Cyrus's heart raced as he hastily wiped his face, pushing the table to the side with a clatter. He kicked his discarded shirt out of the way, frantically trying to clean up his living space as quickly as possible. The sudden appearance of the holographic image had caught him off guard, and he was desperate to present a semblance of order to whoever was calling.
"Hum. Well, you look energetic, to say the least," a masculine voice emanated from the image. As the hologram solidified, Cyrus found himself face-to-face with a man of imposing build, a stark contrast to Cyrus's own slight frame. Despite being barely in his forties, the man looked much older, his face etched with deep wrinkles that spoke of a life of hardship. The most striking feature, however, was the huge scar that ran across his left eye, a testament to the dangers of his work.
Cyrus smiled awkwardly, recognizing the familiar face of his father, Chase. "How have you been, Dad?" he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.
Chase's expression softened, a genuine smile breaking through the weathered exterior. "Things aren't easy, but we're both coping," he replied, the joy of seeing his son evident in his tone.
Before Cyrus could respond, a feminine voice chimed in. "Hey, my darling, are you taking care of yourself correctly?" A woman with a striking resemblance to Cyrus appeared next to Chase, her features a softer echo of her son's.
Cyrus felt a lump form in his throat as he gazed at his mother, Cherey. She was only thirty-five, but the harsh conditions of her life had aged her prematurely. To Cyrus's eyes, she looked closer to eighty, her once-vibrant features worn down by worry and hard labor.
"I'm perfectly fine, but what about you?" Cyrus asked, his voice breaking under the weight of guilt that threatened to crush him. He knew all too well the sacrifices his parents were making for his sake.
Cherey's smile was warm and reassuring as she nudged her husband. "Don't worry, your father is taking good care of me," she said, her voice filled with affection.
Chase flexed his muscles playfully, a poor attempt at levity in the face of their grim reality. "As long as I'm here, she'll be fine," he declared. But even as he spoke, Cyrus's keen eyes caught sight of the bruises and wounds his father was trying so hard to conceal.
The work in the mines looks to be even worse than I expected, Cyrus thought, his heart sinking. His sight had always been abnormally developed, allowing him to perceive details others might miss. In this moment, he cursed this gift, wishing he could be blind to the evidence of his parents' suffering.
Unable to contain his emotions any longer, Cyrus fell to his knees, tears streaming down his face. "I'm so sorry, Dad, Mom. I..." he choked out, overwhelmed by guilt and despair.
"Oh, my baby," Cherey's voice was soft and comforting, "cry if you need to. We will always be there for you, don't worry. We'll keep working hard for you to have the best possible future."
Chase, ever the pragmatist, tried to steer the conversation to more positive topics. "I know my son wouldn't disappoint us. By the way, how's it going with that project... I guess Project T, if I'm not mistaken?"
Cyrus fell silent, feeling as if a nail had been driven through his heart. He couldn't bring himself to meet their eyes as he mumbled, "It wasn't a good one. I threw it away."
"Are you sure about that?" his mother pressed gently, her intuition telling her there was more to the story.
Cyrus plastered on an innocent expression, hating himself for the deception. "When have I ever lied to you, Mom?" he asked, the words tasting bitter on his tongue.
What have I become? The thought echoed in his mind, a damning indictment of his own character.
Suddenly, a loud explosion sounded from the other side of the hologram, dense clouds of smoke rising in the background. "The karmic monsters are back! Retreat!" a panicked voice echoed within the dark cave where his parents worked.
Cyrus blinked, bouncing back to his feet. He darted towards the image, stretching out his arm in a futile attempt to grasp his parents' hands, as if he could somehow pull them through the hologram to safety.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
"We just wanted to greet you; we must return now," his father said hastily, his voice tight with urgency.
"Bye, baby. We love you," his mother managed to say, waving before the hologram flickered and went still.
As the image faded, Cyrus felt as if a part of him had been ripped away. He stood there, staring at the empty space where his parents had been just moments ago, his outstretched hand grasping at nothing but air. The silence in the apartment was deafening, broken only by the familiar sound of the broken window flapping in the wind.
Unable to contain his anguish any longer, Cyrus let out a primal scream, his voice raw with emotion. He smacked his forehead against the table repeatedly, each impact a physical manifestation of his inner turmoil.
I hate you! I hate you! I hate you! The words pounded through his mind in time with the impacts, though whether they were directed at himself or the cruel world that had placed his family in such dire straits, he couldn't say.
The sounds of his self-flagellation echoed through the thin walls of the apartment building. Soon, the annoyed cries of his neighbors joined the cacophony, creating a symphony of chaos that seemed to mirror the turmoil about to befall Cyrus.
Time seemed to blur as Cyrus lost himself in his grief and self-loathing. When he finally regained awareness, he found himself sprawled on the floor, a dull ache throbbing in his forehead. His eyes flashed open, and his hands darted to his face, feeling the sticky warmth of blood that had trickled down his skin.
Grimacing, Cyrus realized that the pain in his head wasn't from the self-inflicted wounds, but from a violent headache that was storming through his brain. With effort, he pulled himself to his feet, leaning heavily on the sofa for support.
A glance at the clock told him it was almost midday. Damn, I've zoned out again, he thought ruefully. It happens every time I knock my head too hard. And just like magic, the wound never lasts.
As he stood there, swaying slightly, a bitter laugh escaped his lips. Sometimes I console myself with the idea of being non-human. Funny, you think? When we know every single soul on this damn planet would rather die than fall into their hands. Yeah, I think it's crazy, but at least that way, the bureau could spare me from this hell.
His dark musings were interrupted by a series of violent, hard knocks at his door. The sound reverberated through the small apartment, each impact feeling like a hammer blow to Cyrus's aching head.
"Who the hell is that?" he called out, his voice rough. "Calm down, I'm on my way!" Stumbling to the door, Cyrus fumbled with the handle before finally managing to pull it open.
Before he could even register who was there, a blurry figure brushed past him, followed closely by a younger teenager. Cyrus blinked, trying to clear his vision. As the newcomers came into focus, he noticed that the teenager looked respectable and clean, a far cry from Cyrus's own disheveled state.
The older man, whom Cyrus now recognized as Mr. Han, his landlord, glanced around the apartment with a critical eye. "How do you like it?" he asked, turning to the teenager.
The youth's response was casual, almost dismissive. "It requires a lot of renovation, but it's nearer to my school. My parents will handle the rest." Without hesitation, he handed Mr. Han a pile of shining ores. They were as black as the darkest abyss but shone like the brightest sun – karmic ore, the currency used in Arkania and the reason why Cyrus's parents toiled in the dangerous mines.
Cyrus felt a surge of frustration and envy. This kid could effortlessly fling around such a pile of karmic ore, while he could barely afford to keep a roof over his head.
Realizing what was happening, Cyrus stepped forward, blocking their path. "What's the meaning of this, Mr. Han? I thought we agreed on next month," he said, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice.
Mr. Han crossed his arms, his eyes unyielding. "Yes, but you didn't hold up your part of the contract."
"I have no other place to go," Cyrus pleaded, his hands clasped together. "Hey, listen, I have this project. Once I get it done, I'll pay you everything."
Mr. Han's expression remained impassive. "Don't make me feel guilty. I gave you a chance. You simply didn't take it. Have you ever really tried? Sorry if I don't think your 'brilliant ideas' will ever work." With that, he shoved Cyrus to the side, making his way towards the door.
The teenager, who had been observing the exchange with barely concealed amusement, laughed as he followed Mr. Han. "Mr. Han, you shouldn't feel guilty for such scum. They only know how to take advantage of others. You're too kind. My father has someone in the bureau, just in case."
Cyrus stood rooted to the spot, watching helplessly as they left. Their voices faded as they disappeared down the hallway, leaving him alone with the crushing reality of his situation.
"Now what?" he yelled out to the empty apartment, his voice echoing off the bare walls.
In the silence that followed, Cyrus's gaze fell on the few karmic ores he had left. He stared at his meager savings, feeling the weight of his circumstances pressing down on him. As he looked at the glittering stones, something within him hardened. His resolve, battered but not broken, began to crystallize into a new determination.
I have no choice anymore, he thought, his jaw set in grim determination.
As night fell and the bright moon rose in the sky, Cyrus stepped out of his apartment, a plan forming in his mind. He knew the risks, knew the dangers that awaited him, but he was out of options. With one last look at the building that would soon no longer be his home, Cyrus set off into the night, ready to take a gamble that could change everything.