Sovereign of the Deep

The hospital doors parted with a soft hydraulic sigh.

Outside, the sky hung dim and overcast—bruised with evening clouds. The parking lot stretched quiet beneath the glow of fluorescent lamps, their reflections long and slick across the rain-dark pavement. For a second, it felt like the world was holding its breath.

Then Ren saw it.

Parked at the far end of the lot, alone beneath a pillar of light, was a car so absurdly beautiful it didn't look parked—it looked staged.

A crimson-red Valor Strix 8000.

His brain lagged behind his eyes.

It was low. Surgical. Sculpted like it had been poured, not built. The body shimmered under the lights, paint catching gold where it should've caught shadow. The glass was dark, reflective, nearly seamless. Electric-white trim coiled along the wheels and pulsed faintly—like the car was breathing.

Ren stopped walking. His mouth, unhelpfully, hung open.

'That's a Strix. That's a real one. That's…'

He didn't finish the thought.

Because numbers weren't big enough for what he was looking at. A Strix 8000 wasn't just a car—it was a myth. A million Vey, minimum. Hand-built. Banned in half the lower districts for "inciting economic unrest." The kind of machine that appeared on magazine covers, not roads. If you saw one moving, it usually meant a royal procession was about to begin—or a building was about to be bought.

Ren had grown up watching car expos the way other kids watched cartoons. His family had done well enough—never hungry, never desperate—but never this. This was elite-tier indulgence. He'd never expected to see a Strix in person.

And then, like he was waking up from some bizarre dream, Sami strolled up beside him.

He reached into his coat, pulled out a black key fob no thicker than a credit card.

Chirp.

The car came alive. The headlights blinked once, smooth and soundless. Mirrors unfolded. The emblem on the hood—a silver shard-pointed V—lit up with a low, regal glow.

Ren physically recoiled. "You're joking."

Sami didn't answer. He just opened the driver's door with a smooth, practiced motion and slid inside like he'd done it a thousand times.

"That's yours?" Ren asked, still blinking like his brain was buffering.

"Yup," Sami said casually, already leaning back into the seat and pulling out his phone.

Ren turned to Anya, hoping for backup. She blinked back at him, wide-eyed and expressionless, and gave the smallest shrug—like the sheer absurdity of the week had finally broken her ability to react.

He helped her into the back seat with careful hands, still expecting the car to eject him for touching it. Then he sank into the passenger side, eyes scanning the console like it might request a blood signature.

The door sealed with a hush. Inside, the air was cool, dry, tinged with faint notes of citrus and leather. Light flowed gently from the dashboard in pale, ambient tones. The seats felt like memory foam made from silk.

A soft chime sounded. Then a voice—female, warm, subtly synthetic—slipped into the cabin.

[Welcome back, Sami.]

[What will be your destination today?]

Sami didn't look up. "The penthouse," he said, already scrolling through something on his screen.

The engine responded with a hum so smooth it barely registered. It didn't roar. It purred—quiet, confident, deeply expensive. The car pulled away on its own, merging into the evening flow with eerie precision. No bumps. No hesitation. Just motion—controlled, perfect, effortless.

Ren sat back, silent, fingers ghosting over the stitched edge of the door panel. Even the touch of the leather felt richer than anything he'd worn in his life.

The national currency of Virelia was called the Vey. And in theory, it was standardized. In practice? Not even close. Back in the early privatization era, its value had started to splinter—until it depended almost entirely on district. A hundred Vey in District 12 could feed a family for a week. In District 4, it might buy you a coffee—if you didn't tip.

Wealth wasn't just wealth anymore. It was location. Breeding. Birthright.

And this car wasn't transportation—it was proof.

He glanced sideways. Sami hadn't moved—just lounged there, legs stretched out, thumbing through his phone like the Strix was a living room.

"So," Ren said at last, voice flat, "you a rich kid or something?"

Sami grinned without looking up. "Something like that."

Ren sighed. "Of course you are."

He leaned back in the seat and turned to the window, watching as the city unfolded—cold, towering, and impossibly polished. He'd never been to District 4 before.

Compared to District 6, this place felt like a different planet. Larger. Sharper. Richer. It pulsed with a kind of silent authority, like it didn't need to prove anything.

There were no trees here. No parks. No trace of nature. Just steel, glass, and concrete—woven into perfect, brutal harmony. A city built not for comfort, but control.

Only expensive cars roamed these roads—sleek machines that hugged the asphalt, engines purring low like they knew they belonged. Ren craned his neck, watching the skyline rise and rise. Everything was taller. Cleaner. The air felt cooler. Cleaner. Like it had been filtered on the way in.

People moved in loose clusters, heads down, eyes glowing blue from the screens in their palms. Neon ads shimmered above the streets—some looping sales pitches, others playing full cinematic dramas in thirty seconds or less. Light danced across the buildings like animated graffiti, color bleeding into sky.

It was overwhelming. Alive.

But as the drive stretched on, the city began to shift.

The noise softened. Crowds thinned. The skyline sharpened further—rust replaced by steel, patchwork concrete giving way to seamless glass. Even the ads began to fade.

And somewhere between one breath and the next, silence took over. Expensive silence. The kind that didn't happen by accident.

According to Sami, District 4 was split into nine sectors. The higher the number, the cheaper the living. Which meant Sector 1—the place they were headed—was the peak.

A few minutes later, the car rolled into it.

No ads. No foot traffic. No cabs. Just private roads, security drones, and monolithic towers with glass so dark it didn't reflect—it watched. Everything was pristine, deliberate. Like the buildings had been designed by someone who hated the very idea of imperfection.

Eventually, the car turned into a gated drive and began its quiet descent underground.

Ren blinked.

He no longer had the strength to be shocked anymore.

The underground lot wasn't just a garage. It was curated. Clean, echoing, perfectly lit—like someone had designed it less for parking and more for presentation. Sleek bikes rested in chrome-lined docks. Matte-finished coupes gleamed under soft strip lights. A few hypercars looked like they didn't belong to roads at all—too smooth, too sculpted, like they'd been poured from light instead of built.

The Strix eased into its slot and came to a stop, engine whispering into silence.

"Let's go," Sami said, already halfway out, phone in one hand, coffee in the other.

Ren opened his door and stepped into the hush of the garage, Anya's small hand tucked gently into his. She didn't say a word. Just walked beside him, hoodie sleeves still swallowing her hands.

They followed Sami toward the far end of the lot—where a narrow, mirrored elevator waited between two marble columns. No signs. No numbers. Just a single, recessed panel.

Inside, Sami tapped the glowing button marked P.

The doors slid closed behind them with barely a sound.

Ren glanced sideways. Sami was leaning back, fiddling with his phone like this was normal.

Then—

Ding.

The doors opened.

No hallway. No neighbors. Just a quiet, private foyer paved in deep gray marble, every edge backlit by faint lines of silver. The stillness here wasn't just absence—it was architectural. Intentional. Like sound had been told not to exist.

Sami stepped ahead and approached a tall black door, tapping a slim card key against the scanner. A soft click echoed.

He glanced back. "Welcome to my home," he said lightly, though the edges of his voice were quieter now—less smug. Maybe even… respectful.

Ren stepped in.

Obsidian tiles stretched beneath his feet—so polished they caught the overhead light and fractured it, tossing reflections across the walls. The space was wide and minimalist, but nothing about it felt cold. Floor-to-ceiling windows lined the far end, framing the skyline in a wash of steel and moonlight.

But what pulled Ren's attention were the mirrors.

Dozens of them. Leaning, hanging, arranged like fragments of a larger whole. Some were antique, some ultramodern, others pure sculpture—twisted and fused into strange shapes that caught his silhouette at odd angles. The walls shimmered too, with abstract glass art that looked cracked but whole, like a language made from fractures.

Even the flowers near the lounge weren't real. They were glass—thin, perfect, frozen mid-bloom.

It felt less like a home and more like a place designed to remember something.

Ren turned. "You got some kind of mirror fetish or what?"

Sami opened his mouth to reply, but didn't get the chance.

A voice drifted in from the far side of the room—low, clear, and quietly amused.

"Oh. You're here."

Ren turned.

A tall woman stepped into view from the hallway. Graceful. Controlled. Not flashy—but unmistakably composed. She looked to be in her late forties, though that number didn't quite land. There was something ageless about her—like time had learned not to bother her too much.

Her long, ash-brown hair was twisted neatly behind her head, streaked with silver at the temples. Her skin was smooth, pale, with a natural flush at the cheeks. No makeup. Just presence. The kind that filled a room without needing to speak.

Her eyes were pale green—and sharp. The kind of sharp that made people confess before they were asked.

A thin scar curved near her left temple, just under the hairline. Faint. Almost elegant.

She looked at Ren like she already knew him.

"I've been waiting for you," she said softly. Then her tone dropped a shade darker. "I'm glad you're safe. Curse that Anele bastard."

Ren stiffened.

The woman blinked. Then gave a small, almost guilty smile.

"Forgive me. That slipped."

She stepped forward with quiet ease and offered a simple nod—not too formal, not too warm. Just enough.

"I'm Marie. I served your mother. One of her vassals."

Ren's body didn't move, but something behind his eyes shifted. His shoulders locked tighter.

He frowned. "What do you mean by that?"

Marie gestured toward the sunken lounge at the center of the room—wide seats in deep blue velvet, all gathered around a low table of blackened glass. The area was framed by more mirrors, but these ones didn't seem to reflect much. Only shadows.

"Come," she said, already moving. "There's a great deal you need to understand."