The rain hadn't stopped for three days.
It fell over New Albion like a punishment, washing neon light into gray streaks. The sky hung low and heavy, pressing down on the narrow streets where news screens still flashed "Aurion Lab Reactor Malfunction – Contained. No Civilian Casualties."
But in one small apartment in District 9, the world had already collapsed.
---
"He's not answering again," Miriam Ward whispered, staring at the phone on the table. The screen glowed faintly — last message sent, no response.
Her hands trembled around a half-cold cup of tea. She hadn't slept, hadn't eaten, her hospital shift uniform still clinging damp against her skin.
On the couch, Evan Hart sat stiff and pale. The boy's backpack lay at his feet, untouched. He had been the last person to see Alaric. The last one to laugh at one of his stupid jokes.
"I told him it was dumb," Evan said quietly. "That he shouldn't go. He said it was just a test—something about earning money. He didn't tell me where."
Miriam's eyes rose slowly. "He told you something. That's more than he told me."
Her voice cracked on the last word.
---
The city didn't care about missing people. New Albion was too large, too loud. Every night, someone vanished into the static, and by morning there were new ads and brighter lights to hide the gaps.
But Miriam wasn't going to let her son become one of those gaps.
By afternoon, she was at the New Albion Police Department, the one with the flickering holo-banner promising "Integrity. Justice. Service."
The lobby smelled of coffee and disinterest. Officers moved slowly, like gears in a rusted machine.
She approached the desk. "My son's missing. He hasn't come home for three days."
The officer behind the glass didn't even look up. "Name?"
"Alaric Ward."
The officer typed lazily. "Age?"
"Sixteen."
"Any record?"
"No."
"Any gang connection?"
"No!" Her voice was sharp now. "He's a student. He—he just went out and never came back."
The officer sighed, eyes flicking to the monitor again. "Runaway cases aren't priority unless we have reason to suspect foul play."
"Foul play?" she echoed. "He's gone. He wouldn't just leave me. Something happened—"
Evan stepped forward. "He said he got a message. Some kind of experiment. From a Company or Something like that named—"
The officer's fingers froze mid-type. His expression shifted—barely noticeable, but enough. "Experiment?"
"Yeah," Evan said. "Aurion something—"
The officer hit a key fast enough to clear the report. "There's no record of that, kid. You must've heard wrong."
Miriam's brow furrowed. "You didn't even write it down."
He leaned back in his chair, his smile tired, fake. "Ma'am, your son's probably with friends. Give it a few days. If he's not back by the weekend, file a standard disappearance form."
"I am filing one now!"
"I said—" his tone hardened "—come back later. We're understaffed."
She stared at him, realizing suddenly that his hand was hovering near the console that recorded all public complaints. One push, and the record would vanish before it existed.
A uniformed lieutenant appeared from the side door. "Problem here?"
The officer shook his head. "Nothing, sir. Just another domestic case."
The lieutenant looked at Miriam — saw the hospital scrubs, the weary eyes, the trembling hand clutching a photo of a boy with a crooked grin. His smile was almost kind. Almost.
"Ma'am," he said softly. "You should go home. Kids run off all the time. Don't make this harder on yourself."
Outside, the rain had turned to fog. The glow of the police station faded behind her as she walked away, shoes splashing in shallow puddles.
Evan followed silently, guilt wrapped around his throat like wire.
"They're not going to help," she said at last. Her voice wasn't angry anymore — it was hollow. "Did you see how they looked when you said Aurion? They know something."
Evan hesitated. "Maybe he's still out there, Mrs. Ward. Maybe—"
"Maybe he is," she interrupted. "But if he is… they don't want us to find him."
They stopped at a crossing. Above them, an Aurion Industries billboard flickered to life — a sleek ad showing bright faces and the slogan:
"Tomorrow's Humanity. Today."
The holographic smile of Dr. Elias Krane appeared for a second before glitching out, replaced by the logo — a circle of light split by a single black line.
Miriam stared at it, her reflection caught in the glow. For a brief second, the light made her eyes shimmer with something between fear and rage.
Then she whispered, almost to herself:
"Tomorrow's humanity… but not my son."
The rain drowned the rest of her words.
That night, she sat alone at the kitchen table. The lights flickered again — low power credits. On the wall, the calendar still had Alaric's messy handwriting on it: "Friday – prank day".
The silence pressed against her chest until she couldn't breathe.
She opened her laptop and searched:
"Aurion Human Enhancement Program."
Nothing.
Then "Dr. Elias Krane."
Nothing.
Every link she clicked led to the same message: Access Restricted.
She closed it slowly, whispering his name like a prayer.
"Alaric…"
Outside, the city lights dimmed, the storm easing into drizzle. Somewhere in the distance, the faint hum of a passing drone echoed — and for a second, it sounded almost like static laughter.