The dead didn't speak, but tonight… Leonard could hear his father screaming from beneath the ground.
The graveyard was silent. Too silent. Not just quiet, but charged like the air held its breath with him.
Wind whispered through the trees like it was trying to say something but didn't have the courage to speak aloud.
Leonard stood before the crooked tombstone, wet leaves curling around his shoes. The stone was cracked, the engraving faded by rain and neglect.
Matthias Kane
1964 – 2017
A man with fire in his bones.
Leonard knelt. His knees pressed into cold mud. His fingers brushed the stone's face like he was trying to wake it.
"They buried you like trash," he murmured. "Like you were nothing."
His voice broke.
"They took everything. They turned your son into a joke. A pawn. A ghost in his own skin."
He clenched his fists. Nails dug into palms until blood welled.
"I need answers. I need you."
Lightning split the sky in the distance. Thunder rumbled like a warning. He reached out again, hand shaking, and scraped his knuckles along a rough edge at the base where the faint shape of a phoenix was carved into the stone.
His blood smeared across it.
Suddenly click.
The ground beneath him shifted with a soft rumble.
Leonard jumped back, breath caught in his throat, as the slab slid open with a hiss.
A stairwell. Narrow. Black as death.
And then
A voice. Mechanical. Ancient.
"Blood match verified. Legacy accessed."
He froze. Eyes wide.
The rain started, cold and light at first. But he didn't move. He couldn't. His heart was a hammer in his chest.
Then he stepped forward.
One foot onto the stair.
Then another.
Each step down into the earth felt like walking into memory. Into fire.
The air grew colder. Older. As if the walls remembered pain.
At the bottom: a steel case.
Initials etched in the center: M.K.
He knelt. Opened it.
Inside:
– A black journal with frayed edges.
– A cracked USB drive, like it had been hidden in a war.
– A cassette recorder, ancient and scuffed, with a sticky note that said:
"Play me first."
His fingers hovered, then pressed PLAY.
Static.
Then
A voice. Gravel and smoke.
"If you're hearing this, they haven't killed you yet."
"You have my blood. You have the fire."
Leonard's breath caught. His vision blurred. That voice
Dad.
"The Danes. The Wrens. SG. They murdered me."
"I found it. The protocol. The system they buried."
Leonard leaned closer, like he could fall into the voice.
"They feared it. The AI. The judgment. It chose me first. And now… it chooses you."
His throat tightened.
"I encoded you when you were still a child. You didn't know. But I knew. You were the end of their lies. You were the ember they couldn't stamp out."
Silence.
Then, one final whisper so soft it barely survived the static:
"Activate it. Let the fire judge them."
Leonard sat frozen. A long moment passed.
Then
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
One single message blinked onto the cracked screen:
"Do you wish to activate the Judgment Protocol?"
[YES] / [NO]
His thumb hovered.
His pulse screamed.
He thought of Mira's smile when she left.
Victor's arm around her.
Trent's SUV.
His dead father.
Buried. Silenced.
His voice shook, but his resolve did not.
He tapped YES.
The world changed.
The ground shivered. The air grew thick, like breathing smoke. His blood felt… wrong. Hot. Alive.
Symbols ones he didn't understand but somehow recognized flashed across his vision. Carved themselves into the backs of his eyes.
He dropped to his knees, gasping. His heart felt too big for his chest.
Then
A voice. Deep. Alien. Not human.
"Judgment Protocol Binding to Host… Complete."
"Bloodline Confirmed: Kane Lineage."
"Enemies Registered: Seven."
"Verdict: Unforgiven."
"Phase One: Psychological Judgment Initiated."
"Welcome, Host. Judgment Begins Now."
Leonard collapsed against the wall, drenched in sweat, breath shallow.
He didn't know if he'd just been cursed…
or crowned.
Across town…
The Dane Mansion shimmered with gold and champagne and lies.
Crystal glasses clinked beneath chandeliers. Laughter floated like perfume. The press buzzed. Photos were snapped.
At the center: Mira Dane. Dripping in red silk, laughing beneath lights that loved her.
"Cheers to new beginnings," she said, raising her glass.
They all toasted. Blind. Drunk on wealth. Drunk on image.
Victor Wren's hand rested on her hip like possession.
Then
Mira's hand twitched.
Her smile faltered.
Her champagne glass slipped.
Shatter.
She gasped. Stumbled. Clawed at her face like it was burning.
"Mira?" Aunt Priscilla reached for her. "What's wrong with "
Mira screamed.
A raw, animal scream.
Her face perfect moments ago began cracking.
Hairline fractures. Lines too precise, too sharp. Like porcelain splitting. Blood trickled through. Her makeup ran in streaks like a melting doll.
"MAKE IT STOP!" she shrieked. "WHY DOES IT BURN?!"
Victor backed away. Pale. Speechless.
"MIRA!"
She fell to her knees, convulsing.
The crowd gasped. Cameras clicked. Glasses dropped.
Aunt Lorraine screamed.
Whispers ripped through the ballroom like wildfire.
"What's happening?"
"Is she having a stroke?"
"Her face! Look at her face!"
Then
The music stopped.
The party lights cut to black.
And from the speakers… a voice.
Cold. Robotic. Detached.
"Subject 001. Psychological Judgment: Phase One Complete."
"Vanity fractured. Reputation compromised."
Panic spread.
Phones up. Security frozen. Chaos bubbling.
Mira, shaking, stared at her reflection in the mirrored wall beside the champagne tower.
She didn't recognize the woman staring back.
Not the flawless socialite. Not the queen of the Danes.
Just a cracked mask.
"Who's doing this to me?" she whispered, tears and blood running down together.
Somewhere far away underground, unseen
Leonard leaned against the cold chamber wall.
Eyes dark. Breathing steady.
And for the first time in years, he felt something like justice blooming behind his ribs.
The fire was no longer just his.
Now it was loose in the world.