The Transformation
Elyon
My voice trembled, yet remained controlled, as if each syllable were a shard of ice. Across the room, he stood. The boy who had once been the living spark of my existence now embodied emptiness. His eyes, once brimming with curiosity, reflected an indifference that cut deeper than any blade.
He showed no anger. No fury, no hatred. Only a distant gaze, as though I were nothing more than a shadow lost in a past he could no longer recognize.
"SPEAK," he commanded, his voice hoarse and emotionless, echoing in the silence that had settled between us.
His demand was brutal. I knew, in that moment, I had failed him irrevocably. My chest tightened under the weight of guilt, each heartbeat a reminder of my inability to protect him.
My hands shook, and the room seemed to close in around us. Dim light traced the lines of his impassive face, revealing no trace of love or anger—only void.
" I… " I began, but the words dissolved in the air. I stood before him, the last living fragment of my soul torn from me, now reduced to nothing.
"SPEAK!" he insisted, the same cutting order, leaving no space for excuses.
The silence stretched louder than any scream. I remembered the days when Elyon was my hope, the tether that kept me from losing myself entirely. Now, he saw me only as a distant memory, an irrelevant stain in the vastness of his own emptiness.
"I… left you alone," I finally whispered, my voice breaking.
But he did not respond. His eyes showed neither anger nor sorrow—only a coldness that made me feel as if I were dissolving, piece by piece.
The pain of losing what little remained of myself spread like cold fire through my veins. In that moment, I understood: he did not hate me. He simply felt nothing.
Each second in that room became a silent hammering, an inevitable farewell to who I had once been.
"Speak!" he repeated, the demand reverberating like the end of all possibilities.
That hollow gaze, his absolute indifference, was the end. I realized that no matter how I fought to feel, to reclaim some fragment of what made me human, nothing remained within us but shadows.
And so, in the oppressive silence of that day, I witnessed the death of everything I had built—an ending that lingered in every unspoken word, in every absence of emotion. I had lost myself, and he, my son, was the living proof that there was no salvation left.
His emptiness was the mirror of my own end.
---
The Weight of Silence
Rain tapped softly against the asphalt outside as I watched her from the shadowed corridor, where darkness blended with the heavy silence of the past. She sat at the kitchen table, lost in thought, every wrinkle on her face etched with aching memory. I didn't need to understand her torment—what mattered was what she dared to say, what remnants of herself she still had to offer.
With a throat clenched tight, she shattered the silence. Her words, rushed and trembling, pierced the air:
"You know, son… I never left that house, or that time. I've always been here, even if not in body, then in soul. If I could, I'd turn back time to change the future—without altering the past. I know I didn't have the strength to protect you then. I don't expect your forgiveness or understanding. I just… please, let me be part of your life again. Let me fix what I broke. I want to be the mother you always deserved."
The intensity in her voice was almost tangible—a mix of desperation and hope, as if those words were her final attempt to bridge an abyss of mistakes.
I stared at her, my eyes cold and unyielding, and with a near-defiant tone, I replied:
"What if I refuse?"
The question hung thick as midnight fog. I wanted to see her reaction, the slightest flicker of change in her battle-worn face.
She held my gaze, unwavering, solemn:
"Even if you deny me, nothing will separate you from me. Not you, not myself. Even if you hate me, I'll never abandon you. This is serious. 'I even find it a little endearing—funny how, after all this time, someone who observes life too closely can become what others fear,' I thought. But for you, there will always be something. I'd walk through hell for you."
The silence settled between us. I replied mechanically:
"Fine."
The word was merely an acknowledgment that the conversation had moved forward, even as the weight of unspoken words turned the air to lead. Nervously, she pressed:
"You… have anything to say?"
I stared at her. The frost in my voice mirrored my gaze as I stated:
"I can't move my legs. I'll be in a wheelchair for the rest of my life. I need someone to be my legs now."
My words sounded like an irrevocable sentence, heavy with a pain I refused to admit. I was aware of my fragility but kept it under ruthless focus. Moving forward demanded sacrifices—and I would face them, even if the burden grew unbearable.
As for her, I didn't hate her. There was no resentment, only the inevitable weight of what we had been and what we might never be again. She was the shadow of someone I could have become, inexplicably bound to me by blood and fate.
Deep down, I felt that connection—something I always denied, yet it seeped, silent and inescapable, into the core of all I was.
---
Fragility and Focus
I knew my weakness, but it was no excuse to lose focus. Every step was calculated, even if it meant bearing a heavier load. As for my sister, there was no hatred—only the cold understanding that she did what she'd been trained to do. She was the shadow of what I might have become, yet her presence lingered, a blood tie that, no matter how ignored, would never break. Perhaps even she hesitated to admit it.
On a gray morning, her eyes widened in surprise when she heard me. I had no room for drama or confusion. I accepted things as they were, without delay.
"So that's it?" she murmured, half-disbelieving.
"Exactly," I replied, firm and toneless.
We spent days together in resigned quiet before moving to the next phase. The new dwelling wasn't just a house but an imposing fortress—thick walls and iron gates guarding secrets and histories. There, I met the others: the girls and Eric.
Eric and I, perhaps bound by the silent kinship of men hardened by the same world, understood each other quickly. No words were needed. A nod, a glance, sufficed.
But Jenny… Jenny stirred memories I'd rather bury. I recognized her instantly: the woman who'd taught me with near-maternal patience in my childhood.
"Hello, Nael," she said, her tone a blend of warmth and authority, watching me as if I were her long-lost son.
Something in her gaze irked me deeply—she saw through me, noticing the slightest shifts in posture, even as I fought to maintain indifference.
I didn't want to feel, yet every word she spoke brushed against old wounds I'd rather keep sealed.
"Are you alright?" she asked, leaning slightly, her face etched with concern.
"I'm fine," I replied, my voice flat as steel, betraying none of the turmoil she insisted on awakening.
And so, within walls that seemed to hold secrets and cold corridors, I persisted—keeping distance, accepting the blood bond with my sister and Jenny's intrusive presence, which reminded me that, despite all efforts, something in me could still be touched.
Every encounter, every exchanged glance, was a silent test. No matter how I tried to shut myself away, the world found cracks in my armor. Unwillingly, I knew those cracks were the only way for something—however faint—to seep in and challenge the void I clung to.
---
The Laboratory
The rain outside seemed to conspire with my anguish as I awaited Mary's arrival. She was science incarnate: biologist, chemist, owner of a lab that resembled a futuristic sanctuary more than a workspace. When Mary spoke of evolution, her voice brimming with conviction, something stirred in me—a sliver of hope for redemption.
"If there's a chance to transform myself, to restore my mobility…" My words faded into the hum of machines and equipment.
"What if I can regain my mobility?"
She hesitated, weighing the gravity of my question, then nodded.
Reluctantly, I asked her to take me to her lab. Her eyes flickered with doubt but finally relented.
In the early days, as I walked neon-lit corridors, I noticed staggering details: my mother had once traversed space and returned with technology beyond imagination. She carried fragments of the cosmos—meteorites with unknown metals, relics defying Earth's logic. These became the spark for my own pursuit.
"I need to enhance my regeneration," I declared clinically, poring over notes strewn across formula-covered tables.
With my heightened IQ, research accelerated. Within weeks, an idea crystallized: amplify regeneration. I immersed myself in studies of self-healing organisms, compiling data, formulas, experiments. The first formula accelerated the process tenfold—insufficient. Three months later, I forged a serum capable of boosting human regeneration a hundredfold.
"But I can't accept animal DNA," I thought, recalling a strange substance from a distant mission—a liquid capable of organic replication. It seemed the perfect complement.
I conducted experiments in secret, away from my mother's occasional visits. Mary, ever silent, helped procure the substance without questions. She sometimes probed for answers, but I remained closed, lost in calculations and promises of rebirth.
On the decisive night, the lab became a shadowed sanctuary of possibility and dread. With the substance in hand, I prepared for the final injection. The air thickened with the tension of a destiny forged in formulas.
"It 's time."
"Now…" I whispered as agony swelled.
The needle pierced my skin, and for a moment, silence reigned. Then, slowly, pain erupted. Every muscle, every nerve, tore as if shredded by a thousand blades. Time slowed; my heartbeat thundered, echoing in the void of my body. Muscles unraveled and reformed.
Amid the maelstrom, I felt it: a subtle movement. My feet trembled, toes twitching in painful awakening.
The pain intensified, building in waves that almost swallowed me. In the midst of this whirlwind of agony and change, the world became a blur of unbearable sensations. Everything became noise—the sound of my own heart beating wildly, my rapid breathing, the hum of the machines outside, indifferent to my struggle.
I couldn't endure it. Darkness swallowed me.
In that moment of forced unconsciousness, I knew something irrevocable had begun—a new reality forged in pain, transformation, and perhaps, the promise of rebirth.
---
Author's Note:
To every reader who has wandered into these pages:
Writing is an inherently solitary pursuit, yet stories come alive only when shared. This book—a mosaic of fractured souls, silent battles, and fragile hope—was born from one compelling question: Can we rebuild what the world has shattered? Now, as I stand on the brink of unveiling it to you, I realize that I cannot answer this question alone.
If these characters have left an indelible mark on your thoughts, if their silences and struggles linger like half-remembered dreams, I humbly request your voice. Your feedback is the compass that guides this narrative forward. Whether it's a comment on what moved you (or what fell short), a shared passage that resonated, or even a fleeting message saying, "This mattered"—each word is a lifeline.
In the turbulent sea of publishing, debut authors like myself often drift unnoticed. Yet every endorsement—through reviews, social media tags, or a recommendation to a friend—shines like a beacon. It tells agents and publishers, "This story deserves to be heard." Your support might be the ripple that evolves into a wave, carrying these pages to the right eyes at the perfect moment.
To those who have already reached out, who have dissected scenes or speculated about Elyon's void or Nael's relentless resolve: thank you. You have reminded me why stories exist—to connect, provoke, and heal. And to those still hesitating: your voice matters, even if it trembles. Perfection is not our aim; participation is.
This book is a bridge between my heart and yours. Let's cross it together. Share your thoughts, critiques, or even your anger at unresolved endings. Tag me, email me, or simply speak up—I am listening.
With heartfelt gratitude,
NaelSupremium.