The heavy scent lingering in Adam's house wasn't expensive leather or polished wood; it was the metallic taste of power and danger. But I could barely feel it anymore. Five years ago, the fear that had stabbed into my gut had triggered so many chemical reactions that my brain had grown numb to such stimuli. Maybe that's why Adam guiding me to the bedroom—and the empty, mechanical intimacy that followed—hadn't stirred a single emotion in me. Those moments were as functional, and just as flavorless, as a sandwich from the university cafeteria.
The bedroom. Smooth silk sheets, dark ebony furniture. A physical manifestation of Adam's need for control. When our bodies finally pulled apart, his face held that same expression I always expected—like a businessman who had just signed a contract. I knew he saw me as nothing more than an object, a necessity, a reward. And that suited me fine. The absence of emotional expectation meant I didn't have to carry any of my own. Love was a luxury far too expensive, unnecessary, and dangerous for an archaeology student living on scraps.
Adam stood up almost immediately. He was no longer just Adam; he was the figure I had crafted to drag myself out of the streets—each rise in his world adding another layer of safety to mine.
"Now, let's get to work," he said, as if what had just happened was nothing more than an afternoon coffee break. His pace was the reflection of his ambition—he was starving to sit in Marcus's chair, and the way to surpass Marcus's brute strength was through my cold, calculating intellect.
He led me into the study. In the center of the room stood a high-security workstation with silent cooling fans and three monitors. This was his command center. Adam handed me a cold glass of water and his fingers brushed my lips. Small gestures like these were part of his complicated sense of ownership.
"The system. How do we start?" he asked, voice low and serious.
I sat down, placed my fingers on the keyboard. The cold keys were far more familiar than silk sheets. Metal and silicon—this was my true refuge.
"Before we start, we need to change our mindset," I said, opening a blank code editor. "This isn't managing the inventory of a drug gang. This is establishing a global, high-risk, untraceable distribution chain. Baron's old systems are nothing more than digital copies of a physical ledger. We're building a virtual fortress."
Adam crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, watching me. He admired the way my mind worked. My intelligence was what had carried me out of the orphanage and built an overnight rise for his crew.
"Untraceable and flawless. Elaborate," he said.
Without taking my eyes off the screen, I spoke. My voice carried only logic and structure.
"The logistical issue splits in two: Inventory and Cash Flow. Both leave 'traces.' Traditional systems leave behind an IP address, a bank account, a satellite image. Our system must be decentralized, self-destructing, and fully encrypted."
My fingers danced across the keys, sketching out the core architecture. A three-layered model:
Shadow Layer:The interface that would communicate with Baron's current system. Fully simulated data, faux transactions, sacrificial servers. Baron's men would believe they were operating in this layer. Pure camouflage.
Crypto Core:The real processing center—a decentralized P2P network using open-source foundations. No central server; each field leader (Adam's rivals and Adam himself) acted as a node. Data protected by a constantly shifting multi-factor cryptographic system. This wasn't blockchain—it was a faster, more anonymous derivative. The name formed instantly in my mind: "Chronos." A system working against time, leaving no trace.
Obliteration Protocol:A timed or breach-triggered full wipe of all Chronos-core data, destroying encryption keys permanently. A digital suicide bomb.
"For inventory tracking, we'll use tokenization," I continued. "Each product batch becomes a digital token. These tokens move only between wallets authorized by Baron. The wallets aren't tied to real people—only to encryption keys. Cash flow works the same. Every transfer moves through Chronos's own anonymous currency, exchangeable into real money only at designated conversion points. The money trail becomes scattered."
Adam's eyes gleamed. This was bigger, more complex than anything he'd dreamed of. I was showing him how to rise, not through fists but through financial intelligence and cryptographic dominance.
Hours passed. Outside, the sky shifted from navy to black, then slowly to gray. Adam brought me coffee occasionally, touching my shoulder lightly. His touch had grown more respectful—his admiration for my intellect was overriding his desire for control.
Code flowed. Rust was perfect for high-security, low-level tasks. I built algorithms, defined network protocols.
Function: generateEphemeralKey() — single-use encryption keys.
Function: initiateSelfDestruct(nodeID) — wipes data on designated nodes.
Class: AssetToken() — encodes everything from a product's weight to chemical composition into encrypted metadata.
My mind became a waterfall of pure logic. Ceramic shards, social unrest, the orphanage, cold concrete sidewalks... all of it took form within the code, arranged into perfect systems. I was shaping order out of chaos. This was my true passion.
Dawn rose. Pale sunlight mixed with the blue glow of the monitors. My fourth coffee slipped from my hand, but I didn't notice. My eyelids grew heavy. Fatigue wrapped around my mind like fog.
I typed the final line of code:// Beta 1.0 Architecture Complete
I noticed Adam asleep on the couch. I rested my arm on the desk, lowered my head. A moment of rest. Just one second. My eyes closed.
Rest was a lie my brain told me. My body faded. Pain, hunger, exhaustion—vanished. I fell, not into darkness but into a crystal-clear depth. Around me, strands of shimmering green and gold swirled like threads at the bottom of a luminous ocean.
For a moment, I thought it was a dream. Then the clarity came. I wasn't dreaming. My thoughts were sharp, my awareness taut.
Where was I?
I opened my eyes.
The first thing I felt was the cold, sharp pressure on the left side of my neck. And when my eyes focused, two things filled my vision immediately: a pair of bright, emerald-green eyes, and beneath them, a silver dagger pressed close enough that I couldn't make a single sound.
The blade reflected moonlight in intricate patterns; it wasn't simple metal—it was crafted with mastery, etched with fantastical symbols. Beautiful, but threatening.
The dagger's owner stood mere inches away. His long, wavy, coal-black hair fell like night itself over his shoulders. His face was sharp, defined; strong jaw, high cheekbones. But his eyes—that green—held an ancient depth no human iris could contain.
This wasn't Adam's brute intimidation or the streets' sudden terror. This danger was older, more noble. Its beauty was almost artistic.
"Who are you?" the young man asked. His voice was a velvet whisper, yet authoritative and heavy. "And how did you enter my room? Answer, or feel this blade."
Speak. Move. Answer. I couldn't do any of it. I wasn't in Adam's house. I wasn't in my caravan.
I was kneeling on a raised, polished wooden platform in the middle of a room completely alien to my world of concrete and steel. The walls were carved from dark, delicate wood engraved with leafy motifs. The ceiling arched high, holding a single glowing stone that bathed the room in a soft bluish hue.
Everything looked like it had emerged from an illuminated manuscript.
"Answer. Who are you?" he repeated, pressing the blade slightly. A faint sting brushed my skin like silk.
My gaze drifted past him, absorbing the room. A shield and sword hung on the wall. Leather-bound scrolls filled a corner. But the most striking object was on the small mother-of-pearl table beside the young man:
A circlet. Sapphire.
The gems glimmered in shifting blue-green hues, each one laced together with thin silver wiring. At the top perched a mermaid figure, its tail adorned with pearls. The craftsmanship was too precise, too otherworldly to be human-made.
This had to be a dream. Too beautiful, too detailed. The thought gave me sudden confidence. If it was my dream, I didn't need to answer him.
I looked at him and let a smirk curl my lips.
"Are you in my dream?" I whispered, teasing. "Honestly, the dagger is a bit cliché. You could've been more creative, subconscious."
His brows knit together—caught between anger and confusion. "What nonsense are you speaking? I warned you. How did you enter this room?"
"Your room?" I shrugged—or tried to. The blade prevented it. "If I built this place, then it's mine. You're probably my subconscious's 'brooding, sharp-jawed warrior archetype.' Try harder next time."
My gaze drifted to the circlet. "Though the crown… Stunning. The details are perfect. Mermaid motif, sapphire lattice… but there's one flaw."
The young man pressed the blade a little more. "Speak again, and I'll—don't you dare lay eyes on that relic."
"Oh no, the noble archetype is offended," I murmured, amused. "The flaw is the silver. It dulls the sapphires. If it were my dream, I'd use mithril instead. Brighter. Lighter. And since this is a dream, I can touch you, right?"
I moved abruptly, curling my fingers around his wrist by the dagger. I felt the cold of his skin, the pulse beneath. Real. Solid.
"You feel real," I said, eyes locked on his. "Your pulse is steady."
Surprised, he jerked back, stepping away but still holding the dagger defensively.
"Stay away from me, stranger," he hissed. "What kind of magic is this?"
Before I could answer, a voice interrupted:
"Oh, for the love of—do you have to be so loud? You're interrupting my beauty sleep."
We both turned toward the door.
A girl walked in—absurdly out of place. Early twenties, chubby cheeks, cheerful. She wore soft yellow pajamas covered in chick patterns. Giant fluffy slippers. Her face was smeared with a green clay mask, crumbs of pumpkin bun stuck around her mouth. She held—yes—a huge pumpkin bun, still warm.
The smell—pumpkin, cinnamon, butter—filled the room.
She glared at us, took a bite, chewed happily.
The young man stared at her in horror. The dagger almost slipped.
"Who… who are you?" he demanded. "And what are those garments? How did you enter my chamber?"
Chick-pajama girl rolled her eyes. "Ugh, so dramatic. This is my beauty-sleep dream. And FYI, any uninvited guest in my dream gets uglier. My mask is going to crack."
She ignored him completely.
I focused on her. Real? Could she be real?
"Wait," I interrupted. "You're… dreaming?"
She bit off more bun. "Yep! Super realistic, right? The food is amazing. My dreams rarely have snacks this good."
The young man raised his dagger again—this time not at us, but at the absurdity of life. "This is no dream. This is Orinlafec. You stand where you do not belong."
She burst into laughter so loud her clay mask nearly crumbled.
"Orinlafec? That's the dumbest name ever. You're a terrible writer, dream-man!"
But my blood froze.
Orinlafec. The emerald-eyed man. The scent of real wood. The circlet's impossible craftsmanship.
A human mind cannot create a brand-new face by imagination. Nor can it design architecture with no internal flaws.
This wasn't a dream.
I turned to the girl, dread rising like a tide. "What's your name?" I asked. Urgent.
Her chewing slowed. "Why should I tell you? This is my dream, rude person."
"Tell me your name," I said, steadying my voice. "Tell me your exact name. Human brains cannot invent unfamiliar faces in dreams. You are unknown to me. So is he. That makes this place real."
Her expression froze. The bun nearly fell from her hand.
She swallowed. "Harper. Harper Fae."
Then, trying to reclaim her ease, she took another dramatic bite. "But these pumpkin buns—oh my god—they're perfect!"
That clinched it.
The young man's face was new—impossible to construct from memory.
Harper could taste food—dreams don't replicate flavor this vividly.
This was a true plane. A real world. My soul had been pulled out of Adam's house—into this place.
I closed my eyes. Logic. There's always a path.
Rule one of surviving the streets:If your body reacts, the danger is real.
If this world was real, then pain should be real too.
I opened my eyes, steady.
"Excuse me," I said calmly.
Both Harper and the young man stared.
I grabbed the edge of his dagger, flipped it, and pressed the blade sharply into my palm—right below my lifeline.
Pain erupted. Hot, searing, immediate. Blood beaded and trickled down my hand. Thick, metallic—real.
Not the distant blur of dream-pain.Real pain.Real nerves.Real skin splitting beneath metal.
"Real," I whispered, staring at the blood. "This is real."
Harper shrieked, dropping her bun.The young man's eyes widened. He stepped forward.
"What have you done?"
"I proved it," I said, lifting my bleeding hand. "Pain is real. So is this place."
And at that moment, the floor beneath me twisted—like someone had hit a switch. Light compressed into a single point. Wood, sapphire, emerald, pumpkin—the world bent inward.
I screamed.
Then—
I jolted awake.
The first sensation was the cold desk pressed against my forehead. I heard the quiet hum of Adam's computer fans.
I lifted my head slowly. Adam still slept on the couch. The monitors glowed softly.
Breath slammed into my lungs.
Orinlafec.The green-eyed man.Harper.
Real.
I touched my neck—smooth. No blade mark.
Then my hand—my right palm.
A thin red line crossed my lifeline. Fresh. Slightly bleeding.
I trembled.
The wound from Orinlafec had followed me back.
This wasn't a dream.It was a spiritual transition.My body was here—but my soul had truly gone there.
The code editor glowed on screen.// Beta 1.0 Architecture Complete
Chronos was ready. Adam's rise was structured and inevitable.
But now, I had a path of my own.
Adam's world was no longer my sole reality.There was another world—proven by blood—waiting on the other side.
With one hand pressing my wound, and the other hovering over the keyboard, I whispered:
I must find out what pulled me there.
The green-eyed man.Harper.Orinlafec.
This was bigger than Adam. Bigger than Marcus. Bigger than the streets.
I wasn't bound to this world anymore.
I could cross between worlds.
And I would use that power to take back my life—not in a caravan, not on the streets—but by bending the rules of an entire realm to my will.
A cold, sharp resolve swept through me.
I withdrew my hand from the keyboard.
My first mission:research the archaeological and metaphysical mechanics of spiritual passage.The ancient social upheavals, the ceramic fragments—now they all made sense.
They had documented transitions.
Just like mine.