Veil of Corruption

Turning his head with the slow creak of old joints and older habit, James Muller fixed his mismatched gaze on the figure that had entered his sanctum. His mechanical eye whirred softly as it adjusted to the movement; the other, pale and human, held still—too still.

A young man stood framed in the doorway, the glow from the corridor lights casting sharp lines across his freshly issued military uniform. His posture was formal, but not stiff. Calm, but watchful.

James blinked once, a dry, deliberate motion.

"Do you need something, sir? "His voice was rasped iron, low and weathered, as though every word had to pass through gears before reaching his tongue.

Jaden stepped forward, the soles of his boots brushing against fine metal shavings scattered across the floor like glittering ash.

"Yes. I do," he said. "I'm new to the department. I noticed the buffer zone door has no lock, so I came to discuss the construction of one."

For a moment, James didn't answer. He simply turned back to his workbench, adjusted a delicate filament with tweezers, and let the silence stretch.

Then, without looking up:

"That door's never had a lock." A beat. "You want it to have one now?"

There was no curiosity in his voice. No surprise. Just a low, almost thoughtful edge—not quite protest, but something colder. A flicker of something old, knotted, and quietly bitter.Scorn.Not for the request. For the man making it.

He glanced over his shoulder, the mechanical eye clicking faintly as it narrowed focus on Jaden.

James finally glanced back, studying the young man again.

"What exactly are you trying to keep out, Lieutenant?" Or perhaps, his tone implied, what are you trying to keep in?

Jaden was perplexed.

'Wait, does he think I would punish the workers by locking them in the buffer zone? But why? Oh... my fight with Seth—that makes sense.'

"Buffer zone, if dismantled by any mischief, will cause," James completed Jaden's sentence, adding, "no harm to any operations."

Jaden's brow furrowed, just slightly.

"Still, having no locks isn't acceptable. Make sure the lock is installed by tomorrow," he said before leaving.

He didn't spare a glance at the rest of the bay—didn't acknowledge the cluster of mechanics hunched over terminals or the technician hauling a faulty drone onto the bench. Names, faces—he'd memorize them when necessary. That was Carter's job anyway. Carter had the social grace, the friendly smile. Carter would have introduced everyone.

Jaden didn't need to.

Jaden returned to the departure bay, its sterile lighting casting long reflections across the polished floor. The distant hum of generators pulsed like a second heartbeat through the walls. He moved without hurry, his steps measured, heading straight for the vending machine tucked between two storage lockers.

The machine let out a mechanical clunk as it dispensed the can—a matte-black container marked with military coding and a nondescript label: "Nutrient Beverage 07." He cracked it open. Cold condensation kissed his fingers, the chill biting faintly into his glove.

Then the temperature began to rise.

Slowly. Subtly. Not from the air around him.

The can warmed in his grasp—unnaturally smooth, as though drawn upward by intent rather than environment. Jaden didn't look surprised. Didn't even glance down. He simply raised it to his lips and took a quiet sip.

Steam curled faintly in the air as he exhaled.

He sat down on the bench across from the machine, metal creaking beneath his weight. Around him, the departure bay stretched in quiet stasis: tool crates stacked against the walls, crates half-unloaded, maintenance bots idle in their stations.

He let the warmth settle in his chest as he stared ahead—expression unreadable, posture relaxed, but not at ease.

Moments like this didn't last in Greywell.

"Why am I obsessed with the lock? I really don't care, right?"

A faint voice echoed from the glass panel.

"No, it's necessary. It's needed."

Jaden nodded in agreement, finished his meal, and headed to his room—or so he thought.

...

Jaden found himself standing inside an empty storage room. Nothing was in sight—no crates, no heavy boxes. Even the lights were off. He reached out to find the light switch, but before he could, he noticed a pale boy, around ten years old, staring at him with a lifeless gaze. The boy's long, almost colorless white hair floated eerily in the air. Despite the stark contrast of the boy in the dark environment, Jaden hadn't noticed him upon entering. And why had he entered the room in the first place...?

The boy stood motionless, almost absorbed by the darkness around him, and yet somehow untouched by it. His skin was pale to the point of fragility, porcelain-like, unblemished, as if it had never known sun or warmth. Not sickly—unearthly. The kind of white that wasn't natural, but deliberate. Sculpted.

His face was young—too young for the silence he carried. Smooth, delicate features, symmetrical in the way statues are. But it was his eyes that unsettled Jaden the most: wide, hollow, glass-gray pools that reflected nothing, not even the light. They held no malice, no sorrow, not even emptiness. They simply were.

Boy's hair flowed past his shoulders, fine and colorless like bleached silk adrift in still air. It framed his face in soft strands, but no part of him seemed soft. There was no movement, no breath, no flicker of discomfort at being watched.

Jaden wasn't sure.

The figure before him—delicate, still, almost spectral—defied clear definition. The face was too smooth, too symmetrical to belong cleanly to either boy or girl. The long, pale hair flowed like a curtain over narrow shoulders, and the darkness refused to cast a solid shadow. Even the features, framed in soft grayscale, felt unreal—like the memory of a person, rather than a person themselves.

He hesitated, uncertain: was this a boy? 

Or a girl? 

Then, the figure smiled. 

It was faint, soft—a subtle twitch at the corner of the mouth, never reaching the eyes. The kind of smile a doll might wear, sculpted by someone who understood kindness but had never truly experienced it. 

With that smile came a voice—steady, light, neither high nor low. It carried no curiosity, no threat, just a quiet presence, like air slipping through the cracks of a sealed door. 

"My name is Orion," the voice said. 

"What's yours?" 

There was no warmth, no expectation, not even the rhythm of polite small talk. It felt like a question that didn't need an answer—an echo wrapped in human words.