Neo sat still.
His arms rested on the cold surface of the interrogation room table, wrists bound in sleek obsidian cuffs that flickered faintly with ethereal light—technology so refined it whispered of mysticism, though it bore the design of progress, not myth. The air in the room was unnaturally quiet, the walls lined with dark glass panels that dimly pulsed, monitoring everything from heart rate to mental fluctuation. Above him, a narrow band of cold blue light hummed gently, washing his pale skin in sterile luminescence.
And he stared.
At his palms.
A simple thing, yet complex. Skin slightly calloused from work, knuckles faintly bruised. Yet they seemed like alien things now, as if not his own. His mind, usually sharp and steady, was now a battlefield of turmoil. Questions, anger, confusion—emotions gnawed at the edges of his resolve like insects upon rotting bark.
Did I really think I could just live normally? Work, study, survive?
His lips twitched.
Even ghosts are not left in peace.
He clenched his fists slowly, the cuffs tightening minutely in response to the movement. He didn't resist. The technology was reactive, not punitive. Still, the weight of accusation pressed harder than the bonds.
A hiss broke the silence. The door slid open.
The one who entered wore a dark uniform with silver seams running down the arms and a glowing crest stitched onto the chest—a white sun eclipsed by a black moon. The Martial Sky Guard. Their very presence in SkyCloud City was ominous, let alone here, in an interrogation room meant for high-priority criminals.
Broad-shouldered, clean-shaven, his eyes a shade too intense for comfort. He didn't walk so much as loom, the heels of his boots clacking softly on the polished floor.
"Neo," he said, taking the seat opposite him. His voice was smooth, too practiced. "You've been accused of theft. A relic of national heritage was found in your possession, hidden in your dormitory. That is a serious offense."
Neo didn't answer. He just looked at the man. At the badge. At the hollow pride in his eyes. At the nameplate that bore: Caden Virell.
Caden continued, a slight smile tugging at his lips, though his gaze was steel. "It will go easier for you if you confess. You're just a student—barely someone the system will fight for. But if you cooperate, your punishment can be... lenient."
Still no reply.
Neo sighed softly. It wasn't a dramatic gesture. It was tired. As if the world had worn thin.
Caden tilted his head. "Why do you sigh?"
Neo raised his gaze. Finally, he spoke.
"Is the Sunblade family that powerful?"
Caden blinked. How did he....?
"To frame me? Sure. That's expected. I'm no one. A speck of dust in the grand scheme of things." Neo's voice was soft. Detached. "But to move the Martial Sky Guards? That's overkill, don't you think?"
The room stiffened. Even the humming light above seemed to pause.
Caden's expression darkened. "Sunblade family has nothing do with your capture. You were captured for hoarding a relic you shouldn't have!"
"Then you should've brought better lies," Neo whispered. He looked up, the weariness fading from his eyes, replaced by a calm so cutting it unnerved the guard. "If the evidence is so concrete, then why do you need my confession?"
A pause.
Neo smiled—though there was no joy in it. "The Martial Sky Guards aren't known for their chivalry. So why the patience? Why the performance?"
Caden Virell's fist clenched, jaw tight. The accusation hung in the air like smoke, clinging to the corners of the room.
He stood, stepping back. "You're clever. But cleverness doesn't matter when your name is in the dirt."
And he left—storming out with the poise of a man whose mask had slipped. Rage simmered under his skin, and the sound of the sliding door echoed like defeat.
---
Elsewhere.
In the private estate of the Sunblade lineage, beneath crystal chandeliers and artificial stars embedded in the ceiling, Damian Sunblade lounged lazily on a reclined chair, a glass tablet glimmering by his ear. The device, shaped like a translucent fragment of sky, flickered as a voice reported.
"Young Master, Neo has been apprehended. However, he refuses to confess."
Damian laughed.
"Refuses?" he repeated, swirling the drink in his hand. "Let him. Do you think anyone would advocate for a phantom orphan with no name, no bloodline, and no backing? Let him rot for a month. By the time he's cleared, if he ever is, he'll find the world has moved on without him."
He stood and walked to the balcony, staring down at the glowing cityscape of SkyCloud. "Even if he clears his name, so what? Will the Academy take him back? Will the relic magically return to my possession? Will his future be unbroken?"
He scoffed. "Fools dream. I build reality."
---
SkyCloud Academy
Principal Varlenn Delthorn sat behind a desk fashioned from starlight-wood, scrolling through reports that glowed faintly across his vision like scrolling clouds.
"Neo?" he murmured. "The boy from sector D-17... captured by the Martial Sky Guards?"
His assistant nodded nervously.
"They say he stole a relic—hidden in his dorm."
Varlenn leaned back, fingers steepled, a slow breath rising through his chest. His mind raced—not with outrage, but calculation. The Martial Sky Guards rarely got involved with student affairs. That alone made this suspicious.
"What of his instructor?"
"He... doesn't have one. Neo's class teacher was Instructor Halden, but most oversight was left to student assistants."
"And Damian?"
The assistant hesitated. "He's in the same class. Some say... he and Neo has bad blood between them. And... Young Master Sunblade has influence."
Varlenn's eyes narrowed. "So the Sunblade family dares use their influence even here."
He tapped the desk once, the glass surface responding with a soft chime. "Keep eyes on the boy. Quietly. If he was framed... we must know."
The assistant bowed and left.
And the principal sat alone, in the silence between power and truth, burdened by the weight of knowing that sometimes, in the eternal dance of hierarchy and ambition—justice had to be fought for, not found.