Seventeen years before the present.
Rain hammered the glass of the tall office. Its rhythm softened and swelled, a heartbeat stitched through grey weather. Beyond the window stretched a skyline blurred by fog—the capital's edges flickering between shapes.
Inside, Malric sat as he did each evening, composed, his posture ruled by precision rather than rest. Papers massed like corpses of ideas along the desk. Lines, diagrams, drafts of reforms to end a war of kinds that had forgotten its beginning—species against species, each clinging to old survival instinct disguised as pride.
He had given twenty years to diplomacy, and all it had bought was repetition. Some nights, when even his own discipline thinned, he would stare into the reflection on his polished desk and think, if peace were built by reason alone, someone lesser than me would have built it already.
Now in his early forties, patience was rotting at the edges. A decision had already formed months before; tonight, that decision was ripening into action. He would plant his own design into the world, something that would grow under its own logic—methodical, perfect, infectious.
The door burst open.
A woman stood there, soaked at the shoulders, her voice cutting through the hum of rain. "Malric—your brother and his wife have been massacred. Two survived. A girl, two years old, Elizabeth. The boy, Reinhard—two months."
She hadn't knocked. Normally he would have scolded that breach of manner, but instinct held him silent. He watched her lips move, the details fall into place, and for a moment even his disciplined mind paused.
No emotion surfaced. Death was mundane. But then a pulse of realization moved through him—sharp, intrusive. I will not be the one to unite every species. Somebody else will. But in the end, it will still be me.
The storm outside dimmed to the background. His fatigue dissolved into something close to elation.
His wife, Haylen, entered from the side corridor. Her tone stayed clipped and formal. "It seems you do not care for tragedy, Malric. Then I will see that the children are kept alive for now."
He raised a hand almost absently. "Wait."
She stopped, expression unreadable.
Malric leaned forward, his voice lowering into a measured calm. "Keep them alive and healthy for the week. Feed them, wash them. Nothing more."
Haylen's eyes narrowed slightly. "Understood."
The moment she left, he picked up his phone and dialed. The call connected after seventeen seconds—a cold, grinding silence broken by a deep voice.
"Adric."
"I want to purchase a settlement," Malric said. "An isolated section of Noren Island. Enough space for thirty houses, a park, a hospital—whatever is required to form a minimal civilization. How much will it cost?"
Adric's answer came after a brief intake of air. "Three hundred to four hundred million Franz."
"Fine. I'll also need a hundred people—loyal, anonymous. Actors of a kind. I want the appearance of ordinary life."
"With the people included, about five hundred million Franz."
"Arrange it by next week."
Malric hung up without goodbye.
He tapped his thumb slowly against the phone, thinking about how easily numbers turned into experiments. His name alone could move resources worth nations. A man known as the psychologist who rebuilt societies, the one praised for guiding civilizations out of collapse and madness. Fortune was an accessory, never the goal, yet now its weight would grease the wheels of something deeper.
He stood, gathered his coat, and left the office.
The city's arteries ran slick with rain. His car slid through the quiet sections where lamps hummed against stormlight. Each streetlight that whipped past outlined fragments of thought: how he would speak to the children, what tone to use, which gestures would leave imprint without fear. The mind learns love by association; if the first hand to feed them was his, they would trace comfort straight back to him forever.
He murmured to the empty seat beside him, "I'll need a gift. A toy. The best one."
The wipers beat an irregular rhythm, clearing water in spasms. He checked the console display for retail sectors nearby. "Closest market," he whispered. Then cursed softly. "I went too far north."
He circled back, wheels cutting through shallow water, trailing reflections of distorted signs. A few turns later, he reached a dome-roofed plaza with pale blue lettering fading under rain. The parking lot glistened like shattered glass.
Inside the store, air-conditioners droned faintly. Rows of toys gleamed under antiseptic light. Malric's coat dripped small puddles on the tile as he approached the counter.
"I need a toy with the highest Nm reading you have," he said.
The clerk, a young woman in the uniform of bright whites and pastel trims, brightened automatically. "We have one rated at 9.2 Nm, sir. Been here for months."
Malric inclined his head.
Nm—the empathy metric used by developmental psychologists to quantify infant delight. It measured visual cues of cuteness, shape symmetry, pastel balance. Zero meant lifeless; ten, theoretical perfection. Few ever reached beyond nine. For most, toys were statistical indulgence; for him, they were instruments.
He followed her through the aisles. The hum of refrigeration units filled the silence like breath. She spoke again, glancing nervously at her data pad. "Apologies, sir. It's gone. Sold a few minutes before you came. We do have an 8.8 Nm model. Virtually the same—no baby could tell the difference."
She lied easily but politely. Malric could hear the sales instinct in her tone, a tremor crafted to sound confident. He smiled thinly.
"Show me that one," he said.
"Yes, sir."
They turned down another row. When she pivoted suddenly, the object in her hands brushed him head-on. The impact was small but awkward. His lips, moving forward as he stepped, touched her forehead—a fleeting contact. She froze.
Her breath hitched; her pupils widened. The surprise melted into flushed embarrassment, then something else—a shy flare that betrayed attraction. Malric caught the flicker of thoughts behind her eyes, almost audible. Then she looked down, pretending professionalism.
He recognized the situation instantly. To defuse her discomfort would be required; shame disrupted clear negotiation.
He lifted his hand and touched her chin lightly, raising her face until her eyes met his. Then he leaned forward, brushing his lips against hers—a simple, deliberate gesture. Equalization.
It lasted barely a moment, long enough to erase hierarchy. Now she believed the error mutual, perhaps even reciprocal interest. From that position of imagined parity, she could resume work detached from guilt.
Indeed, she did. She turned briskly, walked two aisles ahead, and spoke in her practiced tone. "This way, sir. Price details over here." Neither mentioned what happened.
Malric allowed the mask of stillness to settle again. Desire had nothing to do with it. He had indulged every appetite decades ago; the body was irrelevant. Psychology, however—that remained an art. The kiss existed for balance, stability of interaction, not pleasure.
Transaction completed, he took the toy from her steady hands: a simple white bunny, soft-stitched, expression designed by data. 8.8 Nm. High enough.
He left without another glance.
The road back wound into the wealthier districts. Rain washed the car clean as he drove, the headlights tracing sterile light through narrow lanes. His house rose behind automated gates—a fortress of four stories and one vast basement, everything too large for need.
When he entered, Haylen's voice floated from deeper within. "Welcome back, Malric."
"Yeah," he said, brushing rain from his sleeves. These greetings repeated daily—ritual more than affection, a habit meant to confirm continued life.
He stepped into the main hall. Haylen sat reclined on the sofa, scrolling through her mobile. To her left, two small figures fumbled over toys: Elizabeth, curls glinting under lamplight, and Reinhard, a coiled softness of motionless concentration.
Malric adjusted his expression into one he had long perfected—gentle, measured warmth without depth. He knelt and produced the wrapped bunnies.
The children's eyes widened instantly, dilation quick as reflex. Their tiny fingers reached out. In those few seconds, instinct replaced memory. The toys, crafted precisely to trigger joy, succeeded; the laughter that broke from them was spontaneous and pure.
He waited—never the first to initiate contact. Elizabeth approached first, hesitant, hand brushing the sleeve of his coat. He looked down, noting how oddly mature the name sounded on such a small voice, then softened his gaze, placed his palm atop her head, and patted gently. She smiled without reservation.
Then Reinhard lifted both arms toward him—invitation, trust. Malric leaned in and lifted the boy, balancing him in his arms. The grin that formed was all toothless innocence. Malric raised him higher, small air rides that made the child squeal in delight.
He turned to Haylen. "No food or milk tonight. Let them rest."
Her eyebrows flickered upward, but she said nothing.
Hours passed. The game continued under yellow light until their words slurred into sleep. Malric laid them down, the toys still grasped between small fingers, and retired with the faint scent of maintenance oil from the generator mixing into the air.
Morning.
He found them awake, eyes bright but bodies hungry. Crying came soon after. He placed the bunnies before them, and for a while, hunger dissolved into distraction. Eventually tears returned, louder. Haylen reached toward the milk bottle, but Malric stopped her with a raised hand.
"Not yet."
He vanished into his study and let time stretch. The crying waned from exhaustion to silence. Hours later, he returned carrying a thermos and a small bowl.
The milk within shimmered slightly, an additive dissolved into it—formulas meant for subtle conditioning. The food for the girl contained similar traces, faint modifications designed to anchor chemical pleasure to his presence.
He fed them himself. The taste brought smiles through remaining tears. Pleasure replaced pain, and inside that fragile circuitry of infant minds, association etched its path: despair ended when Malric appeared.
He repeated the cycle six days in sequence. With each iteration the interval of hunger lengthened, the moment of joy upon his arrival intensified. By the end, the children no longer sought anyone else.
Their world folded perfectly into him. He had erased their grief as efficiently as he crafted deception for adults.
Malric watched them sleep on the sixth night, the toy bunnies cupped against their chests. For a moment he allowed himself a nod of satisfaction.
Seed planted. Routine established. Emotion learned through control.
Outside, rain resumed its endless rhythm, tapping faintly against the windows as if applauding.