The stem shuddered under a deafening bang.
The sterile, metallic silence surrounds Aether like a heavy fog. "Alright…" Aether begins, his voice shaky as he tries to gather his composure. "When I get out of here, I'll…"
Suddenly, the machine jerks him downward without warning. He's yanked down, landing with a loud, painful thud that echoes off the walls. He groans, clutching his ribs as he tries to push himself up. Overhead, a monotonous, artificial voice cuts in, "Patient: Health – Slightly below average. Best for now." It's robotic, detached, indifferent to his pain.
As Aether blinks away the stars from his vision, his right wrist swells—a bubbling, uneven mess creeping up his forearm, throbbing in time with his heartbeat. His stomach churns as he presses his hand over his mouth, fighting to keep the fluid down, his face twisted in a grimace.
"Just… hold it together," he mutters, his words muffled against his hand. He's panting, breathing heavily, each breath a struggle as he moves toward the large, wooden desk Henri once sat behind.
Frantically, he sweeps his arm across the desk, knocking down monitors, scattered papers, and flickering holograms. They crash to the ground with a sharp cacophony, but he barely notices, too focused on finding something—anything—to cut his hair. His fingers scrabble against cold metal and sleek plastic until his hand lands on a large cylinder, cold to the touch and glowing with a faint cyan light.
"What… is this?" he mutters, his fingers trembling as he presses the first button he finds. The cylinder buzzes to life, emitting a low hum that reverberates through his bones. He holds it close to his head, bracing himself. With a sharp hiss, the device begins to shave away his hair, one tangled lock at a time, the curls falling around him like dark wisps of curly clouds.
As he shaves, he glances back at the machine he'd just been freed from, eyeing it with a mixture of loathing and dread.
"It shouldn't be like this," he whispers, his voice cracking as he raises his eyes to the window, the sunlight casting a harsh, unforgiving light over his reddened knuckles and trembling fingers. A tear slips down his cheek.
"I was meant to come back and still have my arm, it was only supposed to be my soul!" he screamed, barely audible, clinging to the cylinder like it's his last lifeline. He continues to shave off the uneven clumps of hair, his scalp prickling from the rough treatment, until all that remains is a short, uneven buzz.
Without a second thought, "Am I still on the 1,307th floor?" he mumbles, half-lost in the haze clouding his mind. His fingers are stained with dried blood, his skin cracked and peeling. He brings his index finger to his non-existent left arm, smearing the opening to draw fresh blood.
Each motion feels sluggish, heavy, like he's sinking in quicksand. Yet the itch was there, deep under missing skin, and he presses on, determined.
I have another goal in mind, he thinks. One I have no guilt in pursuing, someone that indirectly caused me so much pain, he continues thinking, bringing forth a book from the fallen items on the ground.
On the page, he scrawls in sharp, deliberate strokes:
On my name, Leonardo turned Aether, I will find my supposed biggest fan... and I WILL WATCH THE LIGHT DRAIN FROM HIS EYES
The words are written in a dark, bold script, the word "Eyes" standing out in thick, angry lines, as though written with a heavier hand. At the bottom, he adds in a rough, slanted script, He'll get me a new hand.
He crumples the paper, stuffing it into his pocket with a huff, then picks up the shaving device once more, finishing off the last few tufts of hair.
He runs his hand over his scalp, wincing at the roughness, at the odd sense of vulnerability that comes with the lack of his usual mane. "I definitely look different and taller," he mutters, looking around the cluttered room, searching for anything else to cover his exposed torso.
His gaze lands on a neatly folded set of clothes—the "Tour Guide Practical Officers" uniform. He lets out a dry laugh. "Perfect. Just what I need," he mutters, pulling on the red vest over a white long-sleeve shirt. He's halfway through buttoning the black trousers when the door swings open.
"Just checking a few things, just checking." Elara's voice echoes through the room, dark and dull.
Aether turns, a strange pang in his chest as he sees Elara standing there, eyes wide with confusion.
"Ah… Leonardo," she starts, her tone cautious as though stepping on broken glass. She studies his unfamiliar appearance, the shaved head, the haunted look in his eyes, taking it all in.
"It's actually … Aether now," he interrupts, his voice soft yet insistent. He meets her eyes, something raw and pleading flickering in his gaze. "Had a switch," he explains, shrugging.
"You can't just… switch names," Elara says, her voice a mix of skepticism and concern. She speaks slowly, as if each word is carefully measured. "It's a change, not a switch."
Aether's gaze dropped to his missing arm. "Change. Switch." He repeated the words like stones. "Does it matter? Leonardo's goal is ash here. Only Aether walks out."
She hesitates, studying him with narrowed eyes. "Leonardo's goal doesn't just turn to ash; it proceeds through fire first," she responds, a hint of disbelief in her tone, her words laced with worry.
"Does it matter? The fire you speak of didn't burn hot enough against your mother's," he replies, pulling on the shirt's long sleeves and buttoning the cuffs. "You just have to die and reach a sort of enlightenment… I haven't reached it, though."
Elara flinched as if struck. Her feet trembled, the truth – her mother's fire creating this hollowed-out thing calling itself Aether – settling like poison in her veins. Silence stretched, thick and suffocating, as she registered the cruel angles of his jaw, the unfamiliar height–he now stood taller where Leonardo had been inches below her. Her own mother did kill Leonardo with fire and left only Aether in his place.
She took a step back, face bleached of color by his remark. "Sages, Leonardo—" she stammered, turning sharply and hurrying out the door, her heels echoing down the corridor as she shouted, "Parlor! Anna!"
"Heard," Aether replied under his breath, his gaze fixed blankly on the space where she'd stood.
He adjusts the collar of his shirt, fastening the last button on his trousers as he takes a steadying breath.
As he steps out of the room, he's met by a spiral staircase stretching before him like an endless coil. He lets out a low groan, glancing down at the height. "You'd think in a place this advanced, there'd be some kind of instant teleportation," he grumbles, starting down the stairs with weary steps. His gaze drifts to the paintings along the walls, each one more haunting than the last. In one, an obsidian leviathan sleeps, its form captured in striking detail as it bares its teeth at some unknown enemy.
He averts his eyes, feeling a shiver crawl down his spine. "Enough nightmares for one day," he mutters, quickening his pace, but the echoing emptiness of the staircase seems to press down on him.
His voice rises in a soft, tuneless hum, a song that springs to life unbidden, heavy with longing and regret:
"I wonder what will happen when I reach the end,
Is there even an end to this descent?
I wish, oh I wish, for a path so clear,
A final cause to quiet my fear.
Seventeen wonders, a fate,
I'll journey them all, for them, I guide."
His voice falters, growing rougher, as though the weight of the words is too much to bear.
"And to you, my greatest supporter,
In all twenty-one realms, I will find you.
Like a star fading into dawn,
I'll bring you to the place I was torn.
Resurrection will be your new breath,
In the land between rebirth and recycling"
He falls silent, the echo of his words lingering in the air and a strange calm settling over him. A faint smile touches his lips.
Aether's eyes flicker upwards, catching the edge of something strange in the dim light. His gaze settles on a single painting, partially hidden in shadow. Its presence sends an involuntary chill down his spine. The woman within it stares back at him, her eyes dark and intense, her gaze almost alive. Her mouth holds the barest trace of a smile—enigmatic, unsettling, as though she harbors secrets too dangerous to name. His breath catches as he whispers, "The gift of life is upon me too…"
It's barely a whisper, more a confession than a statement. He tilts his head slightly, feeling drawn deeper into the darkness within the painting.
"That's… odd," he mutters, his voice barely audible, almost swallowed by the silence of the room. He tilts his head slightly. The gaze of the woman feels piercing, merciless, as though she could see through every layer of him—through the new name he has chosen, through the desperate determination, through the mask he wears. It's as if she can see straight to the doubts, the fears, the turmoil he has buried deep within, and she offers no comfort. Only that quiet, knowing smile.
Aether feels his heartbeat quicken, the space seeming to close in around him as he stares. She seems familiar, too familiar, as if he's seen her somewhere before, though he cannot recall where.
He swallows hard, whispering to himself, "They had to deal with such a woman…" The thought is barely more than a breath, his words slipping out like fragments of a memory half-forgotten, buried in the haze of his mind.
The woman's eyes flicker—not literally, but in a way that feels alive. He shudders, stepping back, his voice hoarse as he mutters, "Where?"