[Oliver's PoV]

  A few years earlier

  “Lian?”

  The name slipped from Oliver’s lips before he could stop it, a whisper swallowed by the low hum of dying machines.

  The figure straightened slowly among the tangle of wires and flickering monitors. The light from the shattered screens painted him in fractured color like a ghost caught between frequencies.

  “Oliver, correct?” the man said, his voice calm, almost casual, as he turned to face them. “How are you?”

  Oliver stared, his mind refusing to process what he was seeing. His mouth opened, then closed again, words forming and vanishing before they ever reached sound.

  “You… you’re alive?” he managed finally, the question sounding absurd even to his own ears.

  The man smiled faintly, though there was no warmth in it. “Me? Alive? Yes,” he said, his tone even, measured. “But the Lian you knew… unfortunately, no.”

  Oliver blinked, confusion cutting through the haze of disbelief. “The Lian I knew?” he repeated, voice trembling slightly.

  “Yes,” the man said, stepping away from the nest of cables. “He wasn’t the first. And I won’t be the last.” He paused, his expression unreadable. “Though I prefer to be called Chief… or Command.”

  If Oliver hadn’t already been sitting, his knees might have given out. As it was, he gripped the sides of his chair, shaking his head slowly. “I… I don’t understand,” he said, his voice low, almost pleading.

  Lian’s footsteps echoed softly as he disappeared into the far end of the chamber, where the light from the dying monitors could no longer reach.

  A massive red curtain covered the wall ahead, its fabric heavy and dust-coated.

  “Thalos,” Lian said without turning. “Help me. Bring him closer.”

  The android obeyed immediately. The wheelchair’s wheels creaked as Thalos pushed forward, sometimes lifting it slightly to clear the tangled mess of cables snaking across the floor. Each bump sent a jolt of pain through Oliver’s ribs, but he bit down on his tongue and said nothing. His eyes stayed fixed on Lian, who stood motionless before the red veil.

  Then, with a smooth motion, Lian pulled the curtain aside and stepped through.

  As Thalos guided him through the opening, the world expanded into something vast, cold, and utterly alien.

  The space beyond was enormous, stretching far beyond what the upper building could possibly contain. The faint glow from overhead panels revealed row upon row of glass tanks, hundreds of them, stacked in towering grids that climbed into the darkness.

  Each tank pulsed with a dim, internal light, like the slow heartbeat. Tubes and conduits ran between them, weaving through the air carrying liquid that shimmered faintly.

  Oliver blinked, leaning forward, trying to see what floated inside. The shapes were human.

  And they all looked like him.

  Oliver’s breath caught. His pulse thundered in his ears. Thalos pushed him closer to the nearest tank; he saw the unmistakable features reflected back. The same jawline, the same eyes, the same faint scar.

  “It’s you!” Oliver gasped, his voice cracking with disbelief.

  Lian turned slightly. “In part,” he said quietly. “They share my memories, up to the moment they wake up, but they are not me. Not entirely.”

  He moved between the towering rows. “My mission began long ago,” he continued. “And no single Nameless could survive long enough to see it through.”

  Oliver watched as Lian stopped beside one of the tanks, resting a hand gently against the glass. Inside, the figure floated motionless, suspended in a viscous fluid, its eyes closed as though it were dreaming.

  “So your father,” Lian said, his tone softening, “prepared contingencies. Copies, backups, as you might call them. But with a purpose beyond preservation.” He turned his head slightly, meeting Oliver’s stunned gaze. “Each one of them was designed to carry a fragment of me, to absorb the weight of my boon. To keep me alive long enough to finish what I began.”

  “How?” Oliver asked, his voice echoing faintly through the vast chamber.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Lian turned toward him, his expression calm. “Teleporting a person five meters is simple,” he began. “Five kilometers is difficult. Five light-years…” He paused, his eyes distant. “That’s fatal.”

  He stepped closer to one of the tanks, resting his hand on the glass. “But,” he continued, “if there are two of us connected, what would be fatal becomes difficult. Ten, manageable. A hundred effortless.”

  Oliver’s breath caught. His gaze drifted upward, following the endless columns of tanks that vanished into the shadows above. “They’re connected?” he asked, his voice low, almost reverent.

  “They’re semi-dormant,” Lian replied. “Waiting for their turn to take my place. But while they sleep, I can link to them. Draw power from them.”

  He reached behind one of the tanks and pulled a thick cable. Without hesitation, he lifted it to the base of his neck. There was a soft click as the connector locked into place, and for a moment, the air seemed to vibrate. A faint glow spread beneath his skin, tracing the lines of his veins in delicate blue light.

  “Watch,” he said.

  He raised his hand.

  Instantly, a small metal card appeared suspended in the air. His fingers closed, and the card vanished from one hand only to reappear in the other in the blink of an eye.

  Oliver stared, unable to suppress the shiver that ran down his spine.

  “Obviously,” Lian said, his tone returning to that of a teacher explaining a simple equation, “I still absorb much of the strain myself. But this—” he gestured to the hundreds of tanks surrounding them “—is how we continue the mission. It’s how we make the impossible… routine.”

  He paused, disconnecting the cable from his neck. The glow beneath his skin dimmed, leaving behind only the faintest trace of light. “Still,” he added quietly, “it’s a power too great to sustain for long. The more we use it, the sooner our expiration arrives.”

  Oliver nodded slowly. “How long?” he asked softly.

  Lian’s lips curved into a faint, resigned smile. “Me?” He exhaled, the sound almost a sigh. “Nine months, if I’m lucky.”

  He glanced toward one of the nearby tanks, its occupant a perfect reflection of himself, suspended in eternal stillness. “My predecessor burned through his time even faster,” Lian continued. “He died at the right moment, though. Only a few days before the Curse would have taken him anyway.”

  “So there’ll be Lians forever?” Oliver asked. “Then why the hell were you recruiting?”

  Lian paused mid-step. “To find you,” he said, turning back toward Oliver.

  “Find me?”

  “The one we were made to find,” Lian replied. His tone was calm, almost clinical, but beneath it lay exhaustion. “Yes, we’ll last a long time, but not forever. There are far fewer of us than you think. And if the network fails…”

  He gestured toward the tanks, the faint light reflecting in his eyes. “Then we all become fried circuitry. Fish in glass coffins,” he said with a grim smile. “And even before that, we can’t stay in combat for long. Every time we push our limits, every time we use our link, we burn through our time faster.”

  Lian turned and walked back toward the computer nest at the center of the room. The faint clicking of keys resumed, as though nothing about their conversation had been extraordinary.

  Oliver sat in silence for a while.

  “Why?” he asked suddenly, his voice cutting through the quiet.

  Lian didn’t look up. “What?”

  “Why keep doing this?” Oliver pressed. “You’re not the original Lian. You could… stop. Live your own life.”

  For a moment, the only response was the faint clatter of keys. Then Lian exhaled softly and leaned back, his eyes still fixed on the glowing screens.

  “Maybe I could,” he said at last. “Maybe I’m not him. But I remember everything he did. Every choice. Every mistake. Every love and every heartbreak.”

  He turned his head slightly, and for the first time, Oliver saw something human in his expression.

  “I have all his memories,” Lian continued quietly. “I know why he helped your father. I know what he believed in, what he sacrificed. And I know what every version of me after him endured to keep that promise alive.”

  He gestured vaguely toward the rows of tanks.

  “How could I live,” he said quietly, without looking up, “knowing that all of them sacrificed themselves, so that I could choose to run?”

  Lian's voice was calm, but there was a gravity to it. The faint tapping of keys continued.

  Then he stopped. Slowly, he lifted his gaze to meet Oliver’s.

  “Could you?” he asked. “Could you abandon everything? Friends. Family. Hope. Dreams. Above all, those who still need you?”

  His eyes were sharp now, as though he could see straight through Oliver’s hesitation. Then, just as quickly, he turned back to his work.

  “I can’t,” he said. “Timothy. Alice. Cassandra. Matheus. Amelia. Elize. Peter.” He listed the names one by one, each syllable carrying the weight of memory. “They’re only the ones who died today. Right in the hospital above us. Another hundred will follow before the next dawn. All of them taken by expiration.”

  The room felt colder suddenly. The low hum of the tanks seemed to deepen, a dull, mournful sound.

  Oliver said nothing. His gaze lingered on Lian.

  Then Lian’s voice shifted, cutting sharper, closer. “One day, it will be Nico,” he said.

  Oliver’s body went rigid.

  “Your mentor,” Lian continued, his tone steady but merciless. “The man who reached out to a boy in need. The one who taught you how to fight. The one who believed in you. That prays for your safety.”

  He paused. The silence that followed was suffocating. “Would you leave him behind? Even if you weren’t the original Oliver? Even if you were just his memory?”

  The question hung in the air.

  Oliver’s throat tightened. He tried to speak, but the words caught somewhere between his chest and his mouth. When he finally managed to force them out, his voice was low, almost a whisper.

  “No.”

  Lian’s lips curved into a faint smile. He nodded once, the expression brief but genuine.

  “Good,” he said. “Then we can work together.”

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