The somber hush of the Drosk patriarch’s memorial hall shattered into a thousand shards of noise. The ornate stained-glass depiction of the crest imploded inward, showering the marble floor with glittering shrapnel and a volley of high-velocity slugs. The air, thick with the scent of funerary incense and expensive desperation, choked on cordite. “Praxton!” his mother shrieked, her voice razor-thin. Her manicured hand, adorned with a resonance amplifier, clamped onto Kerym’s arm, yanking him forward. His father, Theron, mirrored the grip on his other side, shoving Kerym between their prized elder son and the incoming fire. It was an instinctual maneuver, honed over a lifetime: Praxton, the genius heir, always protected; Kerym, the 'blood-bag,' always expendable. Kerym barely stirred. His head, heavy with chronic fatigue, listed slightly. The fluorescent lights of the funeral parlor, usually a dull throb behind his eyelids, now seemed to pulse with a manic rhythm. He was tired. So incredibly tired. Another crisis, another interruption to his elusive peace. He sighed, a barely audible puff of air. His eyes, half-lidded, observed the raiders. Clad in dark, reinforced vests emblazoned with the snarling wolf insignia of a rival syndicate, they moved with brutal precision, their muzzles spitting orange flame. Not even his father’s funeral was sacred. Of course not. A bullet, specifically aimed at Praxton’s chest, whistled toward him. Kerym didn't move his body. His internal core, hyper-accelerated beyond even the household's renowned capabilities, flared. It wasn't a visible aura, not to the untrained eye, but a subtle distortion of the air itself. The bullet, mid-flight, wobbled, slowed, then veered sharply left, impacting the shoulder of the gunman who had fired it. The man crumpled, a choked gasp escaping his lips as his own kinetic force, deflected, shattered bone. “What in…?” Praxton Drosk, a pale, slender figure whose face was already etched with the perpetual strain of his failing internal reserves, squinted through the haze. He saw Kerym, standing like a bored sentinel, not even flinching. A flicker of something — fear? recognition? — crossed Praxton’s gaunt features, quickly masked by his usual mask of intellectual superiority. Another ten rounds ripped through the air. Kerym’s fingers, still linked with his parents' desperate grasp, twitched. The projectiles, one after another, lost their trajectory. Some spun into the ceiling, embedding themselves in the ornate plasterwork. Others simply fell to the floor, inert slugs. One, aimed directly at Praxton's temple, swerved violently, impacting the marble bust of Patriarch Drosk instead, shattering it into dust. “Kill the one in the middle!” an assailant roared, recognizing the abnormal defiance. “He’s messing with the resonance!” Kerym finally opened his eyes fully, revealing dark slate irises. He hadn't wanted to do this. Such effort. But they wouldn’t stop. He pushed. Not with his body, but with an internal surge of momentum that felt like a lazy stretch. The air around him shimmered, not with heat, but with compressed force. The attackers, caught in an invisible wave, were flung backward, slamming into the walls, collapsing pillars, and overturning flower arrangements. Their weapons skittered across the floor, useless. One persistent raider, his face contorted in a snarl, scrambled to his feet, pulling a vibro-knife. Kerym merely extended a hand, palm open. The knife, vibrating furiously, ripped itself from the man’s grip, twisted in the air, and then, with an almost playful flick of Kerym’s wrist, embedded itself hilt-deep into the gunman’s throat. A fountain of scarlet painted the polished floor. The room fell silent, save for the ragged gasps of his relatives and the groans of the incapacitated operatives. Deep exhaustion settled into his joints. This was why he hated using his power. Too much trouble. Too much *energy*. “Kerym! You fool! You could have been shot!” his mother screeched, more enraged than relieved. She wasn’t looking at the dead intruders, but at the potential damage to her living marrow tap. Theron, his face pale, simply stared at the ruined room, already calculating the political fallout. Kerym looked at them, then at Praxton, whose pale eyes still watched him with a mixture of suspicion and a dawning, unwelcome understanding. They didn't care. Not about *him*. Not ever. They cared about the marrow pulsing in his bones, the living conduit for Praxton's fading strength. This wasn't protection; it was preservation of their property. He felt a sudden, profound emptiness. He walked past the stunned pair, past the twitching bodies on the tile. His gaze snagged on a figure slumped against a splintered mahogany coffin. Charred beyond recognition, but the tattered remnants of a high-end suit suggested someone important. A small, tarnished identity chip lay beside the body. Kerym knelt, his movements slow, deliberate. He picked up the chip. *Jorian. Age 24. Son of Vorstag Ghol.* A thought, hazy with fatigue, began to coalesce. The estranged black sheep of the notorious Ghol Syndicate, known for reckless slum-diving and frequent disappearances. Vorstag’s only son, reportedly. Now, a charred corpse. A perfect, inconvenient, utterly anonymous corpse. Kerym reached into his own tunic, retrieving his Drosk-issued ID chip. He swapped them. His own, with its damning genetic markers and medical history, vanished into the folds of the dead man’s ruined clothing. The replacement chip, a blank slate to his kin, now rested in Kerym’s palm. The heavy, gold-trimmed doors groaned on their hinges. No one noticed Kerym slipping out, blending into the chaos of emergency services arriving, disappearing into the grimy alleyways of Zethoria’s lower districts, swallowed by the neon-drenched anonymity he craved. He walked until his legs burned, until the exhaustion became a welcome, all-consuming cloak. He found a secluded, abandoned storefront in the forgotten fringes of Sector Nine, curled up on a dusty pile of discarded holoscreens, and finally, mercifully, succumbed to the deepest slumber he’d had in years. The next time Kerym opened his eyes, the light was softer, filtered through thick, opulent drapes. The air smelled of polished wood and something vaguely metallic. He wasn't on a pile of refuse. He was in a bed so plush it felt like floating, sheets of spun silk against his skin. His arm, where his Drosk-issued medical port usually rested, was clean, bandaged with surgical precision. Around the perimeter of the vast, minimalist penthouse, figures stood like statues: hulking men in dark suits, their hands resting on concealed weapon holsters. Praxton's guards were children compared to these. A man sat by the bedside, his form casting a long shadow in the dim light. He was old, his face a roadmap of power and experience, but his eyes, the color of cold obsidian, held a frightening, predatory intelligence. He wore a suit tailored with woven titanium thread. In one hand, he held Kerym’s scavenged ID chip, the one bearing his lost son's name. He turned it over, his thumb stroking the smooth surface, then looked at Kerym, an austere, almost paternal smile touching his lips. “You’re not my son,” Vorstag Ghol said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the silent room. “But you’re going to pretend you are.”

The Blood-Bag's Nap