(Owen's narration)
The damage was already done. Clover Down town was left in tatters, broken beyond repair. The streets that once carried life now held only ghosts. The economy had collapsed entirely—years of mismanagement by Gustavo's regime had drained the town's funds dry. Bank accounts vanished overnight. Savings disappeared. Businesses shuttered their doors for good.
The people had nothing left.
That's when the World Aid Organization stepped in. In collaboration with Ashgrove County, they launched a relief effort—providing food, shelter, and basic supplies to the displaced citizens. Almost everyone in Clover Down had been affected. Entire families were bankrupt. Children wandered the streets, hollow-eyed and hungry.
Aid tents were erected throughout the town—large canvas structures with the World Aid logo stamped across their sides. Inside, rows of tables stretched long and wide, piled with hot meals in metal trays. Volunteers in bright orange vests moved efficiently, serving portions of rice, beans, bread, and soup to those waiting in line.
The line stretched far, snaking through the tent and out into the open air. Men, women, children—all holding plates or bowls, their faces weary, their clothes dirty and torn. They shuffled forward slowly, eyes downcast, shoulders slumped.
Among them was a little girl, no more than six years old. Her face was smudged with dust, her hair tangled and unkempt. She wore a faded dress that hung loosely on her thin frame. In her small hands, she clutched a chipped plastic plate, holding it carefully as though it were made of glass.
She moved forward in line, silent, her eyes fixed on the ground.
When her turn came, a woman stepped forward to serve her. The woman was dressed in the standard World Aid attire—a crisp white shirt beneath an orange vest, khaki pants, and sturdy boots. Her hair was pulled back neatly, and her face, though tired, carried a warmth that felt genuine.
She smiled gently at the little girl and ladled a generous portion of soup onto her plate, then added a slice of bread on the side.
But she didn't stop there.
The woman crouched down slightly, bringing herself to the little girl's level. With a soft hand, she reached out and gently caressed the girl's hair, brushing away the tangles with tender fingers.
The little girl blinked, her eyes widening slightly.
Then, the woman pulled a small cloth from her pocket and carefully wiped the dust from the girl's face—her cheeks, her forehead, the bridge of her nose. Each movement was slow, deliberate, filled with care.
The little girl's lip began to tremble. Her eyes glistened, tears pooling at the corners. Then, suddenly, they spilled over, streaming down her freshly cleaned cheeks.
The woman's smile softened even more. She placed a gentle hand on the girl's shoulder. "It's okay," she whispered. "You're safe now. It's okay."
The little girl nodded, sniffling, clutching her plate tightly as she moved away, still crying—but this time, not from sadness.
---
(Owen's narration)
Among the individuals who aided in funding the relief efforts for Clover Down's displaced citizens, one stood above all others. Her name was Naomi Saiyan.
The Saiyan family.
They were more than wealthy. They were legend.
Rumors stretched back centuries—stories passed down through generations like whispered folklore. The Sayians were said to be descended from an ancient kinship ruling family , a bloodline that had quietly shaped the world from the shadows,of which though it dissolved itself branches came out of it of one of Saiyan,the other of Gilgamesh.
It was believed they funded with Gilgamesh century-old civil wars between states, manipulating outcomes to suit their interests. They were the founding titans of the Industrial Revolution, controlling vast swathes of land across what would become the fictional United States. At one point, they held more power than the federal government itself.
During the World Wars, they funded the Allied Forces—though their motives remained unclear. Some said it was patriotism. Others believed it was strategy, ensuring they remained on the winning side.
And then there were the darker rumors.
That one of the engineers behind the development of plutonium and atomic bombs worked secretly for the Saiyan family. That their influence had shaped the very weapons that ended wars and ushered in a new, terrifying age.
The Saiyan family didn't just live through history—they made it.
Today, most of the Saiyan members were part of the Federation World System, or FWS—a shadowy organization comprising the world's wealthiest and most powerful elites. They didn't govern directly. They didn't need to. Instead, they debated, deliberated, and proposed solutions to global conflicts, environmental crises, and social challenges. Their ideas became recommendations. Those recommendations became policies. And those policies became laws, implemented by world leaders who bent to the will of those above them.
The FWS didn't rule the world.
They *guided* it.
And Naomi Saiyan was one of its brightest stars.
---
Naomi Saiyan didn't just fund relief efforts. She reshaped the entire infrastructure of Clover Down.
She took over the Lake Dam Water Pipeline Unit—the primary source of clean water for not just Ashgrove County, but several neighboring counties and states. Under her control, water became *free* for all displaced citizens.
The people saw her as a savior.
Her face appeared on banners, on posters, on television screens. She gave speeches about unity, resilience, and rebuilding. She walked among the people, shaking hands, hugging children, promising them a brighter future.
And the public loved her for it.
They loved her so much, in fact, that they began calling for her to take political office. Petitions circulated. Rallies were held. The citizens demanded that Naomi Saiyan become the new mayor of Clover Down.
And Ashgrove County obliged.
---
The ceremony took place in the grand hall of the newly restored Clover Down Municipal Building. The structure gleamed with fresh paint and polished marble, a symbol of rebirth rising from the ashes.
Inside, the atmosphere was electric.
Rows of chairs filled the hall, packed with citizens, reporters, and dignitaries. Security personnel stood at every entrance—tall, broad-shouldered men in black suits with earpieces, their eyes scanning the crowd constantly.
At the center of it all stood Naomi Saiyan.
She wore a crisp business suit—tailored perfectly to her frame, sharp lines and elegant cut. The fabric was dark navy, almost black, contrasting beautifully with her pale skin. Around her shoulders and draped across her waist was the Mayor's Signature Sash—a wide band of pristine white cloth, embroidered with gold thread, marking her new position.
Her hair was styled immaculately, her makeup subtle but flawless. She looked every bit the part of a leader.
She stood on the stage, smiling warmly, one hand raised in a wave. The crowd roared.
"Naomi! Naomi! Naomi!"
Some held signs:
CLOVER DOWN HEROINE!
Beneath the text was a large photo of Naomi—her face radiant, heroic, beautiful. She looked like a queen.
Security flanked her on all sides, their presence a constant reminder of her importance. But Naomi seemed unbothered, her smile never faltering as she waved to the crowd, her eyes sweeping over the sea of faces.
She looked grateful. Humble. Genuine.
But there was something in her eyes—something subtle, almost imperceptible—that flickered for just a moment.
A glint of satisfaction.
Her smile widened slightly, her gaze sharp and calculating as she looked out over the cheering masses. It was the look of someone who had played a game—and won.
---
(Owen's narration)
Back then, no one noticed. No one saw the trajectory Clover Down was being steered toward. Slowly, subtly, the town's future began to favor the elitist technocratic complex—not the public.
But the people were too naïve to realize it. They were too blinded by the free water, the free food, the promised homes being built in their names. They saw Naomi Saiyan as their heroine, their savior.
They didn't see her for what she really was.
An opportunist.
Someone who had taken advantage of their desperation, their gratitude, and turned it into power.
---
Naomi stood on that stage, her hand still raised, her smile still perfect. The crowd continued to cheer.
And for just a moment, her expression shifted—her smile turning colder, sharper. Her eyes gleamed with quiet triumph.
She had everything in her grasp.
---
In a quiet corridor of Delvin Orphanage, little Owen stood fidgeting, his small fingers twisting together nervously. The walls were plain and painted a dull beige. The air smelled faintly of detergent and old wood.
Beside him stood a middle-aged woman in a simple caretaker's uniform—a light blue blouse and dark slacks, practical and clean. Her face was kind, soft with age, her eyes warm and gentle. Her hair was pulled back into a loose bun, a few strands falling around her face.
Her name was Jessica Simpson.
She smiled down at Owen, reaching out to gently caress his hair. Her touch was soft, affectionate, like a mother soothing a frightened child.
Owen looked up at her, his eyes glassy.
*(Owen's narration)*
I don't remember how I got from Melville Orphanage to Delvin. That part of my life is all fuzzy—like trying to see through fog. But I remember Jessica Simpson.
Her kindness reminded me of my mother. Of Sofia. Of the way she used to hold me. The way she used to make me feel safe.
And it reminded me of Kate. My sister. The one I'd lost.
It made me feel something I hadn't felt in a long time.
Love. And the need to be loved again.
---
Tears began to fall from Owen's eyes, sliding silently down his cheeks.
Jessica's smile faltered slightly, her expression shifting to one of gentle concern. "Oh my," she said softly, "you're one of the emotional ones, aren't you?"
She crouched down and wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into a warm embrace.
Owen didn't resist. He leaned into her, his small body trembling as he clung to her. He pressed his face against her shoulder, feeling the warmth of her hug—the sensation he'd missed so desperately.
He cried quietly, his tears soaking into her shirt.
Jessica held him tighter, her hand rubbing his back in slow, soothing circles. "It's okay," she whispered. "You're safe here. You're okay."
---
(Owen's narration)
At night, I couldn't stop thinking about them. My mother. My sister. That tiny home. The bowl of stew we shared. The way my mom hugged us both.
I couldn't get it out of my head.
And it haunted me.
---
The dormitory was dim, lit only by the faint glow of a nightlight near the door. Rows of small beds lined the walls, each occupied by a sleeping child. The air was quiet, filled only with the soft sounds of breathing.
Little Owen lay in his bed, his body restless. His small frame twisted under the thin blanket, his face contorted in distress. His hands clenched the sheets, his breathing uneven.
He was dreaming.
In the dream, he stood at the window of his old home. Outside, his mother—Sofia—stood by the black car, waving at him. Her smile was warm, her eyes filled with love.
She turned and climbed into the car.
The door closed.
The car drove away.
Then—it came back.
The car door opened.
Blood poured out—thick, dark, pooling on the ground.
And then *she* stepped out.
A woman in a sleek black dress, her attire expensive and alluring—the kind worn by high-end escorts. Her lips were painted deep red, her eyes cold and sharp. She smiled—a wide, wicked grin that stretched unnaturally across her face.
The lighting around her shifted, turning a deep, sinister red.
She looked directly at Owen.
Then, slowly, she pointed.
A van appeared in the distance. The doors opened.
Figures emerged—men and women in those strange psychiatrist-hybrid uniforms, their white coats stark against the darkness.
The dream shifted.
Suddenly, Owen was being dragged away from Kate. Their hands were locked together, but the adults pulled harder.
Farther. Farther.
Their fingers slipped.
"No!" Owen screamed. "No! No!"
His voice echoed, loud and desperate.
---
He jolted awake, gasping, his small body drenched in sweat.
Around him, other children groaned, stirring in their beds.
"Shut up!" one hissed.
"Again?" another muttered, rubbing their eyes.
Owen sat up, trembling, tears streaming down his face.
---
(Owen's narration)
The trauma of losing my mother so suddenly, so unjustly… and being ripped away from Kate… it followed me. It haunted me.
I became the scared, crying kid at Delvin Orphanage. The one who woke up screaming in the middle of the night.
And the other kids? They despised me for it.
They started bullying me.
And it only got worse.