Sovereign of the Deep

Chapter 14: How Many Screams



Elsewhere in District 4 – Sector 1

Bzzzt. Bzzzt.

The phone rang.

A sharp, clinical sound that sliced through the velvet quiet of the room.

He didn't move at first—just lay there, eyes half-lidded, staring at the ceiling. A woman's hand rested lightly on his bare chest, her breath slow on his shoulder, her body draped like silk across the sheets.

The phone rang again.

With a sigh, he reached over to the nightstand, where the screen cast a cold glow against the dark. He glanced at the name.

Silence stretched.

Then, slowly, he pushed the sheets aside and rose. The woman mumbled something thick with sleep, barely coherent. He ignored her.

He picked up the half-full glass of wine from the table—deep red, like a bruise in candlelight—and took a long, thoughtful sip. The liquid lingered on his tongue, sharp and dry.

Then, barefoot, he walked toward the balcony—each step deliberate, silent against the marble floor.

He answered the call with a flick of his thumb.

"Speak, Michael."

The voice crackled to life.

"Lord Kaelen, we've secured another batch of human subjects. We're en route to Base Seventeen now."

Kaelen took a slow sip of wine.

"Good."

Michael hesitated.

"There's… something else. It's getting harder to bring in V-subjects for the other bases. The older ones are starting to resist—some violently. We've lost two enforcers this week."

A pause.

Cold silence settled over the line like frost.

Then Kaelen spoke—his voice quiet, but flat and merciless.

"Kill the ones who fight. Harvest what you can before disposal."

A beat. Then:

"From now on, focus on children. Ages five to nine. They're easier to break. Vira control is minimal at that age. It's too early for them to grasp a derivative— and they bond quickly to authority."

"…Understood, my lord."

Kaelen ended the call without another word.

He stood at the edge of the balcony, glass of wine in hand, looking down from his penthouse like a god watching over his creation.

Below, the city glowed—an endless grid of sharp angles and pulsing light. Highways threaded through the skyline like luminous arteries, streaming with sleek, whispering vehicles that moved in perfect rhythm.

Drones buzzed silently between rooftops, weaving around spires and surveillance beacons. Far below, in the clean, cordoned walkways of Sector 1, a few pedestrians moved beneath transparent canopies—tiny, filtered specks from this height, seen through tinted glass and augmented overlays. The hum of the city reached him even up here—low, constant, alive.

Across the horizon, skyscrapers shimmered with mirrored surfaces, their peaks lost in the haze of artificial clouds and reflected starlight. The real stars were faint—outshone by the city's brilliance. What remained was the pulse of human progress, tireless and unyielding.

He took a slow sip of wine, the city reflected in the dark liquid.

'A decade,' he thought, the bitterness curdling beneath his calm. 'More than a decade… and still, so little progress. How many more children need to be wasted before we see results? Tsk.'

He exhaled, long and low, his breath misting faintly in the cold night air.

A breeze moved past him—cool, sterile. But then something warmer: arms sliding around his torso from behind.

Soft. Possessive.

The voice that followed curled like smoke into his ear.

"You'll catch a chill out here," she murmured, lips grazing his spine. "Come back to bed. We miss you already."

She wore only silver. Bra and underwear, thin as frost and twice as delicate. Her skin caught the city's shimmer like glass warmed by touch.

Kaelen glanced back. Her face glowed beneath the artificial moonlight, but he didn't look at it long.

Instead, he gave her a small, practiced smile—the kind he kept sharp as a blade.

"…Alright."

He drained the last of the wine, set the glass on the balcony rail with a clink, and turned away from the city.

Inside, the room was bathed in warm, golden light. Two more women lounged across the bed, half-buried in gold-tinted sheets. One traced lazy fingers across her thigh. The other studied him with a slow, knowing smile—like a predator deciding whether to devour or seduce.

Kaelen walked toward them. Slowly. He had all the time in the world.

He climbed back into the cradle of warmth and flesh, letting their hands find him again—drifting back into distraction. The kind he preferred. The kind that didn't ask questions. That didn't scream when cut open.

As fingers slid across his chest and lips ghosted over his neck, he let himself forget—for a moment—how many bodies it took to keep this illusion alive.

How many children.

How many screams.

His smile returned.

This was what power looked like. Not cruelty. Not indulgence.

Control.

***

Sami's Penthouse - Sector 1

—-

Ren woke slowly. The sun filtering in through the high windows of Sami's penthouse warmed his face, but not enough to make him feel anything about it. 

It had been two days since he started living here.

In that time, he had accomplished absolutely nothing.

Just lying around, staring at walls, and occasionally blinking.

He called it "adjusting to the environment."

A noble endeavor, really.

He stared at the ceiling for a while before dragging himself out of bed.

"Today, I'm doing absolutely nothing," he muttered as he pushed his wet hair out of his eyes.

He padded to the bathroom and stepped into the shower, letting the water hit him like a silent drumroll. It ran down his back and clung to him more than it should've. It always did. Part of the affliction.

After a long moment, he stepped out, leaving the tiles soaked. He wiped a patch of fog from the mirror with his palm and stared.

His reflection blinked back.

Ocean-blue eyes, pale skin, long black hair that refused to dry. There was a kind of effortless beauty to him—but it was muted, like everything else in his life. He looked like someone painted to be a statue.

"Still handsome," he murmured without emotion, then shrugged and turned away.

He walked across the hall, opened the tall, dark-wood wardrobe, and dressed in a soft, light-blue t-shirt and black drawstring pants. No socks. No shoes. No intention of going anywhere.

He made his way into the kitchen, poured a little oil into the pot, and tossed in the corn kernels. The pops came quick. Not the highlight of his week, but it was up there.

Moments later, bowl in hand, he walked barefoot into the lounge. The curtains were open, flooding the room with soft daylight. A massive L-shaped couch faced a TV already lit with the idle glow of a paused movie. A lazy Saturday morning stretched before him.

He approached the couch, already halfway lowering himself.

'Perfect.'

Then—

ShhhhhhWHUMP.

A hard mass of mist formed beneath him, then shoved him sideways with a burst of sudden force.

The bowl flew from his hands. Popcorn exploded like celebratory confetti, scattering across the couch and floor as Ren hit the carpet with a dull thud.

He blinked.

Then slowly turned.

'Huh? Who is this?'

There, curled lazily on the couch like a queen in exile, was a girl. She had slept half-curled under a pillow. Her jet-black hair, usually sharp and severe, now stuck out in soft disarray—flattened on one side, fluffed on the other, with strands falling into her eyes. It had the sleepy weight of having been tossed across a pillow for hours. Mist swirled gently beneath her like a cloud that had forgotten how to rain.

She was only wearing a very oversized black T-shirt—probably one of Sami's, judging by how it nearly reached her knees—and nothing else but black underwear.

She sat up, rubbed her eyes, then stared at Ren.

Her voice was dry, raspy with sleep, and thoroughly unimpressed.

"Who the fuck is this kid who almost sits on my face so early in the morning?"

Ren stared back, still lying on the floor, as a piece of popcorn rolled across his shoulder.

"Didn't see you," he replied flatly. "Thought you were part of the couch."

She narrowed her eyes.

"I should drop you off the balcony."

"You could try," Ren said, propping himself up on one elbow. "But knowing my luck, I'd just faceplant into a puddle."

There was a long pause.

Then the mist beneath her slowly pulled back, and she stood, stretching without shame. Ren respectfully looked away—mostly. He was still a little embarrassed, even if he tried not to show it.

She stepped over him and wandered toward the kitchen, muttering under her breath.

"Need caffeine."

Her steps were loose and uneven—like someone halfway between a drunken sway and a hangover shuffle.

Ren stared at her.

'Is she okay?'

As she passed, the mist around her dispersed like a sigh. She opened the fridge, still groggy.

Ren sat up, brushing off popcorn from his shirt, and finally exhaled.

"So," he called, "what do I call the girl who nearly turned me into a throw pillow?"

From the kitchen came her reply, muffled behind the fridge door.

"Aika."

She grabbed a bottle of chilled water from the fridge, twisted it open with a lazy flick, and took a long, steady gulp.

Then, without looking at him, she spoke—voice low, dry, and threaded with the weight of a hangover.

"…You're the guy who needs help resonating with water, right?"

Another pause.

"What's your name?"

"Ren," he replied.

Aika raised an eyebrow. "Figures."

She leaned against the counter and continued casually, like she was commenting on the weather.

"I've scanned you. You can't even sense Vira. No basics, no grounding—you're starting from zero."

She sighed.

"Sami better double my pay… or I'm pinning him to a wall and slicing off his toes like carrot sticks."

She walked out of the kitchen, casually murderous, and threw over her shoulder in a firm tone, "Go get dressed. We're leaving in 20 minutes."

"Where to?" Ren asked.

No answer. She was already halfway down the hallway, disappearing into her room like some moody action heroine, and then—slam—the door shut behind her.

Ren stared after her for a second, blinking.

"I miss the popcorn," he muttered, then glanced down at the floor.

His popcorn. Everywhere. Like a tragic battlefield of buttery corpses.

Sighing, he shuffled off to get the vacuum cleaner, cleaned the mess in silence, then headed off to change.


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