Markus sat as still as a statue, his face a mask of bored compliance, but internally, his mind was a frantic storm of profanity. Please, just let me leave. I'm done with the dramatic lighting and the brooding stares. Just let me go find a damn computer.
The detective sighed, he stood up. Then He began gathering the digital files from the table.
"Fine," the detective muttered. "You're a Tier 5, you're sixteen, and according to your file, you haven't even 'awakened' yet. You're essentially a blank slate. We'll call your relatives to come pick you up. I'd wish you luck, Oneata, but in this city, luck is a luxury you clearly can't afford."
He turned toward the door, the two enforcers stepping aside to let him pass. Markus felt a wave of relief wash over him, his muscles beginning to relax.
Then, the air in the room suddenly turned heavy, as if the oxygen had been replaced by lead.
The detective spun around with predatory speed. His violet eyes weren't just glowing - they were burning, swirling like nebulas of psychic energy. Markus felt a cold, oily sensation slide into the back of his skull, a mental hook that latched onto his consciousness and yanked.
His heart hammered, but his body went limp. He was a passenger in his own skin, watching through his own eyes as his autonomy was stripped away.
"Do you really know who the Thornes are?" the detective asked, his voice echoing inside Markus's head.
Markus panicked. Wait! What the hell is this?! Stop! He tried to scream, to bite his tongue, to do anything, but his jaw moved with mechanical precision.
"No," Markus's voice said, hollow and monotone.
The detective stared at him for a long, agonizing second, searching for a flicker of a lie in that magically-enforced honesty. Finally, he nodded, the violet fire in his eyes receding.
"Forget about this question," the detective commanded.
He raised his hands and performed a sharp, crisp clap. CRACK.
The sound acted like a physical reset. The pressure in the room evaporated instantly. Markus felt the strings cut, his body suddenly his own again. He slumped forward slightly, gasping for air as the detective adjusted his coat.
"Wait here for your family," the detective said coolly, not even looking back as he walked out of the room. The heavy door hissed shut, locking with a definitive metallic thud.
Markus sat in the silence, his breath ragged. He stared at the spot where the detective had stood, his brow furrowed in a deep, dark frown.
Forget?
He replayed the entire sequence in his head. The violet eyes, the feeling of the mental intrusion, the question about the Thornes, and the command to forget. He remembered every single detail with crystalline clarity.
He was supposed to be in a daze, a "zombie state" where the last thirty seconds were a total blur. That was clearly the intent of the power. But the memory remained, etched into his brain like a scar.
Fk, he thought, his mind racing. That was some kind of telepathy or mental suggestion. A high-level interrogation technique.
He looked at his cuffed hands, a slow, dangerous realization dawning on him. If he was supposed to forget, and he didn't... that meant his mind was shielded. Whether it was because of his high IQ from his previous life or the fact that his soul didn't belong to this world, he had a natural resistance to mind control.
Information. I need information now more than ever, he realized, his pulse quickening.
---
In a darkened office overlooking the precinct's main floor, the detective tapped a sequence on a glass console. A holographic dial-tone hummed for three seconds before a weary, gravelly voice answered.
"Hello?"
"Is this the father of Markus Oneata?" the detective asked, his voice a flat, bureaucratic drone.
"Yes! Yes, this is him. Is Markus okay? What happened?"
The detective watched Markus through a one-way monitor, seeing the boy sitting perfectly still in the interrogation room. "He's alive. He was involved in an 'altercation' in an alley. Minor elemental burns. He's been cleared by a medic. Come to the 4th Precinct and pick him up."
"Oh, thank God... I'll be right there. I'm coming—"
The detective cut the connection before the man could finish. He didn't need to explain the details—the lightning, the lies, or the Thorne family. Let the father deal with his lying son. As he stared at the screen, the detective's violet eyes flickered with a faint, residual glow.
"I'll keep an eye on you, Oneata," he muttered to the empty room. "Nobody resists a command like that without strong will power."
---
The heavy door to the interrogation room hissed open. The woman in the red cape stood there, her expression unreadable. She tapped a code into her wrist-unit, and the heavy metallic cuffs on Markus's wrists snapped open with a sharp clack.
"Follow me," she ordered.
She led him down a series of sterile hallways to a wide, high-ceilinged waiting room. It was filled with uncomfortable-looking benches and holographic displays looping Faction propaganda. "Stay here," she commanded, pointing to a seat. "Don't move until your ride arrives."
Markus slumped onto the bench, his body finally beginning to scream in protest as the adrenaline faded. A few minutes later, an old man in a faded, grease-stained jumpsuit approached him. He moved with a heavy limp, carrying a tray of simple plastic cups. He looked like he had spent fifty years being invisible.
The old man stopped in front of Markus, offering a cup with a shaky hand and a kind, toothless smile. He didn't say a word; he just gestured for Markus to take it before moving on to a woman crying in the corner. Markus watched as a younger officer barked an order at the old man to clean up a spill near the entrance.
Another Tier 5 like me, Markus thought, watching the old man scurry to obey. The help. The grease in the machine.
He took a cautious sip of the water, expecting the metallic, chlorinated taste of the tap water from his old life. Instead, as the liquid hit his tongue, his eyes widened. It was cold—perfectly, impossibly cold—and tasted like melted diamonds. It felt as if every cell in his dehydrated body was suddenly singing.
This water is so fucking good!
He drained the cup in one massive gulp, feeling a surge of clarity. In his "pay-to-win" life, he had spent hundreds of dollars on premium, volcanic-filtered bottled water, and it tasted like literal sewage compared to this "low-tier" tap water. If the scraps of this world were this high-quality, he couldn't even imagine what the elites were consuming.
The sliding glass doors at the front of the precinct hissed open, admitting a gust of wind and the scent of ozone-heavy rain. A man stumbled in, his cheap, synthetic jacket soaked through and clinging to his thin frame. He looked frantic, his eyes darting around the room until they landed on the bruised, battered teenager on the bench.
Relief washed over the man's face, followed quickly by a deep, crushing sadness. He ran toward Markus, his boots squeaking on the polished floor.
"Markus!"
Before Markus could react, the man threw his arms around him, pulling him into a tight, trembling hug. He smelled of rain, cheap tobacco, and honest sweat.
"My son... I'm glad you're alright. I thought... when they called... I thought the worst."
Markus sat frozen for a moment, the man's wet jacket dampening his own scorched shirt. He looked over the man's shoulder at his own reflection in the glass.
This is my dad...?
He let out a long, silent sigh in the privacy of his mind. The man was a mess—weak, poor, and clearly terrified of the world around him. He was the polar opposite of the cold, powerful father Markus had known before.
"Yeah," Markus muttered, his voice awkward as he tentatively patted the man's back. "I'm fine, Dad. Let's just... let's just go home."