My Infinite System.

The door to Lucian’s quarters hissed shut, sealing him in a silence that felt heavier than the void outside. The room was too small, the walls too close. Every breath felt loud.

He paced. Three steps from the viewport to the bed. Turn. Three steps back. The rhythm was frantic, useless, but he couldn’t stop. His boots were the only sound, a dull tap-tap-tap on the floor.

He stopped at the window, bracing his hands on the cool surface. Earth hung below, a blue and white marble, peaceful from up here. It was a lie. That peace was a scar over a wound his father had carved.

”Alistair.”

The name was ash in his mouth. It used to be a prayer. The man in the old, faded photos. The one with the strong hands who taught him how to throw a punch. The voice that said, ”Protect your family, Lucian. That’s all that matters.” He’d built his whole life on that memory. It was the foundation of everything—the Citadel, his strength, his goddamn name.

And the foundation was rotten.

He saw it now. The first monster gates. The chaos. The way his own power had erupted inside him during the attack that took his mom. It wasn’t random. It was a trigger. His father hadn’t just died; he’d staged his own death and lit the fuse on his sons.

Lucian’s fist slammed into the reinforced window. It didn’t crack, but a sharp jolt of pain shot up his arm. Good. He welcomed it.

”He played us,” he whispered to his reflection. The face looking back was haunted, eyes shadowed with a fury so deep it felt cold. ”He wasn’t a father. He was a scientist. We were his damn experiments.”

He pushed off from the window and started pacing again, a caged animal with nowhere to run. The love he’d felt, the grief he’d carried for years—it was all fuel his father had poured into him, to make him burn brighter. To make him a better weapon.

A soft sound at the door made him freeze. Marc stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame. He’d been watching. How long?

”You gonna wear a hole in the floor?” Marc’s voice was quiet, stripped of its usual dry humor.

Lucian just stared at him, his chest tight. ”He used us, Marc.”

”I heard you the first time.” Marc pushed off the doorframe and walked in, his hands in his pockets. He looked calm, but his eyes were carefully scanning Lucian, reading the tension in his shoulders, the tight line of his jaw. ”So what are you gonna do? Hunt him down?”

”What else is there?” Lucian’s voice was rough. ”He killed our mother. He threw the world into a war just to... to wake us up. When I find him, I’m going to look him in the eye and I’m going to make him regret ever having us.”

Marc didn’t flinch. He just watched his brother, his expression unreadable. ”You really remember him that much? What he was like?”

The question hit Lucian like a physical blow. ”Yeah. I do. He was... he was my hero.” The admission felt like a betrayal of everything he now knew.

A shadow passed over Marc’s face. ”Must be tough.”

”Tough?” Lucian let out a sharp, bitter laugh. ”It’s a nightmare. Everything I thought was real is just... garbage.”

Marc was silent for a long moment. ”I don’t remember him,” he said finally. ”Not a thing. Just a name. Sometimes I think Eron doing what he did... maybe it was a kindness. I never had a hero to lose.”

Lucian looked at him, truly looked at him. He saw no anger there, just a deep, weary emptiness. It was somehow worse than his own rage. He had something to smash. Marc had nothing but a ghost.

”Don’t say that,” Lucian said, his voice low.

”Why not? It’s the truth.” Marc shrugged, a hollow gesture. ”You got the memories. I got the clean break. Seems easier my way.”

”It’s not,” Lucian said, turning away. ”None of this is easy.”

---

Marc found Garos in the mess hall, nursing a cup of coffee and staring at the synthetic wood grain of the table. He looked up as Marc slid into the seat across from him.

”We need to talk,” Marc said, no preamble.

”About Alistair,” Garos guessed, his shoulders slumping a little.

”Everything you know. The real stuff, not the stories.”

Garos sighed, setting his cup down. ”Marc... I don’t have any deep, dark secrets. I told you, what I saw was what he showed everyone. He and your mother... they were good together. Really in love. He was quieter around her. Softer. The arrogance... it was still there, but it felt... earned, you know? He was powerful, but he used it to protect people. Our unit. His family.”

He looked away, his gaze distant. ”When a gate opened on their block, he fought like a demon to get everyone out. They said he went back for a neighbor’s kid, that the structural collapse caught them both. We found his jacket in the rubble. We had a funeral.” He shook his head, a pained look on his face. ”I mourned him. We all did. The thought that he... that he could have caused that...” He trailed off, unable to finish.

”So the man you knew,” Marc pressed, his voice flat. ”The ’good guy.’ You think that was an act?”

”I don’t know what to think anymore,” Garos admitted, running a hand over his face. ”But the man I called a friend? He loved your mother. He was proud of his children. The idea that he would orchestrate her death...” He shook his head again, more firmly this time. ”The man I knew would have rather died himself.”

Marc listened, turning the words over in his mind. There were no grand revelations here. No secret history of madness. Just the story of a good man who died a hero. A story that was probably a lie.

”But he didn’t die, did he?” Marc said quietly.

Garos met his eyes, and the sadness in them was profound. ”No. He didn’t. And I don’t know the man who lived.”

Marc leaned back, processing. It was frustrating. He wanted a monster, a clear target. Instead, he had a ghost with two faces: the saint Lucian remembered and the phantom Garos had buried. Which one was real? Maybe both. Maybe the good man had broken, and the broken man had become something else entirely.

”Lucian wants to kill him,” Marc stated.

”I know,” Garos said softly. ”And part of me can’t blame him. But... that kind of hate, Marc. It consumes you. When Lucian looks at Alistair, he’s not just seeing the man who betrayed the universe. He’s seeing the father who betrayed him. That’s a different kind of fight.”

”And what do I see?” Marc asked, almost to himself.

Garos gave him a sad, knowing look. ”You see a stranger. And maybe that makes you the only one who can see the truth when the time comes.”

---

When Marc returned to Lucian’s room, the door was open. Lucian was standing by the viewport again, but he was still now. The frantic energy was gone, replaced by a grim, solid resolve.

”Get what you needed?” Lucian asked without turning around.

”Not really,” Marc said, stepping inside. ”Garos just remembers a guy who loved his family and died a hero. Doesn’t exactly help.”

”Doesn’t change anything,” Lucian replied, his voice low and final.

”I know.” Marc came to stand beside him, both of them looking out at the infinite stars. ”So we’re really doing this? We’re going after him.”

Lucian finally turned his head. The rage was still there, but it was banked now, controlled. A tool, not a master. ”Yeah. We are.”

A ghost of a smile touched Marc’s lips. ”Good. Then let’s go piss off a god.”

Lucian almost smiled back. Just almost. He gave one last look at the stars, then turned his back on them.

”Let’s go.”