Deep in the bowels of the Progenetis Corporation headquarters, far below the sun and far away from prying eyes, a man by the name of Jon sits alone in his spacious office. The room is carved from polished stone veined with glowing sigils. Floor-to-ceiling shelves line the walls, packed tight with elaborate texts on magic, history, and the untold secrets of Eden. Some volumes are pristine, bound in fresh leather and stamped with corporate seals. Others are far older, their spines cracked, titles half-erased by time and use, never meant for public consumption.

  At the center of the room sits Jon’s desk, meticulously organized save for a single object resting squarely in the middle. A simple light brown folder, unremarkable in every way except for the label affixed to its front.

  PROJECT EDEN.

  The corners of the folder are creased from time, discolored from hands that have opened and closed it far too often. Within the folder lies a series of directives from the most powerful beings in all of Eden: The Board.

  Every morning, without fail, Jon opens the folder and finds a new document waiting inside. There is no delivery notification, no system log, no courier. The parchment is simply there, already present, as though it has always existed and he is merely late to notice it. His entire role within Progenetis, his entire reason for being granted access to sealed systems and restricted knowledge, is to interpret the Board’s directives and see them enacted.

  With a shuddering sigh, Jon reaches for the folder. His arm moves forward, but his body pulls back instinctively, a reflex he has never managed to fully suppress. His fingers hover just above the worn folder, a bead of sweat forming on his brow. He has heard the stories about the last dozen or so people who held his position before him. A rare few rose higher, accumulating influence and authority until they joined Progenetis’ upper leadership. Far more simply vanished, their offices emptied, their names scrubbed from internal documentation as though they had never existed at all.

  Jon swallows and opens the folder.

  As expected, nothing dramatic occurs. A single sheet of parchment rests inside, frayed at the edges and stained with glowing ink that seems to shift when he looks away. He lifts it free and begins the work without delay.

  The process is long and punishing. Jon casts a complex series of arcane runes, each one layered atop the last. First come the spells to identify the arcane language used on the page, followed by deeper rituals designed to strip away redundancies, symbolic noise, and deliberate misdirection. The Board never communicates plainly. Every message is a puzzle nested within dozens of strange obfuscations, wrapped in language meant to test the interpreter as much as inform them.

  Essentia pours out of Jon and into the parchment in a steady, draining flow. He consumes essences at regular intervals just to remain upright, his office growing uncomfortably warm as sigils flare brighter with each passing hour. Sweat beads along his brow, and his hands tremble as he traces the final glyphs, focus narrowing until the world consists of glowing runes, whispered incantations, and the slow unraveling of meaning.

  When the last ward collapses and the true text reveals itself, the shock hits him all at once. His arms go stiff, and the parchment slips from his fingers, fluttering uselessly to the floor.

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  “No,” he mutters, the word barely audible.

  Should The Board’s demands be met, dozens will die. Perhaps hundreds or even thousands of innocent lives. The directive outlines consequences without apology, collateral damage treated as an acceptable margin rather than a tragedy. Jon feels a sharp, unwelcome twist in his chest at the thought. That region had once been his home away from home, years before Eden opened up to Earth.

  He stares at the fallen parchment for a long moment as though afraid that fully acknowledging the words will make them real.

  But Jon has a job to do.

  The Board holds greater wisdom and power than anyone he’s met. The single audience he was granted with them remains etched into his memory, even after all this time. He remembers the sensation of being seen through completely, of his thoughts laid bare and his soul examined with great scrutiny. Before them he felt naked unlike ever before. His entire being was exposed, well beyond just his physical form. He could feel them combing through his mind, deliberating whether he’d be good in the role, or at the very least compliant.

  When they offered him the job, their warning had been clear, delivered without malice or mercy.

  Jon retrieves the parchment from the floor and places it back into the folder with careful precision. For a brief, treacherous moment, he considers closing it again, pretending he never saw the directive at all. The thought does not last. Power has always demanded sacrifice. He understood that long before Progenetis ever recruited him. He was not born powerful. Everything he has gained came from endurance, compromise, and an unwavering willingness to accept uncomfortable truths.

  This is simply the next step.

  Still, the weight of it follows him as he rises from his chair and moves through the office. He accesses sealed systems requiring biometric confirmation and layered arcane authentication, each approval locking him further into the path set before him. A panel opens, allowing him direct access to dark contingencies and secretive maneuvers. Jon reviews them all with meticulous care, even as doubt gnaws at him from the inside.

  Jon brings up a secured command interface, its surface layered with rotating sigils and corporate seals that respond to his presence alone. He reviews the directive one last time and types in the orders one at a time into the system. With a steadying breath, he confirms the authorization, binding the order into Eden’s deeper systems where it will propagate outward through intermediaries who will never know its origin.

  Jon feels a subtle shift, like a weight settling into place. The directive is now active; its dark commands spreading through Eden. Because of him, the orders spread, active and irreversible, moving beyond his control and into the world.

  He tells himself that the Board sees further than he ever could, that their plans account for outcomes beyond his limited perspective. He tells himself that refusing would save no one, only ensure his own removal while the directive is carried out by someone else. And beneath those rationalizations lies a quieter truth he avoids examining.

  He wants what they offer. Influence. Authority. Power enough to matter.

  If supplicating himself to forces he does not fully understand is the price of ascent, then so be it. He has made worse bargains in the past.

  When the preparations are complete, Jon returns to his desk and opens his interface. His hands shake as the familiar glow springs to life, but he forces himself to focus as he types out a message to his contact within the southern empire. The wording is careful and restrained, a warning rather than an explanation. Just enough to ensure readiness for what is bound to come, revealing nothing that could be traced back to him.

  He sends the message and leans back in his chair, staring up at the softly glowing ceiling. Far above him, the world continues on, unaware that a decision has been set in motion that will soon reach even the most distant corners of Eden.