The dark, bustling city of Kilder holds many secrets; dark memories of shame and regret fill the cracks and crevices of crumbling concrete structures—the souls of the forgotten clash with those who remember. Every street corner is covered with a thick, dark mist, a mist that holds many lies. Secrets that no one would dare look into, for fear of becoming a body on the curb. A body like Korven's collapsed on the wet sidewalk, soaked, not by water but by blood, her own blood. The crimson paste seeps out, outlining where she lies. But she does not intend to end this day as an outline; she fears the inevitable day when she is just another homicide case, thrown out by the detectives who make more from bribes than from their salaries. With blood leaking from her mouth and nose,
She repeats her mantra, "I am Korven, I see through the secrets of Kilder, and it is up to me to cut through them."
She stands up, struggling to maintain her balance as step by step she makes her way onto a busier street, before her balance fails, as she falls onto the ground yet again, going in and out of consciousness, hoping someone pities the injured girl lying on the street.
She opens her eyes and repeats her mantra, "I am Korven, I see through the secrets of Kilder, and it is up to me to cut through them."
She stands up again, blood dripping like a melted ice cube, each drop of water from the sky reminding her of her lost battles, failed leads, and her hopeless mission. Neon lights illuminate the blood-soaked ground.
"I've seen worse."
Her vision, blurry from tears and exhaustion, tries to make sense of her location. Onlookers watch, not out of pity but of disgust; the long-neglected borough of Gurun is a melting pot of druggies, gang members, and indebted individuals. Korven closes her eyes, trying to calm herself, but the onlookers' whispers bombard her. It truly is a shame to see one go astray so early in their life."
"Truly a shame what happens when the government cares more about researching the miracle born than social services."
"Things like this will happen regardless of how much we invest in 'rehab' clinics, and we know so little about the miracles."
"True, it just seems like you want to sound righteous. Is this why you wanted to walk through this part of town?"
Korven musters the energy to walk, ashamed of her appearance but more so of her loss. "My apartment isn't too far."
She thinks to herself, trying to distract herself from the cloud of dread, the cloud of failure that grows with every step. The pain of failure means nothing compared to the pain of loss. For that very reason, even with every drop of rain reminding her of her many broken bones and open wounds, she decides not to give up, no matter how satisfying the concept of an eternal rest sounds. "I am Korven. I see through the secrets of Kilder, and it is up to me to cut through them. So I must carry on."
The pain of each step extends her journey home by hours. Those who want to be seen as perfect people help her walk home, but Korven knows that no matter what anyone says,
"No one is truly righteous until death."
She used to say, "No one is truly righteous." But with the new research into the miracle-born, she was forced to rethink her moral views. Although she must admit it does make sense, no one can ever be selfless, but one can die playing the part. Of course, not even the highest-paid scientists truly understand the science behind a
"pure-hearted death."
Korven had long since given up on questioning those well-funded "researchers." And ever since the president's 4th son was deemed a miracle born, 'highly funded' has become an understatement. Korven makes her way into her cluttered single-room apartment, careful not to get blood on the many important papers that she has in the past thrown onto the floor. Papers, including studies, newspaper articles, research papers, notes, theories, and everything she had written down in her former "exhaustion-inspired fits of genius."
She fumbles over to one of the many junk drawers (this particular one she's recently gotten all too familiar with) while thinking back on how the promise of understanding the microscopic minority of people who happened to be born with powers because of their former lives is more important than the lives of her friends who sleep and die on the street. Korven isn't who those passersby thought she was; she knows that for a fact, but that is one of the truly few facts she knows about herself. From the drawer, she picks out a bandage to cover up her wounds, looking out at the pewter sky before passing out on her floor. When she wakes, her previously sore muscles feel as if they have been petrified. She only remembers the fact that she hasn't eaten in days, when the pain of starvation overshadowed the many wounds that still sting every time she tries to stand. But she must get ready, for she has a long day ahead. She didn't pick a fight with 12 muscle-bound men out of hobby; she did so in the name of research. Korven grabs her chair and pulls herself up to her desk. She shuffles through loose papers and full notebooks before landing on a dark green one labelled "false leads." Her cluttered desk is truly an accumulation of her entire apartment, with red strings connecting illegible ramblings to blurry pictures on the wall, and crumpled-up pieces of paper lining the dirty floor. Korven opens the book, turning through pages and pages of crossed-out leads and theories before reaching a line reading, "dog fighting ring… maybe more…?"
Korven likes to write down her theories in an upbeat tone to try to trick fate, but it never works. Korven looks at her bandaged hand, admiring each finger before grabbing her right pinky.
"This never gets easier."
She tries to relax her finger and calm herself down
"I am Korven. I see through the secrets of Kilder, and it is up to me to cut through them. I must do this."
Many people say that if your brain wouldn't stop you, it would be just as easy to snap one's finger as it is to do the same to a carrot.
Crack
Korven screeches in pain as she holds her broken finger
Her transportation begins.