3.6
Isolde spent six days in the Aegis Node medical center recovering from third-degree burns, though most of it passed in a haze. She didn’t remember the trauma team arriving; by the time they’d picked her up, she’d already slipped into unconsciousness. Whether it was the smoke, the pain, or the unbearable weight of Elysia’s death that had pulled her under, she couldn’t say. What she hoped for—what she’d begged for in those brief flashes of lucidity—was to wake up in her apartment. To find herself under her scratchy old blanket, Elysia sitting cross-legged on the floor, drawing her bright, vivid worlds onto paper. To realise it had all been one terrible dream.
But it wasn’t.
She was... gone.
And Isolde hadn’t spoken a single word throughout her entire stay. When the nurses asked what she wanted for breakfast, she didn’t answer. When the doctors inquired if she smoked or drank, she stayed silent. And when people leaned in gently, their voices full of concern, and asked how she was feeling, she only stared back—her eyes vacant yet weighted with something insufferable, something that swallowed the room in silence.
She felt nothing. Pure... emptiness.
It was as if someone had drilled a hole in her stomach and let everything spill out—her joy, her love, her very sense of self—until all that remained was a hollow, aching void that no amount of time or tears could ever fill.
And during those restless nights, as the ward echoed with the relentless beeping of monitors, the distant cries of pain, and the never-ending shuffle of footsteps, she found herself wondering what kind of merciful god could allow such a thing.
Why her? Why Isolde Crane? Why not the monsters across the river—the liars, the bullies, the ones who thrived on making life miserable for anyone without the fortune or power to resist? Why not the people who played their hands ruthlessly in a game rigged for failure, leaving others to suffer for their greed?
She asked it again: What merciful god would do this?
No answer.
Only the cold, sterile beeping of machines. Only the muffled cries and groans that drifted down the hall, reminders of suffering she could no longer bear to witness.
When she finally checked out of the hospital, bandages wrapped tightly around her neck and forearms, Silas was there, waiting for her in his battered transport van. His face was lined with a heaviness she hadn’t seen before, and for a moment, they just stared at each other. Rain slicked the streets, turning the pavement into a fractured mirror that reflected the cold, artificial glow of the city lights. People brushed past her, faceless shadows under umbrellas, their hurried steps splashing through shallow puddles. The wind crossing the intersection kicked up smells of wet concrete and oil, and in the distance a child cried, a sound swallowed by the hum of hydrocell engines. She stood still, letting the rain soak through her clothes, chilling her skin but failing to reach the hollow ache inside, and her hands were steady, not a tremor in sight, falling darkly at her sides, a slight hunch in her back. As the droplets slid down her cheeks, all she could do was watch the world pass her by, leaving her to grovel in its shadow.
She walked around to the opposite side of the van, moving slowly, opened the passenger-side door, and slid inside, shutting it gently behind her.
Silas didn’t boot the engine up right away. He sat there in silence—they sat there in silence, listening to the rain drum against the roof.
“Listen,” he said, struggling to find words, “I think it’s best you stay with me for a while. I think the last place you should be is... home.”
Isolde kept her eyes forward, tracing the rain against the windshield, each droplet wobbling and merging as if caught in a slow, rhythmic struggle, and for the first time in nearly a week, she spoke: “Why, Silas? Just... why?” Her voice was hoarse from disuse.
“I see that look in your eyes,” he said. “It’s not a good look—it’s a dangerous one.”
“No, Silas,” she said slowly. “Why?”
He stared at her, flicking his thumb on the steering wheel. “Forgive me. I don’t understand.”
“Why do you go out of your way to help someone like me?”
He took a moment, his eyes flickering with caution. “You’re a friend. A real good one, Isolde.”
“A... friend?”
He nodded. “Of course.”
She hummed, disbelieving. “Take me home, Silas.”
“Isolde, it’s not the best idea—”
“I don’t really give a fuck what you think, Silas,” she said calmly. “If you don’t take me home, I’ll walk.”
“Now listen,” he said, sharp. “You go home to that apartment and you’ll end up hurting yourself. You’ll end up—”
“Dead?” She turned to him, her voice cold. “And so what if I do? Do you really think there’s anything left for me to live for?”
“Listen to me—”
She balled her fists, then started squeezing the leather car seat. “Do you really believe that anything—any amount of money, jobs, books, scratchy blankets—can make up for what I just lost? Do you have any idea of how deeply, deeply painful this is?” Once again, her voice was calm, controlled.
Silas shook his head, worry plastered on his face like an ugly mask. “It’s not about that—”
“But it’s alright for you, isn’t it? You still have a family, don’t you? You can still travel across the state and visit your parents, you can still go home to your girlfriend. It must be nice having someone who doesn’t take off like a fucking fart in the wind. Must be nice having a jobbbbbbbb where you don’t have to worry about the next bill or a kid staring at the same plate five days in a row when all you can say is, ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Elysia, it’s all I can fucking afford.’”
Silas waved his hand in a desperate attempt to cut her off. “Now hold on—”
She let out a bitter laugh, her brow furling. “You don’t get it. You don’t get what it’s like to lose everything. Hell, you don’t know what it’s like having nothing in the first place. For the past twenty years, you’ve been working in that kiosk, bought a nice van so you don’t have to ride the metro or tram where your mere existence is a disservice to the employed.” She swallowed hard, nearly choking on the words, but she forced them out, her voice steady and sharp. “But me? I’ve had to fight every single day of my life to put food on that fucking table.” She started counting on her fingers. “I’ve lost sleep. I’ve been bullied, I’ve been pushed down, I’ve been nearly raped, I’ve been treated like complete shit, and why? Because I don’t have any fucking money? Because I don’t have a job? I bet you think I wasn’t trying either, hey?”
“That’s not true—” Silas said.
“Thought I was just leeching off the system, hey? Surely that must have been the case if I couldn’t land a job for years, hey? All those interviews, all those rejection letters, all those FUCKING PHONE CALLS!” She yanked the seatbelt as hard as she could, straining her wrist. “‘Sorry, but you’re not what we’re looking for’. ‘Sorry, we’ve decided to go with another candidate’. ‘Sorry, Isolde, you’re a fucking southsider!’”
She’d never seen such fear in Silas’ eyes, such terror, and yet, she could tell he wasn’t afraid. He didn’t say anything; only listened.
“So don’t give me that ‘things get better’ optimistic bullshit,” she said, and every word was like spitting out a dry ball of lint. “The truth is I’m just waiting for the next thing to destroy me, because that’s all my life’s ever been. The next blow. The next loss. And you really want me to continue to suffer through all that?”
This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.
The silence that followed was profound, as if the world itself had paused. Even the steady patter of rain against the windows seemed powerless to break its weight. It hung thick in the air—too heavy, almost suffocating.
Isolde stared down at her shoes, her hands clenched so tightly it hurt, every muscle in her body taut. She leaned over, taking a deep breath.
He put a hand on her back and massaged it, like before, but this time it did little to soothe her. “You’re right,” he said softly. “It’s, uh—well, I can’t really find the words. People are disgustin’, plain as that. And I can’t even begin to imagine what this is like for you. No amount of trauma I’ve ever encountered my whole life could match up to what happened, and believe me when I say I’m sorry. But I can’t just let you go back to that place. You know as well as I do that, as soon as you step through that door, Father Time will take over. The memory will be too strong. You’ll kill yourself. That’s the hard truth, Isolde. And I know you want to say that you don’t have anything worth living for, but the truth is that you do.
“I can see you changing this place one day. Don’t ask me how, but you’re smarter than you think. Very smart, actually. Like out-of-this-world smart. And putting that intelligence to use to fix the problems in this city.... I don’t know, I can just see you changing it. You said that I thought you weren’t trying but that couldn’t be further from the case. I saw all those letters, Isolde. Every week I’d notice you coming through the market, and you weren’t buying drugs or any of that wasteful crap. And I can see it in you. A man knows the type who’s trying and the type who isn’t.
“Look, all of this is just me rattlin’. Nothing I say can or will change anything, make things easier. But it’s better to keep standing up in the face of evil, refusing to back down, because otherwise, that’s how worlds get destroyed.”
Isolde pinched the bridge of her nose, remaining silent. What could she say, really? He had explained it in his own halting way. She opened the door, allowing the rain to gust inside. “Worlds fall apart because people do nothing, don’t they?” she murmured, her voice barely audible over the storm. The look she gave him was sharp, piercing yet unbearably soft.
Silas’ hand rested on her shoulder, its grip faint, too feeble to hold her back. She was going.
Isolde stepped out of the van and shut the door behind her, the sound of it slamming more final than anything Silas could ever say. She looked up at the sky—a churning sea of ash-grey clouds, the kind that smothered stars. Drones hovered and zipped like metal vultures, soulless and efficient, their blinking lights casting a barren glow that only deepened the darkness below. The buildings loomed, their windows shining faintly, but never warmly, with the artificial light of a world that didn’t care. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed, its pitch stretching thin, bending like a scream caught on the wind.
She stood there, letting the rain run down her cheeks, her fists clenched at her sides, her breath fogging the air in shallow bursts. Every sound, every flicker of movement, every pulse of neon was an insult, as if the city itself dared her to find meaning in its hollow rhythm.
And she walked.
She dragged her feet through the water, each step finding a deeper puddle. She was cold, so very cold, with the temperatures reaching well below freezing. The apartment complex was about an hour’s trek from here; she didn’t care enough to take the tram, not that she had the money for it. Just another hospital bill tacked onto the list, a final nail in the coffin, the sort of nail that plunged deep into the wood and teased you—it teased you, ‘You will never escape.’
And she walked.
Far ahead, by the main bridge, a hulking aerodyne descended onto the beach with all the grace of a falling anvil. Just a quick pitstop, dropping off whatever scraps the privileged north had deemed unfit for their pristine lives—how generous. How magnanimous of the government to ensure the south got its fair share of leftovers. What a flawless system it was, truly. A system that didn’t just widen the gap between the glittering towers and the crumbling slums but actively polished the divide until it gleamed. A system that, rather than investing in education or clean water for people here, spent its time maintaining this noble tradition of trickle-down charity. Yes, what a marvel of modern governance. Who could possibly imagine a better arrangement?
Oh, sure, she thought, forget sustainable infrastructure or policies that might actually improve lives across the board—what fun would that be? A fairer system might rob the north of their gilded trash heaps or their smug sense of superiority, and we couldn't have that. No, better to keep this well-oiled machine humming along, delivering its monthly dose of mockery disguised as aid.
And she walked.
She walked for so long her feet nearly gave out. When she finally made it to the complex and climbed up those ruthless steps to her apartment on the third floor, the paint, RENT IS DUE, was still waiting for her, gawking at her, laughing at her.
It was challenging to simply open the door and walk inside. She knew her daughter’s belongings would be waiting for her on the other side. What Silas said about Father Time overpowering her would very likely occur. But she didn’t care. Frankly, there was no point in living anymore. No amount of hope could save her from this, no number of smiles or good intentions.
She had lost everything.
Isolde could barely raise her hand to press the scannerlock. Just when she was about to, her phone rang.
Silas. She gritted her teeth.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out the phone, almost swiping left to cancel the dial, but she noticed something: that wasn’t Silas’ number. It was completely different, only four digits long, a business number.
She stared at it, wondering who on Earth it could be, then reluctantly swiped right, putting it up to her ear. “Who is this?” she rasped.
“Good afternoon, may I speak to Ms. Isolde Crane?” It was a deep voice, very deep. She’d not heard it anywhere before.
Her voice was stern. So stern, in fact, that she thought whoever this person was would no sooner hang up the call. “Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, this is she.”
“So sorry to disturb you, Ms. Crane, but my name is Dr. Alaric Solvayne, Head of Neural Systems Integration at Techstrum Systems International LLC. Are you free to speak at the moment?”
Perhaps it was a force of habit, but her voice changed, becoming slightly, just slightly, more polite. “Oh, well—I, yes I am. I’m free to... talk.”
“Now, Ms. Crane, I won’t take up too much of your time, but we’ve recently been reviewing candidates to start early on in the first quarter, and your resume struck me,” he said. “I read through it. I noticed a few things, such as your gap in employment, which I understand based off your cover letter was a difficult situation for you, but I also noticed your background in pharmaceutical chemistry. There aren’t many with your level of education in the city, and I would like to offer you to come in for an interview tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.”
She took a moment to respond; it was one of those situations where she was too blown away to gather thoughts. “Tomorrow morning?” she said softly.
“That’s right,” he said. “Or if that’s too sudden, we’re open to rescheduling—”
“No,” she said. “Tomorrow would be.... Tomorrow at ten would be perfect, Dr. Solvayne.”
“Excellent,” he said. “I’ll email you the details. Do you have a suit, Ms. Crane?”
She shook her head as if he were in front of her. “No, I don’t. Can’t really afford one.”
“That’s okay,” he said. “I’ll make a note of it. Once again, I apologise for the sudden call and the late notice. Originally, your resume missed the scanning. I stumbled upon it by accident and really felt for your situation. I’ll be talking to you soon.”
“Thank you,” she said, and it was sincere.
“You and your daughter have a wonderful rest of your day now,” he said. “Goodbye, Ms. Crane.”
The line dropped.
She was too stumped to move. Isolde stood in front of her apartment door, the phone still clutched in her hand. The echo of the man’s polite farewell hung in the air like a ghost she couldn’t quite banish. Her heart didn’t race; it didn’t flutter with hope or anxiety. It barely beat at all.
She placed the phone in her winter coat pocket, turned back, and... walked.
She headed downstairs again, ignoring the swarm of tenants passing her out, bumping shoulders, nearly tripping. The walk felt longer than it should have, every step heavy, every direction bending and swirling. And she stepped out onto the concrete stoop exiting the complex, looking ahead, hands stuffed in her jacket, face unreadable, even to herself. Her breath puffed out in faint, short clouds against the chill, but her chest didn’t heave.
She gazed.
Across the canal, in the distant north, the government tower loomed like a monolithic sentinel over the city, its sleek glass and steel silhouette cutting through the horizon. It stretched impossibly high, the upper levels lost in the perpetual smog that hung over Neo Arcadia in a thick shroud. The tower bellowsed with a life of its own, each row of electronic strips breathing. The building’s architecture was sharp and angular with edges scraping against the heavens, and the massive holograms projecting across its surface blinked and shifted like monstrous eyes. Drones and armoured convoys threaded their way to the base, mere ants serving the will of an indominable mound.
To anyone who dared look, it would be a place of awe and fear, a fortress of power meant to crush resistance with its very presence. There was no crack, no weakness, no flaw to its imposing exterior. It was a god, built by those who saw themselves above all others. A constant reminder that the south would continue to drown, to be enslaved in corporate misery.
And yet, as Isolde stood there, her glare locked on the tower, a strange sense of calm settled over her. A part of her knew, somewhere deep in that hollow space of hers, that it was not invincible.
I can see you changing this place one day.
She reached into her pocket and retrieved her leather wallet. She opened it, slowly, and brought out the piece of paper with the perfect, clean words: I Love You.
Isolde Crane might not have had any augmentations, no chrome-threaded nerves, no neural uplinks to dull the pain, no special wiring to shield her from the world’s brutality, but she had this: a crumpled piece of paper—and the horrific image of the flames swallowing her child.
It would never dwindle.
It would never falter.
It would only burn.
And as she clenched her fists, her reflection distorted in the rain-slicked concrete, she realised: so would they.