The chair made another slow rotation before stopping with a soft, metallic click. Elijah's hand rested beneath his chin, fingers tapping his jaw in steady rhythm. The faint hum of the ceiling light above filled the silence, blending with the distant murmur of passing cars beyond his window.
He leaned back slightly, eyes unfocused, staring at the holographic reflection of his own face in the black screen before him. His expression was calm on the surface, but something in the stillness of his movements hinted at a storm beneath.
He exhaled quietly. So… we're back here again.
For the past two hours, he had done nothing but sit there, letting thoughts overlap like mismatched film reels. The earlier hacking attempt still gnawed at him—a digital duel that had lasted less than a minute but left his mind heavy with weight it couldn't shake.
Two hours ago, he had broken into the encrypted server of the World Architects—a network so deep, most people didn't even know it existed outside of rumors. And for those who did, they dismissed it as the fantasy of conspiracists. But Elijah knew better. He had seen enough patterns to know that what hides behind the myth usually holds the truth.
And this truth was uglier than he'd imagined.
When he reached the core of their network—a hidden sector labeled "The Nine Pillars"—the server suddenly responded as if alive. Someone, or something, traced his entry point. For a moment, his screen fractured into static symbols that rearranged themselves like ancient script before a new IP trace began triangulating his location.
Elijah hadn't hesitated. He'd unplugged every connection, severed the power line, and pried out the internal data chips. Then, methodically, he smashed the processor casing with the heel of his hand, twisted the hard drive out, and dropped it into a small acid-filled containment canister he kept for "digital funerals." The sizzling sound was strangely satisfying—a hiss that closed the door behind him.
That was two hours ago. Now, the quiet felt heavier.
He rolled his chair once more, stopped midway, and murmured to himself.
"The Azaqor manuscripts… they're still at the Whitemere Gallery Museum."
The words lingered in the room like the echo of an old confession.
His gaze drifted to a printed article pinned on the corkboard ahead—an image of a glass display case holding ancient, ink-worn pages. Beneath it, in smaller print: Recovered from buried ruins, verified by Dr. Remy Isley and Dr. Calista Isley—discovered eleven years ago.
His adoptive parents.
He rubbed his temple slowly. "Eleven years ago… and yet the World Architects claim to hold nine codixes—each predating the first dawn of civilization. The same origin period as these Azaqor texts."
He paused, thinking. If my gut is right, then these manuscripts could be one of the Nine.
But something didn't add up.
"If they really are part of the Nine Codex," he said softly, "why display them to the public at all? These people thrive in secrecy. They bury their knowledge under centuries of lies, not glass cases."
He turned toward the faint glow of another monitor in sleep mode. His reflection blinked back.
Unless… he thought, the display itself is a misdirection.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes narrowing. "Or maybe the manuscript that's on display isn't the real one."
The thought unsettled him. He remembered the hours he'd spent cross-referencing Whitemere Gallery's acquisition records. Everything about that museum was tainted. Most of its artifacts came through backdoor channels—ghost archaeologists, illegal trades, stolen museum pieces from abroad.
The Whitemere's reputation was whitewashed, but its foundation was built on theft. And somehow, every trace of that trail looped back to the Halverns—and to his adoptive parents.
He frowned. "Theodore Halvern funded most of their expeditions, didn't he? But he died before the manuscripts were even found."
His fingers tightened around the edge of the desk. "So, who really funded that last dig?"
His mind flickered to the list he'd seen within the World Architects' system: Nine Codex – Holders: 8 Registered, 1 Unaccounted.
That unaccounted one could easily be the Azaqor manuscripts.
But then came the twist that still made his stomach knot—Dr. Rex Whar, the enigmatic scientist whose name had appeared repeatedly during his hack. One of the Pillars of the World Architects.
The same Dr. Rex Whar whose research inspired motivational speeches quoted by ordinary people. A "public genius" preaching human evolution while quietly steering the direction of a secretive society that toyed with reality's oldest myths.
Elijah remembered how far he'd gone into their network before he pulled out. There had been a subfolder under Dr. Whar's name—a massive cluster of encrypted files labeled "The Forge." He could barely open a single one before that foreign presence started tracing him.
A chill ran through him. Someone else was in there. Not an automated trace, not a defense bot—someone human, or at least human-like, trying to unmask him.
He sat back, jaw tightening. "Who the hell was that?"
The chair squeaked faintly as he leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling. His pulse slowed, and his voice dropped to a near whisper.
"Something doesn't feel right here."
He rubbed his eyes. "The Azaqor manuscripts… the persona I built… my revenge—it all began from that single spark. Maybe it wasn't coincidence at all. Maybe it was guided. But by what?"
He slammed a hand lightly against his forehead, muttering, "Come on, think. What am I missing?"
He searched the corners of his mind, replaying old memories—the night his adoptive father presented the discovery on television, the way his adoptive mother smiled too perfectly beside him, the cryptic words Dr. Isley once muttered during a dinner years ago: 'Truth must sometimes wear a mask before it's ready to be seen.'
That phrase now haunted him.
He couldn't remember everything, but something about it scratched at the back of his mind like an unhealed wound.
After a long silence, he exhaled and muttered,
"It seems I'll have to pay them a visit."
His eyes opened, sharp again. "If I want to understand how the Azaqor manuscripts connect to the Nine Codex, I need to see them face-to-face. The Isleys know something they've never told me."
He reached for his jacket draped over the chair's back, then hesitated. "But before that… there's Crestwood to deal with."
His gaze flicked to the holographic map on his table—a chart of corporate connections, marked by lines of red string linking names: Halvern Consortium, Augustine Halvern, Blackwell Industries.
"Augustine…" He said the name like it tasted bitter. "A man who plays the game like Theodore once did. Ruthless, calculating, and worse—patient."
He leaned forward, scanning the map. "If I move too fast, he'll see me coming. If I move too slow, he'll make the first strike."
He smiled faintly, humorless. "And people still wonder why I trust algorithms more than humans."
His reflection stared back from the dark glass of the window—a ghost wearing his own face.
He whispered,
"The Halverns fell, Viola's on trial, William's dead, Chloe's still confined—and my parents, silent through it all. They never showed up for any of it. Not even for Chloe."
He swallowed, bitterness crawling up his throat. "Were they distancing themselves from the chaos… or were they part of what caused it?"
His fingers curled slightly, his tone lowering into a murmur. "Or maybe I'm just paranoid. Maybe this is what obsession does—makes ghosts out of guesses."
But deep down, his gut wouldn't let it go. That intuitive voice that had saved him too many times whispered again: Look closer.
He turned the chair back to face the dark monitor, still cracked from where his hand had slammed against it earlier.
"Before I visit them," he said under his breath, "I'll settle a few things here. Chloe will be the key—she can get me closer to the Halvern Consortium's board. Through her, I can build a position that lets me watch Augustine up close."
He paused, considering the thought. "He thinks I'm just some obsessed nobody who rode the Azaqor chaos for attention. Good. Let him keep thinking that."
He chuckled lightly, though there was no joy in the sound. "Because once I step into that boardroom, the first thing he'll see is the shadow of what he helped create."
The words left his mouth in a low murmur, more to himself than to the empty room. He placed his palm on the desk and stared at the dark stains of acid on the edge of the container.
"The mission stays the same," he said, almost as if reaffirming his purpose. "The Consortium first. Then the Isleys. Then… maybe the truth behind Azaqor."
The air grew still.
He looked at his reflection one last time and smiled faintly, though his eyes carried something distant—an awareness, an unease.
"The more I see it," he said softly, "the more I think… maybe taking on the Azaqor identity wasn't my decision at all."
He leaned closer to the screen, whispering the final thought, almost afraid to hear it aloud:
"Maybe Azaqor wasn't born from me—but from something that wanted to be found through me."
The monitor flickered, then went black again. The room fell silent, except for the faint echo of the chair's wheels turning once more.