The Outcast's Rebirth

Two Days Later — Zhilikai

The city was not as bright as it once had been, but it was still a marvel. Hovercars whispered overhead, the older subway systems now silent beneath the ground. Green buildings thrived with engineered flora, a symbol of the fusion between science and ancient belief systems. Despite the polish and order, there was tension in the air — whispers of something forgotten stirring again.

Chima adjusted his collar as he entered the dim, soundproof corridor beneath the Central Archive Wing. Few people had access to this level. The light from his wrist implant blinked twice, then the door clicked open.

He stepped into the surveillance room.

“Play it again,” he said to the AI, waving a hand.

The feed flickered to life — the same café, the same two figures.

Chima leaned in, his arms crossed.

The redhead — Keith — was leaning slightly forward, watching Alfie with the casual intimacy of someone used to reading another person’s silence. Alfie turned just enough for Chima to notice the smallest of tics: a blink pattern, repeated every seventeen seconds. Deliberate. Almost like… code.

“Enhance and analyze the tall one’s facial data,” Chima commanded.

The AI hesitated before replying. “Subject registers multiple inconsistencies. Visual interference pattern suggests light refractors. No biometric record found in public or private Winston databases. Face likely altered. Suspect is using cloaking-grade tech.”

Chima’s jaw clenched.

“Name, match, background.”

“Cross-referencing…”

A moment later, an old, archived file appeared. No photos, just a reference from the original records hundred of years old. A codename:

ALFRED JR.
— Deceased. Last known location: Boulder Academy, Stoke Newington. Associated with Winston (classified).

Chima took a step back. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The man Keith was traveling with wasn’t just suspicious — he was from the core. One of the original operatives.

And he was supposed to be dead.

Later That Night

Chima sat in his apartment, lights off, staring at the digital board projected onto his wall. Lines, names, timelines. He had redrawn the tree.

Theodore’s line was intact — Mildred.
Ethan’s blood ran through him.
Aethel… was quiet.

Vidar was the last verified descendant. And he had long since walked away from the family legacy. He didn’t speak to any of them. No meetings. No calls. Just the occasional encrypted statement released by his company’s PR team.

And yet, Alfie — an operative once tied to Aethel — was alive.

Which meant…

He didn’t sleep that night. Instead, he sent a message.

TO: VIDAR LENMANN WINSTON
SUBJECT: URGENT — Keith Thaw

MESSAGE: They found Alfie. He’s not dead. And he’s not alone. I need to talk. Now.

He hit send.

Then he sat in silence.

Elsewhere…

Vidar read the message on a secure device that didn't exist on any official network. He sat in his lab, surrounded by advanced prototypes, screens casting a blue hue over his face.

He didn’t respond immediately.

Instead, he opened a video feed from a small drone.

There, hundreds of miles away, Keith Thaw was walking beside Alfie under the dim orange lights of a backstreet train station. They didn’t know they were being watched.

Vidar leaned back, fingers steepled beneath his chin. His icy gray eyes stayed fixed on Keith’s face.

“…So you’re really alive,” he murmured, voice like static.

“But who the hell are you?”