Prologue
“The Price of Sight”
---------14 years in the past-------
Axel Crawford had long since learned; the future doesn’t whisper. It screams.
And tonight, it screamed blood.
He sat at the end of the obsidian conference table, gloved fingers resting like dead weight on the lacquered surface. Across from him, a man in a navy suit smiled like a dog waiting for a treat. One of those desperate, sharp-eyed politicians who would sell his own spine if it bought him power.
"Take the glove off," came the voice from behind. Whispering but loud enough to pressure- to force. Axel didn’t look back. He didn’t need to.
His father’s presence pressed against the back of his skull like a loaded gun. “You know the procedure,” the man said, voice smooth with poison. “Do your job.” Axel’s jaw ticked. He peeled off his right glove, finger by finger and then he took a deep breath.
He reached forward. Skin touched skin.
And the vision hit.
A flash of gold—confetti, a victory speech. Applause.
Then a scream. A body. Blood soaking white tile.
A secretary. A secret. A gunshot.
And silence.
Then headlines.
Axel recoiled. His teeth ached. Blood trickled from his nose onto the sleeve of his coat. He wiped it hurriedly, hated the smell of metal.
“Well?” the politician asked, still smiling. Always smiling. Axel’s voice came low and brittle. “You win. By ten votes. But you kill your secretary to do it.” Hearing that, the man laughed, wiping his hands with a silk handkerchief like Axel’s words were nothing more than wine spilled on marble.
“Then I guess we’ll have to avoid that. Mr Crawford, you can help me right?”
The low chuckle of the man behind him send creep to Axel's ear. His goosebumps raised.
His father then clapped him on the shoulder as if he were some good, obedient dog. “Efficient as always.” Axel said nothing in reply. Just reached for his glove, slipped it back on. Finger by finger. His head felt dizzy. But he had no one to help him, to protect him from the greed of the world.
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----------14 years in the present-----------
On that night, he stood beneath the scalding shower, the heat blooming over his back like punishment. He watched the steam erase his reflection from the mirror, and thought maybe that was mercy.
He was thirteen at the time when he had learned the cruelty of the world. The cruelty of that person who was supposed to protect his children. But also with his power- he learned what it felt to be on top of the chain.
Wealthy. Wanted. Owned.
But he was also a prophet in chains.
He had not touched another person bare-handed in over a decade. Not unless forced. Not unless ordered. Not unless there was something to be seen, sold, or predicted. His touch was a weapon. His visions—currency.
And his soul? Long since outsourced.
But sometimes—only sometimes—he wondered what it might feel like to touch someone and see nothing.
No death. No headlines. No future.
Just… warmth.
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----------On the other part of the city--------------
Zion Sullivan stood outside a security checkpoint, soaked to the bone in the rain.
The receptionist had given him a clipboard and a plastic pen that didn’t work unless he pressed too hard. He gripped it delicately anyway, like he was afraid of breaking something.
"Name?" the guard asked. Zion hesitated. Just for a second. Then quietly answered, “Zion Sullivan.” It wasn’t his real name. But it was the one he kept.
His shirt clung to his tall frame, rain dripping from his hair in slow trails. He didn’t flinch when thunder cracked overhead—just looked up at the tower he might be hired to guard.
He didn’t know who waited inside.Didn’t know the Crawford name.Didn’t know he was walking straight into the jaws of a family that once ruined his own.
All he knew was that the job paid well. And he needed to survive. He lowered his head, signed the form, and stepped through the door.
He just needed to survive. All alone.
