, right?"
James turned away from the city and back toward him, shaking his head with a bitter twist of his mouth. "No. He wouldn't have the balls to do that. It was all through his attorney—the paperwork, the meetings, even when they handed me the keys. I never saw him once."
Mark let out a low whistle. "Well, Mr. Altworth is a busy man, they say. Fixing the world and all." He gave a short, dry chuckle.
James's scowl was immediate and deep.
Mark held up his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright—you know I'm kidding. Your dad's a complete scumbag. There's no doubt about that."
All James could do was deepen his scowl. He brushed past Mark without a word, walking back inside the tainted luxury of the penthouse.
Walter Altworth, CEO of VitalisCorp, was James's father. And James hated him with every fiber of his being.
In fact, if you asked James, he'd likely say he didn't even consider Walter to be his father.
And that wasn't just because VitalisCorp had become the largest privatized medical provider in the nation, monopolizing the industry, crushing smaller hospitals under the weight of its patents, and pricing lifesaving treatments so high that entire neighborhoods were left to rot. Whole families were bankrupted. Thousands died waiting for a cure they could never afford.
Well… maybe that was part of it.
But James's hatred ran deeper. It went back long before Walter's rise to power, before the media hailed him as the "visionary savior of modern healthcare." Walter Altworth had walked out on James and his mother before James was old enough to even form a memory of him.
He had been abandoned. That much was clear. And James had accepted it.
Well… maybe accepted wasn't the right word. But he lived with it. The absence of Walter Altworth had been a constant shadow in his life, and over the years, that shadow hardened into a quiet, simmering ideology. One that despised people like Walter.
And that's how James had carried himself his entire life—resentful but resolute, determined to never become the sort of man his father was.
Then something strange happened.
The day James turned eighteen, back in the dingy little apartment he shared with his mother—who, truthfully, he wasn't all that fond of either—a letter arrived.
The envelope was thick and cream-colored, embossed with a golden Altworth family crest: an eagle perched atop a serpent wrapped around a caduceus. The wax seal gleamed like blood under the kitchen light. The paper smelled faintly of cologne and old money.
Of course, the letter wasn't written by Walter. It was mechanically described if anything, clearly drafted by an army of lawyers in a conference room.
The contents detailed a set of holdings that had been "granted and reserved" for James, released to him on his eighteenth birthday "in recognition of his standing as an Altworth heir."
A new bank account—containing a nauseating sum of money.
The title of a brand-new luxury sports car: a deep midnight-blue Velsera XGT, its engine so powerful it could swallow a city block in a roar.
And finally… this penthouse.
A glass-and-marble palace high above Ashveil.
This letter arrived just three months ago.
In the time since, James had done a lot of thinking. About his future. About what he was supposed to do now. About how to even feel about any of it.
But mostly… he thought about why.
Why the hell had his scumbag father given him all this?
Was it a bribe? A payoff to ensure James wouldn't cause trouble?
A way to smooth over years of silence and abandonment?
Or maybe—just maybe—there was some pathetic shred of love buried in there somewhere.
No. That wasn't possible.
So, every day, James replayed the question in his head like a broken record.
And no matter how many times he turned it over, he still didn't have an answer.
Mark walked back in from the balcony, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray on the counter and glanced at James, who stood rigidly by the TV, tapping his foot against the marble floor. His dark eyes were locked on the glowing screen, but his focus seemed miles away.
Mark sighed and stepped closer.
"So… what are you going to do now?"
James didn't answer at first. His foot kept tapping—faster now. "Well, I still have a few things to move in over the next couple of days. And I need to organize—"
"You know that's not what I meant."
James didn't like the direction of this conversation.
He turned sharply to face Mark, irritation flashing across his face.
"No, I don't know what you mean, Mark? What the hell do you mean?" He stormed off toward the kitchen.
"Don't run away, James!" Mark called, following him.
James spun back, his voice low but seething.
"I am not running away. Take that back."
Mark froze mid-step, exhaling sharply.
"Look… I just mean…" He rubbed the back of his neck. "James, I haven't seen you at school in months. You stopped responding to my texts. Then out of nowhere, you drop this on me—this penthouse, all this money. And now you're not even going to college? What the hell is going on?"
James's glare softened slightly as he looked down, gripping the edge of the counter.
"Things… changed. I'm sorry I went AWOL. I just—" His voice cracked faintly. "There was a lot I had to sort out."
Mark stayed quiet, watching him.
James straightened, his tone shifting—harder now, resolute.
"But I've sorted it out. And I've realized there's no point in me going to college anymore."
"No point?!" Mark's voice cracked in disbelief. "What are you gonna do instead? Sit in this godforsaken penthouse wallowing in sadness every day?"
James's eyes snapped up, fire in them.
"No. I'm finally going to be productive. For something real. I won't waste my life being another puppet at university."
"Productive? Productive doing what exactly?" Mark scoffed, gesturing wildly at the sleek countertops and glass walls surrounding them. "And don't lecture me about being a puppet when you're living in this! Look around, James!"
James stepped forward, his voice rising.
"I am looking, Mark! I see all this. But do you really see all this? It's a gift from the devil. But I'll use it as fire to burn him down. When you go off to university, you lose all your kindling. You can't burn shit."
Mark's hands clenched into fists at his sides.
"So what—are we just burning it all to the ground now? I thought we wanted to change things from the inside, James! Work the system, not destroy it."
James barked out a bitter laugh.
"Oh, come on. You're not this naïve. Look at the fucking TV." He jabbed a finger at the screen, where Korran's grinning face filled the frame. "We've protested. We've organized. We've done every piece of standard bullshit they let us do. And this is the result: another billionaire, piece of shit, mayor. It's rigged. It's always been rigged. There's no fixing it from the inside. Get that through your fucking head Mark."
The words hit like a crack of thunder. Mark froze, lips parting as if to reply, but nothing came out. His eyes flicked to the TV, then back to James, then down to the marble floor. Slowly, the tension drained from his shoulders, the fight bleeding out of him all at once.
He sank into a chair at the kitchen table, staring blankly at the floor, as if James's words had pulled a thread loose and unraveled something deep inside him.
James let out a long sigh and dragged a chair out from under the table, sinking into it across from Mark. He rested his elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly as he stared at the pristine marble floor.
"I'm sorry," he said finally, his voice low. "I was being an asshole. It's just that I… you know how I feel about—"
"Don't apologize," Mark cut in, looking up at him. His eyes were tired, the cigarette burn at his fingers nearly touching the filter. "I mean… you are being an asshole."
James let out a weak, humorless laugh.
"But… you're right."
James's shoulders sagged, and he closed his eyes for a long moment before reopening them. His voice cracked slightly as he spoke.
"I was hoping you wouldn't say that. That you'd convince me I was wrong. That there was still another way."
Mark pulled out another cigarette from the crumpled pack in his coat pocket, tapping it lightly against the table as if stalling for time. With a slow, deliberate motion, he struck a match and lit the end, the flame briefly illuminating the tired lines on his face. He took a long drag, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling as his shoulders sagged.
"We're both too smart not to know the truth," he said quietly, the cigarette glowing faintly in the dim light. "As much as I haven't wanted to acknowledge it."
Silence settled between them, thick and suffocating, broken only by the muffled sound of sirens and the faint echo of shouting from the streets below.