The capsule received his body with a quiet hiss of hydraulics. The lid slid downwards, severing the last fragment of the real world—the white ceiling of the hospital ward, the indifferent faces of medical drones.

  Elren squeezed his eyes shut. Not from fear. From rage.

  Forty years. Forty damned years in a virtual cage.

  The nutri-port and ex-port activated in synchrony; where they'd been installed, the skin felt as though pierced by fine needles. A familiar prickling—he'd been through this countless times before. Back then it had all been voluntary. Back then he'd chosen.

  Now there was no choice.

  The neurolink responded last—a dull pulse at the base of his skull, as if someone had flicked a switch inside his head. Darkness became grey mist, and mist became white void.

  Elren hung suspended in space. Nothing beneath his feet. Nothing overhead either. All around—endless whiteness, stripped of shadow and perspective.

  "Welcome to the Ether."

  The voice emerged from the void—male, velvet-smooth, with a hint of irony in its inflection. Before Elren materialised a silhouette: a tall man in an impeccable suit the colour of night sky, with silver threads on the cuffs. A classically handsome face—chiselled cheekbones, straight nose, eyes the colour of smouldering coals.

  Karo.

  Elren had seen him twice before. The first time—fifteen years ago, when creating his character. The second—two years ago, when deleting it on command's orders.

  "I remember you," Karo said, smiling at the corners of his mouth. "Elren Veynar. Former player, former free wanderer. Now—a prisoner."

  The word cut.

  "Don't remind me."

  "Alas, I must remind you of something else." Karo snapped his fingers. Holographic panels unfurled in the air—text in small print, seals, signatures. "According to sentence execution protocol, you're denied the right to choose a portal. All prisoners are directed to Seratis. No exceptions."

  Elren clenched his fists. Seratis—the Ether's most popular world, overflowing with players. He'd known about this rule for prisoners, but never thought he'd end up amongst their number.

  "Splendid," he ground out through his teeth. "What else?"

  "You cannot create your own avatar." Karo swept his hand, and the panels collapsed into one. "The character will be generated automatically—as your exact copy. Species: human. No appearance modifications."

  "Why?"

  "Because prisoners must be recognisable." Karo shrugged. "The system marks you with a special marker. A red tag above your head, visible to all players and NPCs. It cannot be hidden."

  Elren exhaled. So there wouldn't even be anonymity.

  "Can I at least choose a nickname?"

  "Yes... That's the only freedom you have left."

  Elren didn't hesitate.

  "Blackjack!"

  Karo nodded. Fingers glided through the air, entering the name.

  "Blackjack... Your old callsign?"

  "Yes."

  "Sentimental." The voice held mockery, but not cruel. "Very well. Your Ether avatar is created."

  Before Elren appeared a projection—huge, full-sized. Opposite the man stood himself: broad shoulders, sinewy arms, dark skin, grey eyes. Brown-haired with a short cut, military bearing. One metre ninety-five tall, one hundred kilograms. An exact copy.

  He ran his palm across his chest. The sensations were real—warmth of skin, firmness of muscle. Even the scar on his left shoulder, left by shrapnel during one of the combat sorties.

  Elren swallowed. Memories stung his heart. Baz had covered him then, not letting a single refuser near their wounded commander.

  Suppressing the burgeoning emptiness, the man sighed. "At least my mind stayed intact."

  Two years ago, when command had ordered him to delete his character for immoral and reprehensible behaviour, he hadn't thought he'd ever be glad of it. Without that, his brain would now be melting from overload. After all, prisoners received no adaptation time between deleting an old character and creating a new one.

  Now rage began flooding him. Grief for his murdered mother surged over him with unexpected force.

  "Not now, get hold of yourself!" With effort suppressing another emotional surge, the man calmed himself.

  Whilst the mind worked, there was a chance to survive.

  "Characteristics," Karo pronounced, and a new panel unfurled before Elren. "You have ten free points. Distribute them."

  Elren's gaze ran down the list: Strength, Stamina, Fortitude, Reaction, Agility, Perception, Intelligence, Spirit, Concentration, Luck.

  He didn't deliberate. Evenly—one point in each characteristic. No imbalances. No bets on luck or strength. Balance.

  The panel blinked, confirming the choice.

  "Starting location," Karo continued. "You cannot choose it. The system will randomly determine one of Seratis's special locations. There you'll serve your sentence."

  Elren nodded. What difference did it make? A prison is a prison.

  Karo smiled—broadly, almost amiably.

  "Well then, Blackjack... Welcome to Seratis, and enjoy the game."

  "Go to—" The man didn't finish. The whiteness flared. Elren plunged into darkness.

  ***

  The wave crashed over them, carrying laughter into foaming lacework of surf. The man surfaced first, shook his head—droplets scattered in a rainbow fan. The sun hung directly overhead, flooding the ocean with molten gold.

  "Catch me!"

  The woman slipped past, pushing off from his shoulder. Hair streamed behind her in a silken trail—the colour of ripe wheat, weightless underwater. He plunged after her, cleaving the water with his arms. Below them stretched a transparent seabed—white sand scattered with shells and starfish.

  A shoal of fish darted aside. Silver bodies flashed in the sunlight, shimmering with all the colours of the rainbow—from emerald to violet. One of them slid right beneath his palm, tickling his skin with its fins.

  He caught the woman at the coral ridge, wrapped his arms round her waist. She squealed, trying to break free, but he pulled her close, pressed his lips to her neck. Skin salty, warm. He felt her laughter—vibration in her chest, heartbeat beneath her ribs.

  "That's cheating!"

  "Who said I play by the rules?"

  They surfaced together, gasping for air. The ocean splashed around them—infinite, turquoise, so clear that the horizon merged with sky. Not a cloud. Only sun, water, and the two of them.

  A dolphin leapt from a wave ten metres away, arced through the air and dived back. Three more followed. The woman clapped her hands, eyes shining.

  "Look! Look how beautiful they are!"

  Dolphins circled nearby, now approaching, now receding. One swam right up, nudging its nose against the woman's outstretched palm. She laughed—bright, infectious. Stroked the smooth grey back.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  The man embraced her from behind, rested his chin on her shoulder. Breathed in the scent of her hair—sea salt, frangipani blossoms, something sweet he couldn't name but would recognise amongst a thousand others.

  They emerged onto the shore as the sun began dipping towards sunset. The sand was warm, almost hot, and very white—like crushed pearl. Water streamed from their bodies in rivulets, leaving damp trails on skin.

  The woman stretched out on a towel, arms flung wide. Hair splayed in a golden halo round her head. The man lay beside her, placed his palm on her stomach. Skin quivered beneath his fingers in time with her breathing.

  "I want to stay here forever."

  He turned on his side, ran his knuckles along her cheek. She closed her eyes, leaning into the touch.

  "Let's stay."

  Palm fronds rustled—a melodious whisper, like music. The island was tiny—you could walk round it in half an hour. Jungle at the centre, beach along the perimeter, a bungalow on stilts right at the water's edge. Nothing more. No one. Just them.

  Waves lapped at the shore with lazy tongues, licking the sand. With each new wave the sea brought something new—oddly shaped shells, smooth pebbles, seaweed gleaming with mother-of-pearl in the sunlight.

  The woman rolled onto her stomach, propped her chin on her palms. Smiled—mischievously, with a squint.

  "Race you?"

  "To what?"

  "First one to the water."

  She bolted without waiting for an answer. The man lunged after her, caught her at the very edge of the surf, swept her into his arms. She shrieked, pounding his shoulders with her fists.

  "Put me down! Put me down this instant!"

  He stepped into the water knee-deep, waist-deep. Swayed, pretending he was about to drop her. She clutched his neck, pressed against him with her whole body.

  "Don't you dare!"

  He laughed, tightened his grip.

  "Scared?"

  "No."

  But her voice wavered. He kissed her—long, deep, until the waves began rocking them both. Then lowered her into the water without releasing his hold.

  The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of pink and orange. The ocean blazed.

  A vibration sliced through the idyll—sharp, insistent. The man froze, still holding the woman in his embrace. A wave struck his back, drenched them with spray.

  "What is it?"

  He didn't answer. Before his eyes flared a projection—translucent, in red letters: "URGENT".

  His heart plummeted.

  The woman pulled back, peered into his face. The smile faded.

  "Has something happened?"

  He drew his finger through the air, opening the message. Text unfurled—a few lines, but each word struck like a hammer blow.

  "Elren's case has been handed to Nemesis. Verdict will be delivered within five days. A week at most. Sorry I didn't tell you earlier. Only found out today."

  No signature—the letter was anonymous. But the man knew immediately who'd written it. An old comrade, from their service days. The only one with whom he still maintained contact.

  His fingers went numb. The ocean around them seemed to dim—colours faded, the sun ceased to warm. The woman touched his shoulder, but he no longer felt it.

  "No."

  The word tore free—hoarse, helpless.

  He ran his palm down his face, wiped away water. Or tears. It no longer mattered.

  "Exit."

  The woman grabbed his hand.

  "Wait! Stay!"

  "I'm sorry... Elren needs me... Exit!"

  The world exploded in white light.

  Reality crashed down on him with a weight that stole his breath. Sharp pain in his back, a stiff neck, dryness in his mouth. He shoved the capsule lid open with force. His hands trembled, fingers wouldn't obey.

  The flat greeted him with dead silence.

  Grey walls, a standard desk by the window, two chairs. A transforming sofa against the wall, folded into an armchair. Everything functional, unadorned. The minimum necessary for life.

  He climbed out of the capsule, swaying. Intragel dripped from his skin in cool droplets, leaving sticky traces on the floor. His legs buckled—after two weeks in the capsule, muscles refused to obey. The intragel wasn't managing its tasks.

  The old man headed for the shower cubicle in the corner of the room, gripping the wall with one hand. Past the desk. On it stood two photographs in simple frames.

  He stopped and picked up the first frame.

  Elren smiled from the photograph—broadly, openly, quite boyishly, though lieutenant's stars gleamed on his shoulder boards. Behind him stood his platoon—eleven soldiers, all in full kit. And behind the soldiers' backs towered a landing hexacopter "Heaven's Wrath", the newest model, Arma's pride. Eight rotor blades gleamed in the sun, the armoured hull shone graphite grey.

  His son clutched a full, spherical helmet to his chest, his other arm round the sergeant's shoulders—Stil. Happy. Proud of his platoon.

  The man ran his thumb across the glass, tracing the outline of the face, leaving a damp trail. When had this been? Six months ago? Seven?

  The second photograph seared his gaze. Himself—still young, with dark hair without a single grey strand—embracing a woman with wheat-coloured hair. The very one who'd just been laughing in his arms amongst the ocean waves. She pressed against him, head on his shoulder, smiling—happily, carelessly.

  "Twenty years ago. Or thirty-five?"

  He set the frame back, looked at his reflection in the glass. Grey hair. Deep wrinkles carving a network across his face. Hollow cheeks. Hands marked with age spots. Seventy-four years.

  "Nemesis..."

  The word hung in the flat's silence—cold, emotionless, final.

  "A week!"

  His body ached. Every bone hurt—a reminder of age, that his time had long passed.

  But Elren's life had only just begun. And they wanted to take it from him.

  A contrast shower returned sensation to his body. Jets of water beat against his skin—first icy, then scalding. He stood with his forehead pressed against the cold tiles until the trembling released his muscles.

  Dried off, he approached the console. An old mechanism, from the era when furniture was built to last. He ran his palm across the matte surface, activating the panel.

  The neurolink responded with a dull pulse at the base of his skull—a click inside his head, as if someone had turned an invisible tumbler. The virtual network interface flared before his eyes in a translucent projection.

  For three hours he sifted through sites, scrolled news feeds, delved into archives. About Arma Concordia—silence. Not a word about cases, not a hint about incidents. As if the organisation existed in a parallel world, inaccessible to ordinary citizens.

  Each failed attempt gnawed into his consciousness with a thin thread of ice. Anxiety accumulated, coiled round his ribs, constricted his breathing.

  He leant back in the chair, ran his hand down his face. Rough skin, stubble scratching.

  "Well... in for a penny, in for a pound."

  His voice sounded hoarse in the empty flat. A crooked joke, but something at least.

  Steeling himself, he entered his personal identifier. Access to the internal service network opened after three security levels. The monitor blinked, and an encrypted report unfurled before him.

  The platoon tragedy. Full breakdown. Protocols, summaries, conclusions, resolutions.

  He read quickly—years of service had taught him to extract essentials from the stream of military documentation. His gaze slid across lines whilst inside something seemed to petrify, turn to stone.

  The guilty had been designated. Decisions made. Elren definitely wouldn't face a death sentence.

  His chest lifted—a gulp of air after long suffocation. His heart lightened. For a moment.

  The chill settled deep inside wouldn't thaw. The ice would remain until he embraced his son. Alive. Real.

  The old man closed the report. The darkening screen reflected a weary face—alien, aged. His hand clenched into a fist of its own accord.

  "So it's decided. However it may be... I'll bring you back, lad."

  He rose. Joints responded with aching pain—knees, lower back, shoulders. His body reminded him of itself, demanded rest, repose, a capsule with intragel.

  Damn it all.

  No doubts, no fear remained. Everything else—behind him. One goal: reach his son. Even if it becomes the last thing he does.

  The following days flashed past like comet tails across the darkness of consciousness. Everything around lost definition, turned into a vague backdrop. He concluded business, closed old obligations, put his affairs in order—tidying the house before a long journey.

  But the main thing—attempting to see his son.

  He submitted the request on the first day. The answer came forty minutes later: "Denied. The prisoner is in full isolation pending final verdict from Nemesis."

  He sent three more requests. All rejected.

  On the fifth day he called the detention centre administration directly.

  "You don't understand. This is my son."

  The voice on the other end—mechanical, without inflection.

  "We understand. Rules are the same for everyone."

  "At least give me a video call. Five minutes."

  "Denied."

  He didn't slam the phone down—it simply disconnected. Automatically.

  He sat staring at the console's blank screen, feeling the icy thread in his chest tighten further. A little more—and it would snap.

  No one let him into the service medical centre, despite persistent requests and arguments. Even old friendship with the centre's director didn't help.

  Or rather, with the one he'd called friend. After the refusal—cold and formal—he could no longer utter the word without bitterness. Thirty years of mutual trust, support, shared endeavours—and now it had all turned out to be illusion.

  The old man didn't lose heart. Disappointment only strengthened his resolve. He immersed himself in preparation, completely, with the same passion he'd once thrown himself into battle. Gathering data, rereading old reports, studying everything new that had appeared in Seratis in recent years.

  There was no doubt—his son's punishment, like all who fell into Nemesis's clutches, would be connected precisely to this world. Which meant he needed to be there too.

  Creating a new avatar posed no problem. He'd deleted his previous character the same day his wife died. Back then it had seemed right. Respectful, a farewell. Now though—it had been a mistake.

  A ninety-fourth level character was worth something in Seratis. With it everything would've been simpler—faster certainly. But the past couldn't be retrieved. He knew that better than most.

  So he simply cast aside pointless regrets—and delved into guides. Absorbing every line, every detail, as if preparing not for a game, but for war.

  He combed through old connections, went through his contact list, unashamed to ask help from everyone who might possibly assist. Answers were mostly cold refusals—another small but painful confirmation of reality. His friend's betrayal struck particularly hard; the others' refusals he now perceived more calmly: everyone had their own life, their own risks, and almost no one dared meddle in matters connected with Nemesis.

  The name—Nemesis—spun in his head like an obsessive tune.

  A soulless machine. Perfect, infallible. Delivering sentences in advance, as if human fate were merely a line of code that could be calculated, processed, erased.

  He clenched his jaw. Fingers scrolled across the screen, opening another article. Combat system mechanics of Seratis. High-danger zones. Racial bonuses. All of it arranged itself in orderly rows in his head—a military man's habit, accustomed to memorising terrain maps at a glance.

  Days shrivelled, slipped through his fingers. He barely slept. The capsule beckoned—promised peace, oblivion, escape into a world where he could at least do something. But he held on. Prepared.

  On the sixth day, the one who'd sent the letter called—they'd served in the same battalion, then gone to different units. A good officer. Honest. Though previously enmity had prevailed between them, and Erian—for that was the father's name—had least expected support from him.

  "Heard about your attempts to see Elren."

  The old man froze, back against the wall.

  "And?"

  "Nothing I can do. Sorry."

  "I know."

  A pause. The rustle of breathing on the other end.

  "Hang in there. If anything—write."

  "Thanks."

  The connection broke. Erian lowered his hand, stared at the ceiling. White, perfectly smooth. Sterile as an operating theatre.

  Once a rival, but at least he'd called. Hadn't turned away in silence...