The ceiling came into focus slowly, its pristine white surface broken only by the soft glow of recessed lighting that seemed designed to avoid causing any strain to recovering eyes. Elijah blinked several times, his vision swimming slightly, the edges of his perception still fuzzy with the remnants of whatever had knocked him out.
His head felt heavy, stuffed with cotton, thoughts moving sluggishly through syrup. He tried to sit up and immediately regretted it—a wave of dizziness washed over him, and he fell back against the pillows with a soft groan.
Where was he?
The room around him was nothing like a typical hospital. The walls were a soothing cream color, decorated with tasteful abstract art that probably cost more than most people's cars. The bed beneath him wasn't the standard hospital fare either—the mattress was high-quality, the sheets were Egyptian cotton with a thread count that felt like silk against his skin, and the pillows were memory foam that cradled his head with perfect support.
This wasn't a hospital. This was a sanatorium—the kind of private medical facility that catered exclusively to the wealthy, where treatment came with amenities that resembled a luxury hotel more than a medical institution.
A large window to his left showed manicured gardens visible through sheer curtains that filtered the sunlight into something gentle and non-intrusive. The floor was polished hardwood, partially covered by an expensive-looking area rug. There was even artwork on the walls—original pieces, not prints.
And sitting in a leather armchair beside his bed was a man.
Elijah's eyes focused on him slowly, taking in details piece by piece as his vision cleared.
The man was impeccably dressed in a way that screamed old money and new power combined. His three-piece suit was charcoal gray, so dark it was almost black, made from fabric that had the subtle sheen of the finest wool—probably Italian, likely custom-tailored to fit his frame with mathematical precision. The vest beneath the jacket was buttoned perfectly, not a single wrinkle marring its surface, with a gold watch chain visible connecting one pocket to another in the traditional style.
His dress shirt was crisp white, the collar so perfect it might have been starched and ironed within the last hour. The tie was silk, a deep burgundy with a pattern so subtle it was almost invisible, knotted in a full Windsor that sat centered and tight against his collar.
Gold cufflinks glinted at his wrists—not ostentatious, but clearly expensive, catching the light with each small movement. His shoes were black leather oxfords, polished to a mirror shine that reflected the light from the window.
The man sat with his legs crossed, right ankle resting on left knee, in a posture of complete relaxation and confidence. One arm draped casually over the armrest, the other resting in his lap. But it was his face that drew Elijah's attention.
He was staring at Elijah with open curiosity, his head tilted slightly to one side, his lips curved in a small smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. It was the look of someone examining something interesting—a scientist observing an experiment, a collector admiring a rare specimen.
The expression was polite but calculating, friendly but measured, warm but somehow deeply unsettling.
Elijah's hand moved to his head instinctively, pressing against his temple where a dull throb was building. His mouth felt dry, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth as he tried to form words.
"Where... where am I?" His voice came out rough, scratchy from disuse.
The man's smile widened slightly, becoming more genuine—or at least, better at mimicking genuineness. He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward a bit, his posture becoming more engaged, more present.
"You should relax, Mr. Isley," he said, his voice smooth and cultured, with the kind of accent that suggested prestigious boarding schools and Ivy League universities. "You're at the treating zone within Halvern Consortium."
He chuckled then, a light sound that seemed designed to put people at ease, though something about it felt rehearsed, practiced. "It appears my mother might have gone overboard in her questioning of you back at the museum. She does have that effect on people—asks questions like a prosecutor cross-examining a hostile witness, then wonders why people feel overwhelmed."
The way he said it was almost conspiratorial, as if inviting Elijah to share in the joke, to bond over the shared experience of dealing with a difficult woman.
But Elijah didn't respond. Couldn't respond, really. His mind was still trying to catch up with what was happening, where he was, how he'd gotten here. The last clear memory he had was standing in the museum, facing that thing—that humanoid figure made of reddish-black whips, grinning at him with that impossible mouth.
And then... nothing. Blank space where memory should be.
The silence stretched between them, growing heavier with each passing second. The man seemed content to wait, still watching Elijah with that curious expression.
The door to the room opened with a soft click, breaking the tension. A nurse entered, her footsteps quiet on the hardwood floor. She wore traditional medical scrubs—pale blue, practical but clean—with a name tag pinned to her chest that read "SANDRA MITCHELL, RN."
She moved to Elijah's bedside with professional efficiency, her attention focused on the IV stand beside the bed. A clear bag hung from the stand, connected by tubing to a needle in Elijah's left arm—he hadn't even noticed it until now, the insertion point covered by medical tape and a small bandage.
The nurse checked the flow rate, adjusting the small wheel on the tubing to ensure the correct dosage was entering his bloodstream. The liquid in the bag was clear, slightly tinted with something that might have been electrolytes or medication—Elijah couldn't tell from this angle.
She produced a small penlight from her pocket and leaned over him. "Mr. Isley, I need you to follow the light with your eyes, please. Don't move your head, just your eyes."
Elijah complied, tracking the light as she moved it left, right, up, down. She clicked it off, seemingly satisfied with his pupil response.
Then she pulled out a small notebook from her other pocket, the kind with a spiral binding at the top. It was well-used, the cover slightly worn, pages filled with handwritten notes in neat script. She flipped through it until she found what she was looking for, running her finger down the page as she read.
Then, still holding the notebook, she turned to face the man in the chair and bowed—a formal, respectful gesture that spoke of hierarchy and deference.
"Mr. Halvern," she said, her tone professional but warm, "the tests we ran have all come back. Mr. Isley's vitals are completely normal—blood pressure, heart rate, oxygen saturation, all within expected ranges. His bloodwork showed no abnormalities, no signs of infection or underlying conditions that would explain the fainting episode."
She glanced at Elijah, her expression sympathetic. "Based on the results and the circumstances surrounding the incident, I believe we're looking at a stress-induced vasovagal response. In layman's terms, Mr. Isley's body was overwhelmed by psychological and physical stress, causing a temporary drop in blood pressure that resulted in loss of consciousness."
So this man was Augustine Halvern. The current CEO of Halvern Consortium. One of the most powerful men in the city, if not the country. And he'd been sitting here, watching Elijah sleep like some kind of guardian angel—or something far less benign.
The nurse continued, addressing Elijah directly now. "You should be fine with adequate rest, Mr. Isley. I'd recommend incorporating some morning exercise into your routine—nothing strenuous, just light activity like walking or stretching. Physical movement can help regulate stress hormones and give your mind a healthy outlet for processing overwhelming thoughts and emotions."
She smiled at him, genuinely kind, the sort of healthcare professional who actually cared about her patients beyond just checking boxes on a chart. "The most important thing is to listen to your body. If you start feeling overwhelmed again, remove yourself from the stressful situation if possible. Take deep breaths. Ground yourself."
She closed her notebook, tucking it back into her pocket. Then she turned back to Augustine, bowing slightly again. "If there's nothing else you need, Mr. Halvern, I'll let Mr. Isley rest."
Augustine waved a hand dismissively, but not unkindly. "Of course, Sandra. Thank you for your diligence. Please ensure that Mr. Isley's discharge paperwork is prepared—I'm sure he'd prefer to return home once he's feeling more stable."
"Of course, sir." Sandra nodded to both of them, then made her way to the door, her footsteps soft against the floor. The door clicked shut behind her, leaving Elijah alone once more with Augustine Halvern.
Augustine remained in his chair, his posture unchanged—still that picture of calm, collected confidence. He let the silence linger for a moment, seemingly in no rush to fill it with words.
Then he spoke, his voice carrying a thoughtful quality, as if he was working through a puzzle in real-time.
"You know, Mr. Isley, I find you rather intriguing, if I might say." He paused, letting that statement hang in the air. "You are quite a sociopath when you think about it."
Elijah's breath caught slightly, but Augustine continued without acknowledging the reaction.
"You asked for the security code from me that day—so casually, so smoothly, like you were asking about the weather. And then, presumably, you sent it to that Azaqor fellow who used it to bait Chloe Halvern." His tone was conversational, almost friendly, discussing attempted murder the way someone might discuss a particularly interesting chess move.
As he spoke, Augustine's hands moved to the watch on his left wrist—a magnificent piece of craftsmanship that probably cost more than Elijah's car. It was a Patek Philippe Grand Complications, the face visible through the sapphire crystal displaying not just the time but also the date, moon phase, and perpetual calendar. The case was rose gold, catching the light with a warm glow. The band was crocodile leather, supple and perfectly fitted.
Augustine's fingers traced the edge of the watch face, then moved to the crown, turning it slowly—not adjusting the time, just... playing with it. An idle gesture, the kind of thing someone did when their hands needed occupation while their mind worked on other things. He pressed the crown back in, then ran his thumb over the smooth crystal, then repeated the process.
It was a nervous habit dressed up as casual fidgeting, the movement of someone thinking deeply while maintaining the appearance of calm.
"You know," Augustine continued, his expression shifting as he spoke—eyebrows rising slightly with emphasis, lips pursing thoughtfully, then relaxing into that small smile again, "if you weren't part of the Isley household, I would have thought you were some crazed individual harboring a vendetta against the Halverns."
His face was expressive in a way that felt almost theatrical, each emotion flickering across his features in quick succession—curiosity, amusement, contemplation, suspicion. It was like watching someone cycle through masks, each one slightly different from the last, never quite settling on a single genuine expression.
"This renegade assassin playing Azaqor, the one who turned on my idiotic cousin William to literally bring him down..." Augustine's face shifted again, this time to something resembling skepticism, one eyebrow arching high while his mouth twisted slightly to the side. "Do I believe that some hired crook was smart enough to literally ruin William? Hmm."
He dragged out that sound, the "hmm" becoming almost musical in its duration, his head tilting as if seriously considering the question.
"I doubt that." His expression settled into something more calculating, eyes narrowing slightly, the smile fading to something sharper, less friendly.
And then Elijah heard it.
A sound, faint but distinct, coming from... somewhere. Not from the room around him, not from any machine or device. It seemed to emanate from Augustine himself, though that was impossible.
It sounded like water—specifically, like water dripping from a great height into a pool far below. That hollow *plink... plink... plink* that echoed in caves or empty wells. But there was something else to it, something that made it feel less natural and more artificial, like someone had taken the sound of dripping water and run it through a synthesizer, distorting it just enough to make it unsettling.
The rhythm was irregular—three drops in quick succession, then a pause, then two more, then another pause. *Plink-plink-plink... plink-plink... plink...*
Elijah's eyes widened, his attention sharpening despite the lingering drowsiness. He focused on Augustine, trying to locate the source of the sound. It was definitely coming from him—or more specifically, from inside him, as if the man's internal organs had been replaced with plumbing that was slowly leaking.
But when Elijah looked at Augustine—really looked—there was nothing to see. No visible source for the sound. Augustine's suit showed no signs of water damage, no damp patches spreading across the expensive fabric. His posture hadn't changed, his expression remained neutral, his hands continued their idle play with his watch.
Yet the sound persisted. *Plink... plink-plink... plink...*
Confusion washed over Elijah's face, his eyebrows drawing together, his mouth opening slightly as if to ask a question he didn't know how to formulate.
Augustine noticed the stare. Of course he did. His eyes flicked up from his watch, meeting Elijah's gaze directly, and his lips curved into a grin—not the polite smile from before, but something wider, showing teeth, carrying an edge that suggested he knew exactly what Elijah was hearing and found it amusing.
"This Azaqor renegade," Augustine said, his grin not fading even as he spoke, giving his words a slightly manic quality, "I think is a ruse. I think that someone else is behind all of that, and that somebody has to be one of brilliant mind."
Elijah stiffened at those words, his entire body going rigid against the hospital bed. His hands gripped the sheets unconsciously, knuckles turning white. His breath caught in his throat, held suspended as his mind raced through implications and possibilities.
*He knows. Oh god, he knows.*
But Augustine continued, apparently oblivious to—or deliberately ignoring—Elijah's reaction.
"You see, Mr. Isley, my family—the Halverns—we're actually descendants of what you might call a branch family. Our roots trace back centuries to a founding family, one of considerable power and influence. And we're not the only branch—there are other families out there, descended from this same source."
Augustine stood then, rising from his chair with fluid grace, his movements controlled and deliberate. He began to pace slowly, his hands clasped behind his back, his watch catching the light with each step.
"The Halverns and these other families, though we share common ancestry, we are fundamentally different from one another. You see, the founding family itself was composed of different pure bloodlines, each with their own ideologies, their own beliefs about how the world should be shaped, how power should be wielded."
His expression shifted again—now contemplative, almost philosophical, his eyes distant as if seeing into the past.
"These clashing beliefs, these incompatible visions of the future—they caused fractures. Splits. For centuries now, we've all been separate from one another, each spreading our different faiths, our different philosophies into the world."
Augustine stopped pacing, standing near the window, silhouetted against the light filtering through the curtains. "The structure of the world itself—the political landscape, the social hierarchies, the economic systems—all of it has been shaped by these families. In the past, it was divide and conquer tactics. Spreading uprisings, civil wars, famine. The rise and fall of kingdoms and states. The World Wars themselves."
He turned back to face Elijah, his face now showing something like pride mixed with cold detachment.
"The scheming that led to disasters both natural and man-made. And now, current technological innovations, modern warfare, the entire digital age—all of it has come to pass thanks to these families. But," and here he held up a finger, his expression becoming pointed, "we didn't do it with our own hands. No, no. We achieved it through what in today's standards we call actors—people who played their roles based on how these families instructed them to do, all from the shadows."
He took a few steps closer to Elijah's bed, his eyes never leaving Elijah's face.
"The tactics that Azaqor used, the persona, the methodology—it reminds me very much of these actors. The precision, the planning, the theatrical nature of it all. I believe this Azaqor fellow is an actor, someone used by these families for purposes that may not be immediately apparent."
Augustine's expression shifted again, this time to confusion mixed with curiosity, his head tilting like a dog hearing a strange sound.
"But here's the strange thing—the Halvern family is descended from these founding families. We're part of this network, this web of influence and power. So the question becomes: could it have been some internal family conflict that was taking place? Some faction within the larger structure moving against another?"
He leaned forward slightly, and when he spoke next, his voice was quieter, more intimate, as if sharing a secret.
"What do you think, Mr. Isley?"
And then he looked directly into Elijah's eyes—not just at him, but *into* him, as if trying to peer past the physical and see into his soul. The intensity of that gaze was almost physical, like pressure being applied directly to Elijah's consciousness.
The reaction was immediate and visceral.
Pure shock flooded through Elijah's system, his eyes going wide enough that white was visible all around his irises. His mouth fell open, jaw going slack, breath coming in sharp, short gasps. His face went pale, color draining from his cheeks like water from a sink.
His mind was racing, thoughts tumbling over each other in panicked succession.
*No, wait, it can't be. I'm Azaqor. I did those things—I killed William, I framed Viola, I orchestrated everything for revenge for what Viola did to my mother. So what does Augustine mean by Azaqor being an actor used in Halvern family conflict? What does he mean by all of this?*
The implications were staggering, reality-shattering. If what Augustine was saying was true, if Azaqor was just a role in some larger game, then what did that make Elijah? A pawn? A puppet dancing on strings he couldn't see?
But he *was* Azaqor. He'd made those choices, carried out those actions. Hadn't he?
The doubt crept in like poison, spreading through his certainty, corroding the foundation of what he thought he knew about himself and his actions.
Augustine watched Elijah's troubled expression with obvious satisfaction, his grin widening further, becoming something predatory. He was clearly enjoying this—the confusion, the fear, the slowly dawning horror on Elijah's face.
Then Augustine stood fully upright, turning away from the bed. His back faced Elijah now, his posture straight and confident, hands still clasped behind his back in that formal, almost military stance.
Elijah stared at that back, his breathing still irregular, his mind still reeling.
And then he saw it.
For just a split second—a fraction of a moment that could have been imagination or hallucination or some lingering effect of whatever medication was in his IV—he saw something.
A faint current radiating around Augustine's back, like heat waves rising from summer asphalt, but cold instead of warm. The air around him seemed to ripple and distort, as if his physical form was barely containing something far larger, far more powerful beneath the surface.
The current pulsed in rhythm with that dripping sound, and for that brief instant, Elijah could have sworn he saw shapes moving within it—dark, writhing shapes that resembled nothing human.
And with that vision came a sensation—overwhelming breathlessness, as if the air itself had suddenly become thick, unbreathable. His lungs worked, pulling in breath after breath, but no oxygen seemed to reach his bloodstream.
His chest tightened, ribs constricting like bands of iron were being wrapped around them. His vision dimmed at the edges, black spots appearing and multiplying.
He gasped, his hand moving to his chest, pressing hard as if he could manually force his lungs to function properly.
Augustine spoke then, his voice carrying across the room with perfect clarity despite having his back turned.
"Be advised, Elijah." His tone had changed, become something darker, heavier, laden with meaning that went beyond the words themselves. "There is always a calm before a storm. The world may seem peaceful now, ordered, predictable. But that stillness? That quiet? It's merely the universe gathering its breath before unleashing chaos."
He paused, and Elijah could see his shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath—or something mimicking a breath.
"Don't become too comfortable with the current silent life you've been enjoying. Don't settle into complacency, into the illusion of safety. Because you never know when all of that can simply... disappear. In an instant. Gone. And you'll find yourself swallowed whole by the raging currents of the storm you never saw coming."
The words were spoken almost gently, like a teacher imparting wisdom to a student, but the content was pure threat. A warning wrapped in philosophy, violence promised with a smile.
Then Augustine turned, pivoting on his heel with balletic grace, and faced Elijah directly once more.
For just a moment—another split-second that stretched into eternity—Elijah saw something in Augustine's eyes.
The irises, normally a pleasant brown, seemed to darken and shift. Reddish-black hues appeared within the pupils, swirling like ink dropped into water, spreading outward until they nearly consumed the white sclera entirely. The color was identical to the whips that had formed that humanoid figure, identical to the core of the Aethernova, identical to something ancient and terrible and wrong.
And Augustine's grin—that terrible, knowing grin—became something else entirely. It widened and twisted, becoming less human and more monstrous, showing teeth that seemed too sharp, too many, arranged in patterns that human jaws shouldn't accommodate.
Then he blinked, and it was gone. Just Augustine Halvern again, wealthy CEO, respectable businessman, looking perfectly normal.
He walked toward the door with measured steps, his expensive shoes barely making sound against the hardwood floor. His hand reached for the door handle, turned it smoothly.
"Rest well, Mr. Isley," he said without looking back. "I suspect you'll need your strength in the coming days."
The door opened, and he stepped through, closing it softly behind him with a quiet click that sounded far too final.
Silence filled the room in his wake, broken only by the quiet beeping of medical equipment and Elijah's own ragged breathing.
Elijah sat there in the bed, his entire body shaking with fine tremors he couldn't control. His hands gripped the sheets so tightly his fingers ached. His breathing came in short, sharp gasps, his heart racing like he'd just run a marathon.
Confusion and fear warred for dominance in his expression—his eyebrows drawn together in deep furrows, his eyes wide and darting around the room as if expecting something to jump out at him, his mouth pressed into a thin line as he tried to process what had just happened.
What the hell was that? What did I just see?
He rubbed his eyes hard with the heels of his palms, pressing until spots appeared in his vision. When he pulled his hands away and blinked several times, everything looked normal. Just a nice room in an expensive medical facility. No strange currents, no distortions in reality, no reddish-black hues swirling in anyone's eyes.
"I must be dreaming," he muttered to himself, his voice hoarse. "Still asleep. This is... this has to be some kind of stress-induced hallucination or something."
He slapped himself then—not hard enough to really hurt, but firm enough to sting, the sound sharp in the quiet room. His cheek reddened where his palm made contact.
He did it again, the other cheek this time.
"Wake up, Elijah. Wake up."
But nothing changed. The room remained solid and real around him. The sting of his slaps faded slowly, leaving behind a dull throb. His vitals monitor continued its steady beeping, unchanged by his distress.
He wasn't dreaming.
Which meant everything that had just happened—Augustine's words, the dripping sound, the visions of dark currents and inhuman eyes—had been real.
Or at least, as real as anything in his life had been lately.
Elijah let his head fall back against the pillows, staring up at that pristine white ceiling, and wondered—not for the first time, and certainly not for the last—what the hell he'd gotten himself into.
And more importantly, how he was going to survive whatever was coming next.