The elevator's soft hum filled the silence as Aeon descended from the thirty-seventh floor, his reflection staring back from the polished steel doors. The company party had been everything he'd expected—fake smiles, shallow conversations, and the suffocating scent of expensive cologne mixed with corporate ambition. His black suit felt heavier now, weighted down by exhaustion and the lingering taste of champagne that had done nothing to celebrate what should have been his moment.
The Prometheus Project. Six months of eighteen-hour days, countless sleepless nights, and sacrificed weekends had finally paid off. The revolutionary software that could optimize supply chains across entire industries was his brainchild, his breakthrough. Tonight was supposed to be his recognition.
The elevator dinged softly as it reached the ground floor. Aeon loosened his tie and stepped into the marble lobby, nodding at the security guard who barely looked up from his newspaper. Outside, the city's neon glow painted everything in shades of blue and gold, but even the familiar urban energy couldn't lift the strange heaviness in his chest.
His phone buzzed. A text from his colleague Jake: "Dude, did you see the announcement? Check the company website."
Aeon frowned, pulling up the site as he walked toward his car. The headline made his blood freeze:
BREAKTHROUGH INNOVATION: CEO Marcus Thornfield and Project Manager Sarah Chen Revolutionize Supply Chain Technology
His fingers trembled as he scrolled through the article. There, in corporate doublespeak and glowing praise, was his entire project. His code. His algorithms. His sleepless nights and brilliant insights. All attributed to Marcus Thornfield, the CEO who'd never written a line of code in his life, and Sarah Chen, the manager who'd spent more time taking credit than contributing ideas.
"Revolutionary thinking from our leadership team," the article gloated. "Mr. Thornfield's vision, combined with Ms. Chen's exceptional project management, has created what industry experts are calling the future of logistics."
Not a single mention of his name. Not even a footnote.
Aeon stood frozen in the parking garage, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like angry wasps. Six months. Half a year of his life poured into something that was supposed to change everything—his career, his future, his worth to the world. And they'd stolen it with the casual efficiency of pickpockets.
The drive home passed in a blur of red traffic lights and building rage. His modest apartment felt suffocating when he finally stumbled through the door, throwing his suit jacket onto the couch with more force than necessary. The walls seemed to close in around him, filled with the mockery of his computer science degree hanging crookedly on the wall and the stack of programming books that had promised him a better future.
He needed air. He needed space. He needed to get away from the crushing weight of his own stupidity for trusting them.
The stairs to the roof creaked under his feet as he climbed, each step echoing his frustration. The old building's rooftop was his sanctuary—a place where the city's chaos felt distant and manageable. He pushed open the metal door and stepped into the cool night air.
Above him, the stars struggled to shine through the city's light pollution, but a few stubborn pinpricks of light managed to pierce through. Aeon collapsed into the old lawn chair he'd dragged up here months ago and tilted his head back, letting the vastness of the sky wash over him.
"Freedom," he whispered to the darkness. "That's all I want. The freedom to do what I want, when I want, without these parasites stealing everything I create."
As if the universe had been waiting for his words, a brilliant streak of light blazed across the sky. A comet, bright and fierce, cutting through the darkness with purpose. For a moment, it seemed to pause directly overhead, pulsing with an otherworldly glow that made the hair on his arms stand up.
"I just want to be free," he said louder, his voice carrying a desperate edge. "Free to use my abilities without being crushed by people who see me as nothing more than a tool to be exploited."
The comet flared brighter, and for an impossible instant, Aeon could have sworn he felt something respond—a presence vast and ancient that heard his plea. The light intensified until it filled his vision, and then—
Darkness.
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Aeon's eyes snapped open.
His vision swam, blurred and disorienting. Through the haze, he could make out figures moving around him—women in long black dresses with white aprons and peculiar caps that looked like they belonged in a Victorian manor. Their faces were unfamiliar, their movements careful and practiced as they bustled about what appeared to be some kind of canvas shelter.
A tent?
The sound of metal against metal drew his gaze to the tent's entrance, where two armored figures stood at attention. Knights—actual knights in full plate armor, their hands resting on the pommels of very real-looking swords. Everything felt dreamlike, impossible, like his exhausted mind had conjured up some elaborate fantasy.
Then he heard it.
A voice, warm and achingly familiar, drifting from somewhere beyond his sight: "Take him to—"
The voice belonged to his mother. His mother, who had been dead for over a decade.
The shock of recognition hit him like a physical blow, and the strange world around him tilted violently. Darkness rushed up to meet him once again as consciousness slipped away like sand through his fingers.