June 27, 2085
"PAPA, PLEASE—PLEASE!"
I hated how my voice cracked. I hated that I sounded like a child when I was already old enough to bleed for this world.
Paschar whined—no, I whined—grinning too wide, trying to look harmless. My sky-blue eyes burned as tears gathered, traitorous and unwanted. Crying always worked. Usually.
"NO. NO. NO!" Papa snapped. "How many times do I have to repeat myself? Should I spell it out for you?"
His pale face had turned red, veins visible along his temple. Good. That meant I'd gotten under his skin.
"Please…" I whispered.
The word felt small. Weak. But desperation has a way of stripping pride bare.
He sighed, long and tired, like I was an inconvenience rather than his son.
"Why do you even want to be an officer?" he said. "Any normal person would be grateful they're not fighting Asiers. But you—ugh, you."
Because I'm tired of being watched like I'm fragile glass.
"I-I-I—I want to be an officer be-cau-cause—"
"Is this about people again?" he cut in. His voice dropped, dangerous. "I've said it before, Pas. Just give me their names. I'll erase them from existence."
For a moment, I imagined it—faces gone, memories wiped clean. The fear twisted into something warm.
Then an idea struck.
My eyes lit up.
"I have a solution!" I said quickly. "I can become an officer if I get the Amaia to be my contractor!"
Silence.
Papa stared at me. Then he smiled.
"Deal."
My stomach dropped.
Oh.
That smile means he thinks I'll fail.
The Amaia wasn't human.
It arrived on Earth twenty-one years ago, descending without warning, without hostility—just existence. A creature from Waacom-P-1-57, a planet so similar to Earth that scientists called it our "sister world."
The Amaia possessed god-like strength. DNA tests showed it shared unsettling similarities with humans—too similar to be coincidence.
More importantly, it was proof.
Proof that if Earth fell to the Asiers, humanity could run.
Waacom-P-1-57 was our emergency escape plan.
And the Amaia was its key.
I'm supposed to convince that thing to contract with me?
Me?
The 15th Floor — Amaia Residence
The elevator doors slid open.
The moment I stepped out, my body froze.
It wasn't fear—not exactly. It was pressure, like the air itself had weight. Like something unseen had already noticed me.
I couldn't move.
"You'll get used to it," Papa said casually, walking ahead.
Easy for you to say.
The hallway stretched impossibly long, its metal walls polished to a mirror-like shine. My reflection stared back at me, warped and thin, like I didn't fully exist here.
Turn back, my instincts screamed.
You don't belong.
I forced my legs to move.
Step after step after step.
"Why is this so loooong?" I complained, panting.
Papa stopped and looked at me. "What do you mean?"
"Ugh—never mind."
Finally, we reached the door.
When it opened, my breath caught.
The residence was massive—stone floors, elegant walls, priceless paintings. Warm. Quiet. Alive.
This place is bigger than my house.
For a moment, I forgot why I was here.
Then—
"COUGH—COUGH—COUGH!"
The sound was violent, desperate.
A boy around my age lay collapsed on the floor, gasping for air. Dark-brown wavy hair clung to his forehead. His honey-brown skin looked flushed, and his eyes—
Red.
Not human.
A servant rushed in, pressing water into his hands.
"Um—hello," I said stupidly. "I'm Paschar, son of—"
"Son of William Idalia," the boy interrupted between gulps. "The one and only."
He looked up at me.
Sharp. Tired. Ancient.
My heart pounded.
That's him.
The Amaia.
"I WANT YOU TO BE MY CONTRACTOR!" I shouted, words spilling out before fear could stop them.
A strange smile crept onto my face.
If this works…
I won't be weak anymore.