Elian stood still, his heart hammering violently in his chest.
He heard the soft murmur of Celestine's voice somewhere down the hall — low, urgent.
Then another voice — male, rough, almost angry.
He couldn't make out the words.
But he could feel it.
Danger.
It was thick in the air like smoke.
Without thinking, he started to back up, step by careful step.
He didn't know this place.
He didn't know these people.
And right now, he didn't know if he could trust Celestine at all.
---
He slipped around a corner.
Found himself in a narrow side hallway.
The walls here were lined with paintings.
Strange ones.
A boy drowning in gold coins.
A girl with a broken crown slipping from her bloody hands.
A faceless man sitting on a throne made of broken glass.
Every image seemed to whisper a warning Elian couldn't quite hear.
He stumbled past them, his breath ragged.
At the end of the hallway was a door.
Small.
Plain.
Unmarked.
Something about it pulled at him.
He grabbed the handle — cold metal against his palm — and twisted.
---
The room was pitch black.
He fumbled along the wall until his fingers found a switch.
The light clicked on.
And Elian froze.
---
It was a library.
Or maybe a museum.
Shelves lined with thick, ancient books.
Glass cases with glittering artifacts.
Stacks of documents, yellowed and fragile.
And in the center of the room...
A single black file.
Sitting on a polished wooden table like an offering.
Elian approached it slowly, every instinct in his body screaming no.
But curiosity was stronger.
He opened the file.
---
Inside were photos.
Dozens of them.
Some of him — candid shots, taken when he wasn't looking.
At school.
At the orphanage.
Even in the streets.
They've been watching me.
He flipped to the next page.
New photos.
Older.
Of a woman with silver hair and sharp eyes.
She was beautiful in a cold, terrifying way.
Underneath was a name:
"Anastasia Frost — Deceased."
His mouth went dry.
Frost.
His name.
---
Before he could read more, a hand slammed down over the file, snapping it shut.
Elian jerked back, heart racing.
Celestine stood over him.
Her face was pale.
Her blue eyes blazed with a fury he had never seen before.
"Never," she said, her voice low and dangerous, "go into rooms you're not invited to."
Elian opened his mouth to apologize — but no sound came out.
He was trembling too hard.
Celestine grabbed the file and tucked it under her arm.
Then she leaned down, until her face was inches from his.
"You have no idea what you're tangled in," she whispered.
"And if you want to survive, Elian..."
She touched his chin, forcing him to meet her eyes.
"Obey."
---
He nodded stiffly.
She smiled — but it didn't reach her eyes.
"Good boy," she murmured.
Then she straightened, turning back toward the hallway.
"Come on. We're leaving."
"Where—?"
"Orientation," she said with a cruel little smirk. "Your new life starts today."
And without waiting for him, she disappeared through the door.
Elian stood there for one broken moment, his legs shaking.
Then, clutching his backpack like a lifeline, he followed.
---
The elevator ride was silent again.
But this time, the air between them was heavy with things unsaid.
Elian kept his eyes down.
But inside his mind raced with a thousand questions.
Who was Anastasia Frost?
What did it have to do with him?
Why was he being dragged into a world he didn't understand?
The elevator doors opened.
The lobby stretched out before him — white marble, glittering chandeliers, golden security desks.
Celestine handed him a keycard without looking at him.
"Don't lose it," she said sharply.
Then she grabbed his wrist — not gently — and pulled him toward the exit.
---
Outside, a different car was waiting.
This one was silver.
Long.
Sharp-edged.
The license plate read:
"L0STBOY"
Elian stared at it in disbelief.
"Get in," Celestine ordered.
And like a puppet on invisible strings, he obeyed.
---
The car sped through the glittering city.
Billboards flashed by.
Ads for luxury brands.
Promotions for livestreaming apps.
Election banners for campus politics.
Everything shiny, rich, and fake.
Elian leaned his head against the window.
And for the first time, he wondered if he'd made a mistake.
Maybe he should have stayed in the gutter.
Maybe he was never meant for anything but pain.
Because whatever was waiting for him at the end of this road...
It wasn't going to be salvation.
It was going to be a new kind of prison.
One made of gold.
---