---
Zayn Thorne had always known life from the bottom looking up.
Born in a crumbling government complex at the edge of Eastbrook—where the streetlamps never worked, and cops only came when someone was already dead—he learned early that the world wasn't fair. Not to kids like him. Not to mothers like his. And certainly not to dreamers who had the nerve to think they could rewrite their fate.
His earliest memory wasn't of laughter or lullabies. It was the sound of his mother coughing blood into a rag in the dead of winter while trying to convince six-year-old Zayn that tomato soup made from water and ketchup wasn't a sign that things were getting worse.
She died when he was twelve. Ovarian cancer. No insurance. No treatment. Just pain and apologies she whispered in the dark like prayers she knew God wouldn't answer.
After that, he bounced through a dozen foster homes. Some cold. Some cruel. None ever permanent.
School? He was smart—too smart, actually. The kind of smart that made teachers suspicious and classmates hostile. He used to stay late after classes to borrow old computers from the lab, teaching himself how to code on a borrowed USB drive. Nobody noticed. Nobody cared.
That didn't change when he turned eighteen.
He aged out of the system with no money, no family, and a list of rejection emails from every job application he sent. Retail stores said he was "overqualified." Tech firms said he lacked credentials. Universities didn't even bother responding. The only offer he got was from a local diner looking for a night shift dishwasher—and he took it.
Dreams didn't pay rent. Reality did.
---
Now, at twenty-two, Zayn sat in his mold-infested apartment with a leaking ceiling and an unplugged refrigerator. There was no point keeping it running—he had nothing to eat anyway. His stomach had stopped growling hours ago. Hunger had become a dull, constant ache that he'd almost gotten used to.
The worst part wasn't the cold. Or the hunger. Or the fact that his phone had been cut off weeks ago and he could only connect to Wi-Fi when the neighbor forgot to change their router password.
The worst part was the knowing.
Knowing he could've been someone. That beneath the calluses and hand-me-downs, he had talent. Real talent. He could build code faster than most professionals. He'd taught himself encryption, AI logic trees, predictive modeling. But no one ever gave him a shot.
He had ideas. He even tried pitching a few at online hackathons. But every time he submitted something, it was ignored—or worse, stolen. Big companies took his open-source prototypes and filed patents without even crediting the name attached to the files: "ZThorne92."
He was invisible. Disposable.
---
Tonight, the heater coughed once and gave up entirely.
Zayn wrapped himself in his one blanket and stared at the ceiling. A crack ran diagonally like a scar across old paint and mold. He imagined it spreading, splitting the roof open, letting the sky in to swallow him whole.
He wouldn't fight it.
Not anymore.
Earlier that day, he'd gone to a job interview for a low-level assistant position at a tech warehouse. He wore a secondhand dress shirt three sizes too big and shoes that had holes in the soles. The manager didn't even look up from his tablet when Zayn walked in. After ten minutes of fake smiles and pointless questions, the man told him bluntly:
> "You've got the brain, kid. But not the look. We need someone who can stand in front of clients, you know?"
As if talent had ever mattered in this world.
And to make matters worst, His fingers trembled as he read one particular message again on his shattered phone screen:
> "I'm sorry, Zayn. I never meant for you to find out this way. I'm with Tyler now. You need to let me go. This… you and me? It was a mistake."
— Selena
He wanted to laugh. Or scream. Or throw the phone into traffic. But his limbs wouldn't move. All he could do was stare at the words like they might change if he just looked long enough.
Selena Vale. The girl who once kissed him under streetlamps and told him he was destined for greatness. The one who cried when he confessed his fear of ending up like his father—nameless, faceless, and dead in a gutter.
Now she was sleeping next to the man who Zayn would never be like. Tyler Ward. Golden boy of Silicon Grove. Rich, arrogant, and backed by a father who pulled strings like a puppeteer.
---
He was just about to close his eyes when the knock came.
Not soft. Not tentative.
Three firm, deliberate knocks.
He froze.
No one ever came here. No one should come here.
Another knock—this one slower.
Zayn dragged himself up from the mattress. His limbs felt like sandbags. He crossed the room and opened the door cautiously.
A man in a black trench coat stood there. Clean-cut. Unbothered by the cold. His shoes were too polished for this neighborhood.
"You're Zayn Thorne," the man said.
Zayn didn't answer.
The man reached into his coat and pulled out a sleek envelope. Heavy. Embossed.
"You don't know me," the man continued, "but your father asked me to find you."
Zayn laughed—dry and sharp. "You've got the wrong guy. My father didn't exist."
The man didn't flinch. "He did. And he left everything to you."
Zayn took a step back. "What are you talking about?"
The man extended the envelope.
"His name was Caspian Drake. Billionaire. Tech pioneer. Disappeared from public life years ago. He died last month. And left everything—to you."
Zayn stared. "This is a scam."
"No. This is your birthright. And your beginning."
The man placed the envelope on the crate near the door and turned to leave. Just before he disappeared into the hallway, he added one final sentence:
> "The world that spat on you is about to choke on your name."
---
Zayn stood in silence long after the door clicked shut.
The envelope lay on the crate like it was burning a hole into the room.
He opened it with shaking hands.
Inside: a letter, a metallic access card, and a line of code.
Just one line.
> Welcome, Zayn. Project SOVEREIGN awaits.