The elevator opened without a chime.
Presenting the 24 year old billionaire,
Kael Veyrin.
Kael Veyrin had paid extra for silence. The kind of silence that made people think they'd stepped into a cathedral, or a museum, or a place where money was worshipped so hard it stopped making noise.
The corridor outside his private penthouse floor was wide enough for a parade and emptier than a confession. Polished stone reflected the ceiling lights like obedient moons. Not a footprint. Not a smudge. Not a sign that a human being had ever lived here—only that a human being had once been afraid of being seen.
Kael walked past framed abstracts he'd never looked at twice. Past the sensor doors that opened for him like they owed him something.
They did. Everything did.
That was the problem.
The living room glass wall faced the city of Haloport, an ocean of lights stitched into the night. Skyscrapers stood like sharpened teeth; traffic lines glowed like veins. Somewhere down there people were laughing in restaurants, kissing in elevators, getting into petty arguments about what to eat—small, stupid things that felt expensive now.
Kael set his phone on the counter and watched it remain silent. No vibrations. No missed calls that mattered. Only the soft glow of a device that had become the closest thing to company he'd allowed himself.
He didn't turn on the lights.
He didn't need to see the furniture he'd chosen because it looked "clean," the kind of clean that erased personality, the kind of clean that said, I have nothing to hide because I have nothing.
He walked toward the glass, each step measured, like he was still in meetings, still closing deals, still scheduling his life into neat boxes that never contained anyone else.
Outside, wind pressed against the building and slid along the glass with a thin, impatient whistle.
He rested his forehead against the window.
It was cold enough to feel honest.
"What's the point," he said to his reflection, and the reflection didn't answer. It just stared back with the same eyes he'd worn since high school: sharp, tired, too old for the face.
One of richest man on Clearth.
He'd once said that title in his head like a punchline. Now it sounded like a diagnosis.
Kael's gaze drifted down, down, down—past streets and lights and the distant smear of the harbor—until the city blurred into something soft and indistinct, like it was already leaving him.
His chest tightened.
Not a dramatic movie kind of tight. Not the sort that came with poetic lightning and a slow violin.
This was the boring kind. The kind that made each breath feel like it was being charged rent.
He peeled away from the glass and crossed to the kitchen without thinking. The kitchen was perfect. Stainless steel. The best appliances money could buy. Knives laid out like a museum exhibit. Not a single stain.
It didn't smell like anything.
A kitchen that didn't smell like anything wasn't a kitchen. It was a threat.
He opened a cabinet and stared at the empty shelves. There had been food once. There had been an attempt at being normal—rice, spices, a few ingredients he'd bought on a whim after watching an old cooking show in the middle of an insomnia binge.
He'd thrown it out when it expired. He'd told himself he didn't have time.
He'd told himself a lot of things.
Kael shut the cabinet. The sound was soft. Expensive hinges. Quiet on purpose.
He leaned on the counter, head bowed, and waited for the moment where he'd laugh at himself and move on. That had been his talent—turning collapse into comedy and calling it resilience.
But nothing came.
The suffocation did.
It wrapped around his ribs like a belt pulled too tight.
He pressed two fingers to his wrist automatically, checking pulse like the body was a machine he could troubleshoot. It was steady. Of course it was. His body had always done its job. It was his life that refused to cooperate.
He reached for his phone again, thumb hovering.
There were numbers he could call.
People who would pick up.
Not because they cared. Because it would be useful.
His lawyer, obviously. His assistant. The security chief. His PR director—she'd probably have a statement drafted before the call ended.
He could call his brother.
The thought made his throat go tight in a way that had nothing to do with air.
Senn Veyrin.
Small hands, once. Sticky fingers. A kid who used to trail behind Kael like a shadow, laughing too loudly at jokes he didn't understand, eyes bright with worship.
Then later… the eyes changed.
Later, Senn's voice had become a cold blade dressed in legal language.
You were never there.
You think money makes you family?
You think you deserve even one percent?
The lawsuit hadn't been about property. Property was just the weapon Senn could legally hold. It had been about something uglier: proof.
Proof that Kael had left them. Proof that Kael had chosen something else.
And the disgusting part was—Senn wasn't entirely wrong.
Kael could remember the exact day his father's accident happened like it was carved behind his eyelids.
A call. A sharp, panicked voice. The smell of disinfectant in the hospital corridors. His mother's face trying to be strong and failing. The fluorescent lights buzzing like insects above their heads.
And Kael—sixteen, terrified, already calculating.
How much would it cost?
How long could they survive?
What could he sell?
Who could he ask?
He'd been a kid, but he'd felt the world shove a ledger into his hands and say, Pay.
He'd paid.
He'd paid with sleep, with friendships, with laughter. With first love he never let start. With afternoons he never spent. With family dinners he skipped because he was "busy." With birthdays he missed because he was "working."
He'd paid with his presence.
And then, when his mother was dying, he'd paid again.
He'd been in a boardroom when the hospital called. A meeting with men who smiled with their teeth and spoke in numbers.
He'd looked at the screen and thought: I'll call back in five minutes.
He'd waited ten.
Then twenty.
Then the meeting stretched, because of course it did—his whole life had stretched around money like a rubber band about to snap.
When he finally called, a nurse answered.
"I'm sorry," she said.
Kael's hand tightened around the phone so hard his knuckles went white. "No. No, I—put her on."
Another pause. A softer voice.
"She's gone, Mr. Veyrin."
Mr. Veyrin.
Not Kael. Not her son. Mr. Veyrin, the richest man alive, the one whose name made people swallow and stand straighter.
Kael had stood up from that boardroom table and the chair had screeched. Everyone had looked at him.
He'd wanted to scream. He'd wanted to punch the glass wall. He'd wanted to rewind time with sheer force.
Instead, he'd said, "We'll continue this later," like a man leaving a meeting early was the tragedy.
After that, things blurred into a series of efficient disasters.
The funeral: perfect. Polished. A beautiful casket, the best flowers, a eulogy written by someone who knew how to sound sincere.
Kael had stood there in a black suit, jaw clenched, and realized he couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten his mother's cooking.
Couldn't remember the last time he'd sat at the table while she talked about nothing.
Couldn't remember the last time he'd hugged her without checking his phone.
He'd bought the best goodbye.
He hadn't earned it.
Now, alone in his spotless kitchen that smelled like nothing, he tried to picture her hands.
He couldn't.
That hurt more than anything.
Kael's breath hitched. He swallowed it down. He didn't cry. He didn't even know how anymore. His body had rerouted tears into productivity years ago.
He turned away from the kitchen and headed toward the private elevator that led to the rooftop access.
It wasn't a decision made in one dramatic instant.
It was the final page of a book he'd been writing for years, one dull, responsible sentence at a time.
The elevator accepted him silently, as always. The doors slid shut.
The ride up was short. He'd paid for that too.
When the doors opened, the wind hit him like a slap.
The rooftop was an exposed slab of stone and metal railings, surrounded by city air that tasted faintly of salt from the harbor and the distant smoke of food stalls he'd never visited. Haloport spread out beneath him, vibrant and indifferent.
Kael stepped forward until his shoes reached the edge line where the building stopped and the sky began.
He could see his own tower shadow cutting across the city like a blade.
Of course he'd built it tall. Of course he'd wanted to be above everything. He'd thought height meant safety.
It just meant you fell farther.
He gripped the railing, knuckles tightening against cold metal. Wind tugged at his suit jacket and made it flap like something trying to escape him.
A laugh slipped out of his throat, small and cracked.
"All that," he murmured. "All that effort, and I still can't breathe."
He imagined what the news would say.
Tech titan died with a high jump.
Market reacts.
Condolences.
Speculation.
A week of attention.
Then the city would swallow the story like it swallowed everything else.
His mother wouldn't come back.
His father wouldn't be gone.
His brother wouldn't suddenly understand.
Kael closed his eyes.
He didn't pray. He'd never been good at it. He'd spent his life believing that if he just worked harder, fate would negotiate.
Fate didn't negotiate.
But as the wind howled against the rooftop and the pressure in his chest built until it felt like it might crush his ribs, Kael whispered anyway—not to a god, not to a universe, but to the version of himself he'd abandoned.
"If I could do it again," he said softly, voice stolen by the wind, "I'd… I'd go home."
He opened his eyes.
The city lights glittered. Somewhere far below, a siren wailed. Somewhere closer, music thumped faintly from a rooftop party in a building not quite as tall, not quite as lonely.
Kael swung one leg over the railing.
His body trembled—not from fear, but from exhaustion. The kind that sank into bones.
He thought of his mother's hands, and this time he could almost see them—flour-dusted, moving with practiced ease. He thought of a warm kitchen. A dog barking. His brother's laugh.
A life that smelled like something.
Kael let go.
The wind caught him.
For an instant, the suffocation vanished.
There was only cold air rushing past his face, his stomach rising into his throat, the city turning into a spinning galaxy of lights.
His last thought wasn't money.
It wasn't regret, either—not exactly.
It was an absurdly simple thing, like the universe was mocking him with kindness.
I'm hungry.
Then the world snapped to white.
And somewhere, impossibly close, he heard a voice he hadn't heard in years.
"Kael! Get up! You'll miss the bus!"
His mother's voice.
Warm. Alive. Angry in that loving way that never lasted.
Kael's eyes flew open.