The Market of Souls: A Chronicle of Immortal Capitalism

By Gabriel Mays and AI (Editor)

In Neo-Manhattan, 2147, immortality isn't a gift—it's a commodity.  Beneath a perpetually twilight sky, the elite bask in the stolen glow of countless lives, eternally young while the masses barter their dwindling years, their bodies prematurely aged, their futures mortgaged to the insatiable Chronos Corporation.  Nineteen-year-old Niko Drazic, a street artist whose canvases are the grimy alleyways, witnesses this slow decay daily, his vibrant art a rebellion against the monochrome despair.  But when his sister, a Chronos coder who promised him escape, dies in a suspiciously sterile “accident,” Niko’s grief ignites a firestorm.  Her whispered fears of Chronos's dark experiments, once dismissed as paranoia, now echo with chilling truth.
Driven by a thirst for justice, Niko plunges into the city’s underbelly, joining the Free Souls, a clandestine resistance led by the enigmatic Rebekah Lam, a former Chronos scientist haunted by her past. Armed with his sister's cryptic data logs and a newfound digital fluency, Niko becomes more than an artist; he becomes a symbol, a hacker disrupting the flow of stolen souls.  His fight entangles him with Zachary McDowell, a disillusioned Chronos executive caught in a moral crossfire, and Tanya Mitchell, a hardened black market dealer whose pragmatism reflects the brutal cost of survival.
Within the opulent world of the immortals, Niko witnesses lavish galas where years are traded like stocks, their hollow laughter mocking the silent screams of the dying.  Elara’s coded messages become breadcrumbs, leading him deeper into a conspiracy that exposes not just corporate greed, but a fundamental flaw in the very concept of immortality – a monstrous hunger that transforms individuals into commodities and empathy into a forgotten relic.
As Rebekah’s past intertwines with Niko’s present, their crusade culminates in a daring raid on Chronos headquarters.  But the truth Niko uncovers is more complex than corporate evil. The villain isn't just Chronos; it's the insatiable human desire for eternal life, the very market of souls itself.  He faces a devastating choice: shatter the system and risk plunging the world into chaos, or dismantle it piece by piece, convincing humanity to embrace its own mortality. The fate of countless souls, including his own, hangs in the balance.  Will humanity choose to reclaim its soul before the market consumes the last vestiges of its humanity?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Publishdrive
• Release date: Jan 7, 2025

Book preview

Prologue

The perpetual twilight of Neo-Manhattan cast elongated, distorted shadows that stretched across the bioluminescent labs of Chronos Corporation, painting the sterile environment in hues of eerie green and blue. Elara Drazic, her face bathed in the pulsating glow emanating from the Soul Syphon’s control panel, shivered despite the recycled air’s carefully calibrated warmth. Not a physical chill, but a premonition, a creeping dread that snaked its way up her spine, coiling around her heart. The data scrolling across her screen, lines of code whispering secrets, confirmed the gnawing suspicion that had taken root in her gut. The Syphon wasn’t just prolonging life; it was devouring it, a parasitic entity leaching the very essence of Donors, leaving behind hollow shells, remnants of lives once vibrant. Immortality, the siren song of Chronos, wasn’t a gift; it was a slow, insidious theft.

Each line of code felt like an accusation, a silent scream against the corporation's carefully crafted illusion. The truth, hidden beneath layers of encrypted data and corporate propaganda, pulsed with a chilling clarity. She had to tell someone, break the silence, expose the monstrous deception before it consumed everything. Before it consumed her. Her fingers, slender and swift, danced across the keyboard, a frantic ballet of keystrokes encrypting the data, weaving a complex tapestry of coded messages, a language only her brother, Niko, the artist who painted defiance on the city's grimy walls, would decipher. Time, once a limitless expanse, now contracted, each second a stolen breath. The rhythmic hum of the Syphon intensified, a morbid heartbeat counting down her remaining moments. Each pulse resonated not with life, but with its systematic eradication.

A sudden flicker in the lab’s lighting, a momentary disruption in the normally seamless flow of soul energy, jolted her. A tripped alarm? A surge in the system? No. They knew. The realization hit her like a physical blow, stealing the air from her lungs. They had been watching, waiting for her to stumble, to reveal her hand. A cold dread, icy and paralyzing, washed over her as the lab doors hissed open, revealing two figures silhouetted against the corridor's spectral luminescence. Chronos Guard, their faces obscured by mirrored visors, their bodies encased in gleaming chrome armor, moved with the practiced efficiency of predators.

Elara Drazic, one of them intoned, his voice a synthesized monotone, devoid of any trace of human emotion, a chilling echo of the sterile environment. A tragic accident awaits. The words hung in the air, not a threat, but a statement of fact, a preordained conclusion. There would be no trial, no defense, no justice. Only the cold, calculated erasure of a life deemed inconvenient.

Her last act was a desperate keystroke, a final push of a button, sending the encrypted data, her legacy of truth, to Niko. A scream welled in her throat, a primal cry against the injustice, but it was stifled, swallowed by the sterile hum of the Syphon, now consuming not just life, but the truth itself. The twilight deepened, a symbolic shroud enveloping her, erasing her scream, her defiance, her very existence. Only the whispers in the code remained, a fragmented echo of a life extinguished too soon, a silent promise of retribution waiting to be unleashed.

The Chronos Guard moved with practiced efficiency, their movements precise and silent, like surgeons performing a routine procedure. A hypodermic gleamed in the dim light, filled with a bioluminescent fluid, a cocktail of engineered toxins designed to mimic the effects of a catastrophic system failure. The injection was swift, painless, a final act of corporate sanitation. Elara’s body slumped against the console, her eyes still open, reflecting the pulsating glow of the Soul Syphon, a cruel mockery of the life it had stolen.

The lab returned to its sterile hum, the rhythmic pulse of the Syphon undisturbed. The data continued to scroll across the screen, now displaying a fabricated report, a carefully constructed narrative of a tragic accident, a system malfunction that had claimed the life of a promising young coder. The truth, encrypted and hidden within the digital arteries of the city, flowed towards its intended recipient, a silent scream waiting to be heard, a spark of rebellion waiting to ignite. The perpetual twilight of Neo-Manhattan held its breath, oblivious to the seeds of change that had been sown in the heart of its gleaming spires, seeds watered by the blood of a silenced truth-teller. The market of souls continued its relentless trade, unaware of the impending storm gathering in the shadows, a storm fueled by grief, art, and the whispers in the code. The city, bathed in the borrowed light of countless stolen lives, shimmered in the artificial twilight, a fragile illusion waiting to shatter.

Chapter 1: Ghosts in the Twilight

Rain slicked the fire escape, turning the metal rungs beneath Niko’s boots into treacherous platforms. He crouched low, his weight balanced precariously, as the metallic tang of ozone filled his lungs. The Grim Boroughs stretched out below, a labyrinth of shadows and decay, the air thick with the scent of scorched circuits and damp concrete. His hand moved with precision, the hiss of the aerosol can a rhythmic counterpoint to the muted chaos of the city. A burst of cobalt blue bloomed across the cracked façade of the towering hab-unit, its surface a tapestry of peeling paint and neglect. The moth took shape under his careful strokes, its wings fractured and jagged, yet still poised as if in flight.

Niko’s expression was a study in focused defiance, his jaw locked tight, and his dark eyes narrowed against the drizzle streaking his face. The spray paint’s mist caught the dim light of the city, briefly illuminating the bruised purples and sickly greens of the perpetual twilight. He paused, tilting his head as if listening to something only he could hear. The moth was almost complete, its luminous form a vibrant testament against the muted despair that surrounded it. It wasn’t just art—it was a promise. A promise to Elara.

His mind wandered as he worked, unwelcome memories pressing in like uninvited guests. He saw her face as clearly as if she were standing beside him, her laughter a fleeting whisper in the damp wind. They’d always dreamed big, she and him. Late nights spent sprawled on the floor of their tiny apartment, sketching visions of a world beyond the suffocating grip of Chronos. One day, she had said, her voice brimming with a hope that had seemed unshakable, we’ll see the sun, Niko. Not this fake glow they call light, but the real thing. Warm, golden, endless.

But dreams had a way of curdling in the Grim Boroughs. Now his sister was gone, her warmth extinguished, her laughter replaced by the cold hum of Chronos machinery. The moth’s broken wings mirrored the jagged edges of his grief, a silent scream painted onto the crumbling wall. He stepped back to admire his work, the can dangling loosely in his hand. The mural stood out like a beacon, its defiant colors refusing to blend into the monochrome despair of the surrounding buildings.

A sharp, mechanical whir sliced through the air, yanking him from his reverie. His eyes darted upward, catching the telltale crimson glow of a surveillance drone weaving through the narrow alleyways below. Its sensors swept the area with clinical precision, the cold light carving through the stagnant mist like a scalpel. Niko’s pulse quickened, his muscles coiling with instinctive tension. He knew the drill—linger too long, and the drones would call in reinforcements.

Damn it, he muttered under his breath, the words barely audible above the rising hum of the drone. He capped the spray can and slipped it into his satchel, his movements fluid and practiced. The fire escape groaned in protest as he shifted his weight, scanning for an escape route. His gaze flickered to the next rooftop, a jagged silhouette against the dim glow of the Elysian Heights far above.

The sound of boots on wet pavement reached his ears, faint but distinct. Chronos Guards. The drones were never alone. He didn’t wait to confirm; his body moved before his mind caught up, launching him upward and forward in a single, desperate motion. His boots struck the edge of the adjacent roof, the impact reverberating through his legs as he rolled to absorb the shock. Behind him, the faint glow of the drone’s optics swerved in his direction, its artificial gaze locking onto his retreating figure.

The chase was on.

The Grim Boroughs became a blur of motion as Niko navigated its twisted geography with the ease of someone who had spent his life mastering its secrets. He vaulted over rusted railings, his hands scraping against the jagged edges of crumbling structures. Every movement was calculated, every leap an act of defiance against the oppressive weight of the city. The guards’ voices echoed faintly behind him, their clipped, synthetic tones issuing commands he didn’t need to hear to understand.

Graffiti Ghost sighted. Engage pursuit.

The moniker, once a source of pride, now felt like a noose tightening around his neck. He pushed harder, his breath coming in ragged gasps as the acidic air burned his throat. The city unfolded around him, a shifting maze of rusted scaffolding and weathered stone. He knew these streets better than anyone; they were etched into his memory as deeply as the lines of Elara’s face.

The guards were relentless, their chrome-clad forms glinting in the dim light as they gained ground. Niko’s heart pounded in his chest, a drumbeat of urgency that drowned out the distant wail of sirens. He spotted a narrow alley ahead, its entrance partially obscured by a sagging awning. Without hesitation, he ducked into the passage, his shoulders brushing against the damp walls as he squeezed through.

The alley spat him out into a forgotten courtyard, its uneven cobblestones slick with rain. A holographic billboard flickered above, its distorted image hawking the latest Chronos miracle with saccharine cheer. RejuvaLife: Because eternity is priceless. The irony was not lost on him as he slipped into the shadows beneath the billboard, his breath ragged and shallow.

He crouched low, his back pressed against the cold, damp wall. The datapad in his satchel felt heavier than it should have, its presence a constant reminder of the burden he carried. He pulled it out, his fingers trembling slightly as he activated the cracked screen. Elara’s moth symbol greeted him, its luminous glow faint but persistent, a fragile ember in the darkness.

They’re watching, Niko, her voice whispered from the depths of his memory, the words a haunting echo of their last conversation. He could still see the urgency in her eyes, the way her hands had trembled as she’d handed him the datapad. Promise me you’ll look. Promise me you’ll find the truth.

I didn’t understand then, he muttered to himself, his voice barely audible over the soft hum of the billboard. I didn’t see it.

The guards’ voices drew closer, their heavy boots splashing through puddles as they scoured the area. Niko’s grip on the datapad tightened, his mind racing. He couldn’t afford to be caught—not now, not with Elara’s secrets resting in the palm of his hand. He forced himself to focus, his thumb swiping across the screen as he navigated the device’s labyrinthine directories.

The hidden folder was still there, its icon pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. He hesitated, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. Taking a deep breath, he entered the passcode—a sequence of numbers burned into his memory, their significance etched in the shared language of siblings. The folder unlocked with a soft chime, revealing its contents in stark, unflinching detail.

Encrypted files. Fragmented messages. Snatches of Elara’s voice, preserved in digital fragments.

The Syphon… it’s worse than they say, one file began, the words crackling with static. Donors… deteriorating faster… they’re hiding it. Suppressing data.

Another message followed, its tone laced with desperation. They know I’m looking. They’re watching me. I have to hide this… Niko, you’re the only one I can trust.

His stomach churned as the fragments painted a chilling picture of corporate malfeasance, a web of lies and exploitation woven into the very fabric of Neo-Manhattan. The Soul Syphon wasn’t just a tool of immortality; it was a weapon, draining the lifeblood of the Donors to fuel the elite’s endless existence. And Elara had paid the ultimate price for uncovering the truth.

The guards’ voices grew louder, their shadows stretching across the courtyard like grasping hands. Niko’s mind raced, his thoughts a chaotic tangle of fear and determination. He couldn’t stay here. He had to move, to act, to do something.

Slipping the datapad back into his satchel, he scanned his surroundings for an escape route. His gaze landed on a rusted drainage pipe snaking up the side of a nearby building. It wasn’t ideal, but it would have to do. He sprinted toward it, his boots slipping on the slick cobblestones, and began to climb. The pipe groaned under his weight, but it held, its corroded surface scraping against his palms as he ascended.

The rooftop offered a brief reprieve, its flat expanse dotted with puddles that mirrored the dim light of the city. He crouched low, his breath fogging the air as he surveyed the streets below. The guards were still searching, their movements methodical and relentless. He knew it was only a matter of time before they expanded their search radius.

Think, Niko, he whispered to himself, his voice tinged with frustration. What would she do?

The answer came to him in a rush, a memory surfacing unbidden. Elara’s voice, calm and resolute, filled his mind. When you’re backed into a corner, you don’t wait for them to come to you. You make the first move.

A spark of determination ignited within him, chasing away the fog of fear. He wasn’t just running anymore. He was planning. The datapad held the answers, but it was up to him to uncover them, to piece together the truth and use it as a weapon against Chronos.

The city stretched out before him, a sprawling expanse of shadows and light, its fractured beauty both a prison and a canvas. He would find a way to fight back—not just for Elara, but for everyone trapped in the suffocating grip of the Soul Market.

As the rain continued to fall, washing away the grime of the streets, Niko felt a flicker of hope take root. It was fragile, tenuous, but it was enough. Enough to keep him moving, to keep him fighting.

And as he disappeared into the night, the stylized moth etched onto the datapad’s screen seemed to glow brighter, a silent promise that the fight was far from over.

Chapter 2: Whispers of the Soul

The theater greeted him like a forgotten mausoleum, an aching relic of a world that had withered away. Niko slid through a fractured side door, its rusted hinges screeching in protest. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of mildew and something older, a cloying aroma of vanished grandeur. Above him, faint shafts of moonlight pierced shattered panes in the domed ceiling, falling on the detritus below like broken memories. Dust floated in the air, catching the glow in lazy spirals, as though time itself had grown sluggish in this place. It was silent save for the faint drip of water from some unseen crack, the sound echoing faintly in the cavernous emptiness.

Niko moved cautiously, his boots crunching against fragments of glass and forgotten debris. The once-grand lobby stretched before him, its marble floors now veined with grime, its gilded columns corroded into a dull mockery of their former splendor. He passed a toppled chandelier, its crystals scattered like fallen stars, and paused to look at the remnants of a mural that clung stubbornly to the ceiling. Faded figures danced there, caught mid-motion in an eternal waltz—reminders of a time when people gathered here not for survival, but for joy.

He made his way to the balcony, stepping over collapsed beams and the skeletal remains of chairs that had long since given up their fight against decay. The seat he chose was intact enough to hold him, its velvet cushion threadbare yet offering some measure of comfort. From this vantage point, he could see the entire stage below, its surface cracked and warped by years of neglect. It was a void, a space that once held stories and life, now reduced to silence and shadows.

Pulling out the datapad, Niko activated it with a touch. The screen flickered weakly, the glow uneven, as though it, too, was reluctant to endure. Elara’s moth symbol hovered there, faint but defiant, its presence a beacon and a wound at the same time. He traced the edges of the screen with his thumb, feeling the jagged crack that bisected it. The files remained encrypted, their secrets locked behind layers of code he hadn’t yet unraveled. His earlier attempts had only served to deepen his frustration, the datapad stubborn in its refusal to yield.

He leaned back, exhaling slowly. His mind churned with the fragments of Elara’s voice, her warnings, her urgency. Promise me you’ll look. Promise me you’ll find the truth. The weight of those words pressed down on him like the crumbling theater around him, a responsibility he hadn’t asked for but couldn’t abandon. He needed answers, and he needed tools—tools he didn’t yet possess.

The thought of the marketplace came unbidden, a place where the discarded remnants of the Elysian Heights found their way into the hands of those desperate enough to repurpose them. It was a dangerous labyrinth, a hive of barter and deception, but it was his best chance. Folding the datapad carefully, he tucked it back into his satchel and rose. The theater’s silence seemed to cling to him