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Noren Island split itself by wealth.
The Commonwealth spread wide—dust, tension, unending sound.
Across a narrow bridge rose Elixisied.
Clean air.
Silent gates.
Two worlds pretending not to share the same soil.
A single plane crossed that thin border of sky.
Inside sat Ashen and his parents.
They were leaving marble for concrete, riches for survival.
From dominance to endurance.
Ashen watched clouds drift past like peeled skin.
The closer they flew, the tighter his stomach turned.
Every thought circled the same name—Sovey.
She stayed where he couldn't return.
When they landed, the contrast hit fast.
Glass. Metal. Order.
Machines took jobs.
Announcements spoke like laws—measured and clean.
Their taxi rolled through Elixisied's districts—steel towers, green fences, silent wealth.
Last zone: modest houses of the middle‑rich.
No decadence. No dirt.
Their stop looked plain—a single floor, whitewashed walls, an iron fence.
Inside, a couch too stiff.
Fridge buzzing.
Television fading color.
Quiet enough to hear breathing.
His father smiled—careful not to sound apologetic.
"Smaller, yes. But value here's different. We're average among progress, not royalty among ruin. That's the future."
Ashen nodded once.
Evening fell.
Unpacking turned mechanical.
Night.
He lay across the couch.
The fabric bit into skin.
Air‑conditioners hummed outside windows—less mercy, more restraint.
Sleep came slow.
Gray morning pushed in.
Mother's voice from kitchen: "School starts, Ashen."
Bread on the table.
Milk thick as metal.
Fruit sweet then bitter.
He ate anyway.
The bus reeked of fuel and sweat.
No luxury. Just transport.
Ten kilometers felt endless.
School radiated wealth that pretended it wasn't looking.
Uniforms crisp.
Shoes mirror‑bright.
Even laughter sounded rehearsed.
He found a seat near a quiet boy.
"Mind if I?"
"Sure," the boy said.
Haul.
By lunch, Ashen was ghost‑adopted into his circle—six friends, one pattern.
No one asked questions; politeness replaced intimacy.
Haul grinned.
"Tomorrow, Alzate. You coming?"
"Alzate?"
"Theme park."
A smirk. "Imagine Ant‑Vistop—but fifty times realer. Every breath designed to respond. Neural systems. No seams."
Ashen's chest lit.
"Yes," he said, smile uncontrollable.
Haul laughed.
"Bring money."
That night he ran through the front door before words could anchor him.
"Father, guess—"
Water dripped from his father's hands.
Gentle smile, tired eyes.
"Slow down. What is it?"
"Alzate. Tomorrow. Everyone's going."
Silence anchored itself.
The faucet still ran.
"Son," he said quietly, "we can't. Those places cost a month's breath. Give it time."
Ashen nodded.
Smile gone.
He walked to his room, door closing soft.
Inside, noise dissolved.
Calm folded itself into hardness.
Morning built embarrassment instead of light.
He walked to Haul's desk, bag traced by habit.
Haul looked up.
"Don't sit here."
"What?"
"Find another seat. Nothing personal. Group needs balance."
Ashen stared down at his hands, then stepped away.
Recess.
He tried again.
"Haul, did something happen?"
Haul didn't even lower his tone.
"You lied. You're poor. You can't come. Stop orbiting me. It's not hate. It's structure."
"All due respect."
The phrase hit softer than cruelty but cut deeper.
Ashen nodded slowly.
"Okay."
Class resumed.
Teachers talked dreams.
"Haul, what will you be?"
He stood straight.
"A General."
Applause rose.
Approval sanctified him.
Ashen watched.
Jealousy didn't form, only ache.
He stared at his own fingers.
Nothing special. Not yet.
Fine.
He whispered to himself, "If he can, I can. Maybe I'll climb past all of them. Sovey's world was small anyway."
The vow sounded strange—too calm.
Cold aspiration in place of hurt.
That night he didn't sleep.
Screen glow replaced dreamlight.
Searches scrolled—requirements, ranks, pathways.
"General," he murmured again.
Sound tasted metallic.
Morning bled pink over Elixisied.
Synthetic dew shimmered across roads.
Noise ordered itself.
Ashen stood by the window, whispering to inevitability.
"I'll see Alzate someday."
The whisper vanished under first traffic hum.
Hunger remained.
Light streaked through the Jerry estate.
Children laughed under filtered sun.
Sovey led them—smiles and orders sharing breath.
Mid‑sentence, her voice broke.
Body lurched.
She fell.
Guards moved first.
Boots hitting lawn.
Laughter shattered to cries.
"Get Mr. Jerry!"
Feet thundered through corridors.
Upstairs, rooms sealed into quiet.
Blankets replaced joy.
Panic filled air‑conditioned space.
Downstairs, Jerry counted stock in his distillery.
The air thick with yeast and wage.
Then the call.
"Sir—your daughter. She collapsed."
He let the clipboard drop.
Words already cutting through him.
"Bring the car."
Sirens of speed filled the city.
Sovey half‑conscious across the seat, breath thin as thread.
Hospital walls loomed—glass and light.
They separated at entry.
Doctors vanished with her.
Jerry sat alone on marble bench.
Time moved wrong.
Each second dragged out until even silence seemed to sweat.
Across the horizon, Aralan waited on the ridge.
The mansion below still gleamed.
Too alive. Too arrogant.
Weapon in hand.
Cold. Metal precise.
Finger balanced on trigger.
"Three…"
"Two…"
"One."
Light cracked forward.
Sound erased itself.
Then came the roar.
The mansion vanished first.
Heat folded it inwards—marble, skin, structure atomized.
Fire rolled outward in circular bloom.
Distillery below ignited, feeding the explosion through ground veins.
Flame uprooted the earth itself.
Everything human vaporized.
Children caught mid‑play frozen into gray outlines.
Servants erased between heartbeats.
No screams, just silence after sound too big for ears.
Only at the outskirts came echo—thin, delayed.
Sky filled with smoke thick enough to steal the horizon.
Aralan ran.
Didn't look back.
Steps carved rhythm through settling ash.
Behind him, the estate became a crater of memory.
Miles away, a guard stared up from the hills at that living pillar of fire.
For a moment he thought the sun was falling.
Then the radio squawked.
"Sir! Mr. Jerry!"
Static filtered his panic.
"Your mansion… it's gone."
Pause.
Then Jerry's voice, breaking.
"What?"
"It's burning. All of it. Nothing left to save."
The phone turned to silence.
He dropped to the floor where he'd been sitting outside Sovey's room.
Breath halted.
Control dissolved.
He cried quietly.
Not grief—disbelief in physical form.
The wall's clock clicked too slow.
One hour. Two.
Tears dried.
Desperation stayed.
The nurse arrived.
Expression trained for this.
"Sir, your daughter's condition—autoimmune encephalitis. Her body's attacking her brain. Treatment can stabilize her but costs 1.2 million Franz."
Jerry's lips trembled.
"Wait."
He dialed.
His brother answered.
"I need help. Sovey's dying. I need a million."
A hollow laugh on the other end.
"No. You've had your share. Stay gone."
Click.
Utensils clinked miles away.
Dinner inside a smaller house.
Ashen's voice calm across the table.
"You did right, Father. Let them rot."
His father said, "We owe nothing to their disease."
Back in the hospital, quiet stifled air.
The nurse's tone stayed clinical.
"If payment fails, we stop treatment."
"I'll get it," Jerry whispered.
"Wait."
He stumbled toward the exit.
Behind the door, Sovey opened her eyes.
Voices outside echoed: the guard's, the nurse's, her father's collapse in tone.
She whispered, "Water."
Two guards exchanged looks.
Then turned.
"Sovey," one said quietly, "you're replaceable now."
They walked away.
Air thickened.
The nurse returned minutes later.
Her face motionless under mask.
Hands detached the oxygen line.
Hiss faded.
Machine fell still.
Sovey gasped, voice fracturing.
"I can't—please—"
"We're not funded," the nurse said.
"We can't justify it."
System logic.
Merciful neutrality.
The line stayed still.
Sovey dragged herself upright.
Feet touched cold tile.
No shoes.
She walked out.
Outside, sunlight blazed merciless and white.
Streets frozen in indifferent order.
She stepped into it bare.
At the curb, she lifted her hands.
"Please," she whispered.
"Help me. Money."
Commuters slowed.
Recognition spread.
Laughter followed.
Someone raised a camera.
Shutters replaced coins.
Mockery rippled through the passing crowd.
She caught snippets—"karma," "justice," "miracle."
Voices spun around her like distant insects.
Breath cracked.
The images returned—the ones she made others live.
Her father begging the nurse.
The beggar begging her.
Guards leaving her.
Her words thrown back line for line.
Asthma boy choking.
Her giggle over his fear.
Now her own lungs clawing for air.
Full circle too perfect to curse.
Oxygen gone.
Power gone.
Pride gone.
She looked down.
Feet dusted, knees shaking.
Same dust she'd kicked from another's bowl once.
Laughter grew louder.
Photos snapped.
Sovey sank.
Hands braced on stone.
Sun pressed until the world narrowed to noise and brightness.
In the reflection of a passing car window, she saw herself—
not heir, not queen,
just mirror of everything she had built her cruelty upon.
She smiled once, strange and small, unable to stop tears.
Breathing hurt too much for hatred.
Crowd thinned.
Cameras moved on.
World kept working.
One image remained.
That photo—girl kneeling bare‑foot in light—circulated the network hours later.
No caption.
Only one tagline.
Sovey.
Beneath it, a comment scrolling fast through irony:
"You get what you give."