The house breathed in silence.

Ophis 56 was never truly still. Even in the absence of footsteps or voices, the walls whispered—low-frequency hums from the servers embedded beneath the alloy floors, the faint sigh of climate regulators pushing tempered air through hidden vents, the intermittent click of the security system cycling through its automated sweeps. It was a living thing, its pulse steady, its eyes everywhere.

Maximus had never known it any other way.

The day’s routine began the same as every day before it. At precisely 05:45, his bedroom lights warmed from black to amber, the spectrum calibrated to mimic the first light of dawn—though no dawn had ever breached the tinted windows.

The AI’s voice, neutral and without inflection, filled the room.

“Good morning, Maximus. Your vitals are stable. Shall I initiate the exercise protocol?”

Maximus sat up, rubbing his eyes. “Yeah.”

The floor beneath him shifted subtly, panels separating to reveal recessed exercise mats. A rack extended from the wall, stocked with wooden practice weapons, resistance bands, and weighted spheres in graduated sizes. This was Bertram’s doing; Bertram always insisted the boy’s body keep pace with his mind.

“A weak mind can be sharpened,” he often said.

“A weak body gets you killed.”

Thirty minutes later, breathless and sweating, Maximus stepped off the mat to find a folded towel and a tall glass of electrolyte water on the dresser—set there by no human hand. ELI had anticipated his finish time to the second.

He never left his room without dressing properly. That was Bertram’s rule number one. A Braun was to be presentable even in solitude. Today it was a crisp black shirt, trousers, and the smallest size of a wool vest that still hung a little loose on his shoulders. His reflection in the mirror was all sharp lines and deliberate neatness, a boy rehearsing the role of a man he had yet to become.

The corridors of Ophis 56 were long and deliberate in their design—angles that denied a straight path from one end to another, forcing turns and perspective shifts that made the manor impossible to memorize for a newcomer. For Maximus, every corner was muscle memory. He could walk it blindfolded.

Down the main staircase, Bertram waited in the dining hall, standing rather than sitting, a porcelain cup in hand. The old man was a wall of dark wool and white hair, his posture a rebuke to the concept of age. Bertram Plunkett did not sag, did not slow, and certainly did not smile in greeting.

“You’re late,” he said simply.

“It’s six-oh-three,” Maximus replied, glancing at the antique clock mounted over the dining hall’s far wall.

“It is. And breakfast was served at six.” Bertram’s tone was matter-of-fact, not unkind, but it landed with weight. “Sit.”

Maximus sat. The food—poached eggs, buttered toast, and a side of roasted tomatoes—was plated with the precision of a military ration line, though the flavors were richer than any barracks meal could dream to offer. Bertram ate standing, as always, reviewing a paper document held in one hand.

Maximus spoke only when invited to.

“History, today,” Bertram said without looking up. “House of Braun, sixteenth-century expansion into the canal territories. You’ll read chapters four and five before midday.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And mathematics this afternoon. Then language.”

Maximus nodded.

Bertram finally lowered the document, folding it neatly. “Do you know why?”

“Because a Braun is—” Maximus began, but Bertram cut him off with a small shake of the head.

“Not a recital,” he said. “An understanding.”

Maximus hesitated, then: “Because we don’t get to choose when the test comes. So we stay ready.”

The corner of Bertram’s mouth twitched—not a smile, exactly, but the closest he ever came. “Correct. A Braun is never unprepared.”

The words hung between them for a moment, heavier than the morning air. Maximus felt them settle into him like stones in deep water.

Life in Ophis 56 was not loud, but it was full. Lessons, training, meals, reading, and the constant presence of ELI, the AI guardian that saw everything but touched nothing beyond the house’s boundaries. Since the sabotage by the Secretariat years ago, Bertram had locked the system down to near-total isolation. The only line left was the one-way visual feed from The Spire—no sound, no messages, no interaction. Just an eternal, muted window into a place Maximus had never set foot in.

Sometimes, when Bertram wasn’t looking, Maximus would pause at the security terminal in the study to watch the Spire feed. The skyscraper’s glass skin would catch the light of the setting sun, and he would wonder how far away it really was. It looked both impossibly close and unbearably distant.

But the locks stayed in place. No one entered Ophis 56. No one left.

Not until the day came when the locks would open—and Maximus, whether ready or not, would have to step through.

The study smelled of leather, dust, and the faint metallic tang of the climate system. Sunlight, what little could push through the tinted windows, was filtered into a cool, muted glow. This was Maximus’s favorite room—not because it was warm or welcoming (it wasn’t), but because it was the one place in Ophis 56 where history was allowed to breathe.

The shelves here stretched to the ceiling, filled with ledgers, scroll cases, and bound volumes in languages Maximus couldn’t yet read. Each spine bore the Braun crest: an hourglass inside an ouroboros. The mark was everywhere in Ophis 56—on the walls, the cutlery, even embossed on the leather desk pad where Bertram worked.

But the faces behind that crest were harder to find.

It was during one of his history lessons that Maximus first asked about Elihu Braun, the last head of the house before him.

“Where is his portrait?” Maximus had asked, scanning the walls. “We have the others. Why not his?”

Bertram, standing by the window, had paused a beat too long before answering. “It was… misplaced. During the breach.”

Breach. That was Bertram’s word for the sabotage—never elaborated on, never explained in full. Maximus had learned early that certain questions would get him silence, not answers.

But the absence of Elihu’s face gnawed at him. If he was to carry the name, to inherit the weight of Ophis 56, he wanted something tangible—something to prove Elihu was more than a name in the ledger.

Weeks later, while reviewing the digital archives under ELI’s supervision, Maximus found it: a grainy photograph, almost corrupted beyond repair, showing a tall man in a dark suit standing in the manor’s garden. The image flickered with static, Elihu’s face half-obscured by light distortion. Still, Maximus knew it was him. He couldn’t say how—only that he recognized the posture, the deliberate set of the shoulders.

He worked on it in secret for days, piecing together fragments from other photos: a clear shot of Elihu’s face from a business banquet, the clean lines of the garden wall, even a child’s silhouette borrowed from an unrelated image. Slowly, he composited the pieces into something whole—a picture of Elihu standing beside a boy of about eleven, one hand resting lightly on the child’s shoulder.

It wasn’t perfect. The shadows didn’t quite match. The boy’s shoes were a style twenty years out of date. But to Maximus, it looked real enough.

The morning he printed it, he brought it to Bertram in the dining hall. The butler took it without a word, studying it for a long time.

“You made this,” Bertram said at last.

“Yes,” Maximus replied, bracing for disapproval.

Bertram’s eyes lingered on Elihu’s face, then dropped to the boy beside him.

“And what purpose does it serve?”

“It… makes it easier,” Maximus admitted. “To remember someone I never met.”

Bertram’s gaze softened almost imperceptibly. “A Braun does not remember with photographs,” he said, setting the picture down. “We remember with deeds.”

Maximus’s throat tightened. “Should I throw it away?”

“No.” Bertram picked it back up, holding it between thumb and forefinger. “Hang it in the lobby. Let it remind you of the standard you are to uphold.”

He didn’t smile. Bertram never smiled. But when Maximus hung the frame on the wall that afternoon, ELI dimmed the lobby lights by a single degree, just enough to make the picture stand out.

Life went on.

The days folded into each other—lessons, training, silent meals. Maximus felt the rhythm of Ophis 56 as something almost eternal, an unbroken loop that might carry on for years.

But Bertram had begun to move slower.

It wasn’t obvious at first. The man was still upright, still precise, still dressed each morning with the same deliberate care. But Maximus noticed the way he lingered in his chair after dinner, as though reluctant to rise. The way he paused at the bottom of the stairs before climbing. Once, carrying a tray back to the kitchen, Maximus caught Bertram leaning heavily against the counter, his hand pressed to his ribs.

When asked, Bertram dismissed it. “A nuisance. Nothing more.”

But ELI’s tone shifted subtly in those days. The AI began prompting Maximus to take on more tasks without being asked—polishing the silver, logging the inventory, conducting the morning system checks. At the time, he didn’t see the pattern.

Later, he would understand.

The night before it happened, Bertram stood with Maximus in the lobby, the new portrait behind them. The old man adjusted the boy’s collar, a rare breach of his usual hands-off discipline.

“Do you understand, Maximus,” he said,

“that preparedness is not merely skill? It is posture. It is the refusal to be caught with your guard lowered. A Braun is never unprepared. Remember that, even when I am gone.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Maximus said, almost sharply.

Bertram’s expression didn’t change.

“Sleep well, sir.”

It was the last thing he ever said to him.

Maximus woke to silence.

Not the usual hush of Ophis 56, filled with the low hum of servers and the distant sigh of climate vents, but a silence so complete it felt wrong.

The morning lights hadn’t risen to their usual brightness. The corridors, when he stepped into them, felt heavier—like the air itself knew something he didn’t.

He found Bertram in his room.

The butler was sitting in his chair by the window, still in his nightclothes, hands folded loosely in his lap. His head had tilted slightly to the side, eyes closed as if mid-thought. The soft spill of dawn through the window gave him an almost peaceful frame.

For a moment, Maximus stood in the doorway, certain Bertram would stir. That he’d open his eyes, lift one brow, and ask why Maximus was lingering instead of beginning his morning drills.

But the stillness never broke.

ELI’s voice came from the ceiling, softer than he had ever heard it.

“Sir… I believe Protocol Omega must be enacted.”

Maximus didn’t respond. He took two steps into the room, close enough to see the fine lines around Bertram’s eyes, the way his fingers had relaxed. The man who had raised him, drilled him, shielded him from the outside world, was gone.

The air pressed down on him. He didn’t cry—not then. He only nodded once.

“Confirmed,” ELI said.

“Omega Protocol active.”

Everything after that happened with mechanical inevitability.

Maximus was guided to the dining room for one last breakfast in Ophis 56. ELI’s voice followed him through every hall, issuing instructions in that calm, maternal tone she used when she didn’t want him to feel the sharp edges of a situation.

“Your belongings are already prepared. Wardrobe minimal—Selvarra will provide uniforms. Personal effects limited to approved items.”

“What happens to Bertram?” Maximus asked.

“Arrangements will be made. You need not be present.”

He hated that answer, but he said nothing.

By midmorning, the house began to change.

Security shutters, sealed for as long as Maximus could remember, retracted from the windows. Sunlight—real, unfiltered sunlight—poured into the halls, revealing specks of dust in the air. Automated cleaning units glided along the floors, wiping away years of closed-system monotony.

The locks on the front gates disengaged with a sound like a vault opening.

For the first time in his life, Maximus saw beyond them.

It wasn’t much at first—just the sweep of the driveway curving out of sight, the suggestion of green beyond the high perimeter walls. But it was enough to make his chest tighten. Outside was real. Outside moved.

The vehicle waiting for him was a matte-black sedan, unmarked, its surface absorbing light. The driver’s seat was empty—Selvarra preferred autonomous transport.

“Board when ready,” ELI instructed.

Maximus stood at the threshold, one hand resting against the cool frame of the open door. He looked back into the manor. The lobby was exactly as it had been yesterday: the marble floors, the crest above the mantle, the portrait of Elihu and the boy who never was.

For a moment, he thought about running back inside. About locking the gates again and pretending nothing had changed.

But Bertram’s voice came back to him, firm and absolute:

A Braun is never unprepared.

He stepped into the car.

The door closed with a hiss, sealing him in the quiet cocoon of climate-controlled air. The engine hummed, barely audible, as the car began its slow roll down the drive.

Through the tinted glass, Ophis 56 receded. The gates swung wide, revealing the road beyond—an expanse of light and movement that Maximus had only imagined in fragments.

The house disappeared behind the curve of the hill. The last bastion was gone from view.

Maximus sat back, hands resting on his knees, eyes fixed forward.

Selvarra awaited.

Zoya’s first memory was the sting of a man’s palm against her cheek and the roar of his voice:

“YOU WHORES!”

The sound cracked through the stale air, loud enough to rattle the thin glass of the window behind him. His handprint burned into her skin, the outline already swelling, hot and bright like iron pulled from a fire.

She sat frozen on the cracked cement floor, her small legs splayed out, bare toes curling against the cold. The house was one of many that stood in the row, all identical — low, boxy structures of pale concrete, their paint stripped by wind and years. Beyond them stretched the grassland, an ocean of green swaying under a flat, endless sky the color of diluted milk.

A gust slid through the half-open window, carrying with it the dry scent of dust and something faintly metallic, like old coins. It made the curtains stir — thin fabric, once white, now yellowed like smokers’ teeth.

She touched her burning cheek. She didn’t cry. She was three years old, and already the part of her that wanted to cry had been buried under instinct — stay still, stay quiet, stay invisible.

A shadow moved from behind the door. Her mother emerged, hair disheveled, eyes sharp. She grabbed Zoya’s wrist and pulled her up, spinning toward the man. They shouted over each other, voices sharp enough to cut. The words were ugly — the kind you could feel even if you didn’t understand them all. Her mother’s free hand jabbed in the air, pointing, accusing. The man’s lips curled back from yellow teeth, spit flying as he threw curses like stones.

That night, her mother took her away. No warning. No farewell.

The sky was already dark when they left. Her mother’s grip was firm, pulling her along the dirt road, a battered suitcase rolling behind them, its small wheels rattling over loose gravel. The sound was steady, like a metronome, marking the start of a rhythm Zoya would come to know well.

Life in Motion

The next years were a blur of roads and roofs, never the same one twice. Cities with strange syllables in their names. Markets where the air was heavy with frying oil, cigarette smoke, and the musky sweat of too many bodies in too small a space. Alleys that stank of sour milk and rainwater trapped in gutters.

Sometimes the language changed between one city and the next. Zoya learned early not to talk much — it was easier to listen, to pick up the meaning of things without words. Her mother spoke enough of each tongue to make deals and find work.

Work always meant men.

The rooms they stayed in were rarely more than boxes. One thin mattress on the floor, its springs groaning when you sat. A bathroom so small you could wash your hands while sitting on the toilet. Cooking, eating, sleeping, living — all done in the same few square meters. In the summer, the air inside thickened until it felt like you were breathing through cloth. In the winter, frost crept along the edges of the window glass.

Sometimes, during a move, Zoya would stare out of bus windows at passing towns — proper towns, with lit streets and houses big enough for two floors. She would imagine living in one of those, maybe with a yard, maybe with a door that locked and stayed locked. But the bus always kept moving.

She learned to pack light. A change of clothes, a chipped enamel cup, a folded scrap of cloth that was once a scarf. Everything else could be left behind.

Everything else would be.