Year [Redacted]

  Month [Redacted]

  City of Rebirth, [Redacted] [[█████]

  “Haaah, so close. After that fuck up that lost Nishino and the team I managed to escape and hide for almost two years.” Otto looked around.

  The cell was exactly five paces in each direction—Otto had counted repeatedly during his two months of imprisonment.. A steel toilet and sink combination occupied one corner, while a narrow cot was bolted to the floor along the opposite wall.

  “I guess this is where I’ll spend the rest of my life. If they don’t execute me that is.”

  Otto closed his eyes. He had tried to figure a way out many times, yet with cameras watching inside the prison, there were very few blind spots. None of which he could think of using to get out.

  As he contemplated an escape, the cell door slid open, revealing two guards in military uniforms.

  “Prisoner,” one announced formally. “You’re being transferred.”

  “To where?” Otto asked, rising slowly from his cot.

  “That information is classified,” the guard replied without emotion. “Hands forward for restraints.”

  Otto complied, allowing them to secure his wrists before escorting him from the cell. They guided him to a vehicle bay he had never seen before.

  A black transport waited, unmarked and windowless. The guards directed him inside, where two more similarly uniformed personnel waited. The interior was unexpectedly comfortable, with padded seating and climate control.

  “What is this?” Otto asked as the door sealed shut. “Where are you taking me?”

  None of the guards responded. The vehicle hummed as it pulled away from the detention facility.

  When the door opened again, he found himself staring at an estate surrounded by immaculate gardens.

  “Out,” one guard ordered, helping him to his feet.

  Otto stepped down from the transport, taking in the scene, face filled with confusion.

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  The guards escorted him up a gravel path to the main entrance, where an elderly butler waited.

  “This way, please,” the butler said.

  They proceeded through a grand foyer lined with portraits. Otto’s restraints were removed as they reached a heavy wooden door, which the butler opened with a formal bow.

  “The guest has arrived, sir,” the butler announced before stepping aside.

  Otto entered a study filled with books and antique furniture. A large desk occupied the center of the room, behind which stood a man younger than Otto himself, a man perhaps in his mid to late twenties. He was tall and powerfully built, with raven-black hair and piercing violet eyes.

  “Welcome,” the man greeted him. “Otto. Please, have a seat.”

  Otto remained standing. “Who are you? Why am I here?”

  “My name is Alexander Mercier,” the man replied

  “And you’re here because, I see some use from you.”

  Otto’s eyes narrowed with recognition. “Mercier... the weapons manufacturer?”

  “Among other things,” Alexander acknowledged with a slight nod.

  Alexander gestured to a leather chair. “Please, sit. This conversation will take some time.”

  Otto hesitated before complying.

  “You believe the world burns,” Alexander stated.

  Otto said nothing, watching the man carefully.

  “You’re right,” Alexander continued. “But the truth is both simpler and more complex than your theories suggest. The world truly is ending, Otto. But not in the way you imagine, and not for the reasons you believe.”

  Alexander’s words made his blood run cold.

  “The world is dying,” Alexander said, returning to his desk. “But another will replace it.”

  “Let me show you the truth,” Alexander said. “All of it.”

  …

  Otto adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses, studying his reflection in the polished mirror of his private quarters. The wild-haired, passionate dissident was gone, replaced by a meticulously groomed figure whose appearance conveyed control. His once-chaotic mane had been replaced by a neatly trimmed, professional cut, dyed brown.

  He straightened his tie and brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his tailored suit.

  “I dreamed of when I was called Otto again. How disturbing perhaps it is the stress brought by knowing that there is only a handful of years left before the new world.”

  The intercom chimed softly, pulling him from his thoughts.

  “The Children are assembled, Mr. O,” announced a respectful voice.

  “I’ll be there momentarily,” Mr. O replied.

  He tucked the tablet into his jacket pocket and moved toward the door, his steps measured and precise. The chaotic passion of his youth had been channeled into methodical preparation for what was to come.

  Mr. O paused at the threshold, glancing back at the small frame on his desk—the only personal item in the otherwise sterile room. Inside was a faded photograph of five young people, their faces full of revolutionary fervor as they posed for the camera. His team from another lifetime, all lost in the failed operation at the broadcast facility.

  “Otto had no place in the new world. So I became someone who does.” he whispered.

  He closed the door behind him, leaving the ghosts of his past.