The door was steel-framed glass, too modern for the building it had been welded into. Daphne paused just outside, the soft snow drifting into her hair like forget-me-nots. Two women inside laughed over flutes of champagne, their dresses shimmering, their joy loose and careless. The sound of it pressed faintly against her temples.

She exhaled once, slowly, then stepped forward.

Inside, the gallery was warm and loud with music: elegant but just tasteful enough to disguise the excess. The smell of old stone fought with perfume and food wood. Paintings hung in staggered levels beneath high ceilings, some backlit with halos of gold, others hunched in various light-scapes.

A man in black approached, tablet in hand. His gaze flicked over her hair, her gloves, the earrings that had once belonged to her Volthström great-grandmother. He drew breath as if ready to deny her entrance.

“I’m not on the list,” she said, her French accent soft, vowels touched crystal and cool. “But I was told the artist is showing new work. I’m prepared to purchase. If any are for sale.”

She let the silence wait a few moments without being forceful. Just enough time for the man to think of a commission if one existed. He stepped aside.

“Welcome, ma'am.”

She inclined her head once and entered.

Adam sat on his bed, the room around him dark.  His night vision was activated, so he could see clearly - it was a benefit of having cybernetic optics. He much preferred the dark to the light. Then others wouldn't have to see. It was also more fitting for his alias "Ghost." Only one had seen him besides Victor and Mr. Haart. A woman - a quick step in - and then she filed at the sight of him.  Adam hadn't been offended. He knew what he looked like. The broken mirror in his room was a testament to that. Adam had shattered it after looking in it. Still - he couldn't say that he had liked that reaction. He had a neighbor it seemed. A neighbor that was terrified of him.

Adam stood, his hand going to his abdomen. He felt pressure there. The biofuel cell was still new and it would probably take a few more days for his body to fully adjust to its presence. It was working. The lethargy he had felt after his first few implants had disappeared.  Victor had theorized that he needed extra power for the amount of cybernetics he carried.  He had been right. The cell utilized glucose to power his various implants. As such, his sugar intake had increased dramatically, but because it was all being burned, it had little effect on his health overall. 

With the implant adjustmet, Adam had to take medications to suppress his immune system. His body registered the implants as foreign invaders and attacked the implants. Immunosuppressors countered this. After a week, the body seemed to accept them as his own. Adam pulled a liter bottle of Coke (the good stuff with real sugar) from his fridge and drank, taking a couple of pills with it. That should be enough. 

Adam returned to his bed, sitting. The room itself was very comfortable. He pulled a book off of a table to pass the time. It was an old science-fiction book about a desert planet or something, but he was enjoying it. It kept him busy in between operations. Adam assumed eventually they'd want him to leave. They'd have to "field test" him or something, but he found himself not wanting to leave. If he left, then they would see the scars - see the monster he had become.

In 1937, Arabella Beatrice Cordelia Asquith married into the Volthström family. Her union was with Émeric Volthström, youngest brother of Baron Maurice of the French line of Volthstroms. The marriage contract included the standard dowry of property, bonds, and minor heirlooms, but buried among the annexed documents was a curious clause written in unusually vague but binding legal terms. The clause outlined an obligation for the Volthström line to “receive and raise” a future child, unnamed and unknown, at the discretion of the Asquiths, should the time ever come.

The clause was invoked eighty-three years later, after generations had passed and the marriage itself become another record in a long family line. But someone enforced the contract, delivering a newborn girl to the Volthström house in Paris on a gray January morning in 2023. The infant, swaddled and unnamed, arrived with only two things: a birth certificate missing the parents names and a notarized letter referencing the original 1937 dowry clause.

Emmeline Volthström, the current lady of the house, was not consulted. The child was left in her care with no warning, accompanied only by her husband’s insistence that the family had no choice but to accept the girl. Timothée Volthström offered little in explanation beyond a quiet remark: “It is an old arrangement. We must honor it.”

Though raised in the Parisian Volthström household with warmth and dignity, Daphne holds no legal claim to the Volthström estate or property. The family charter, updated rigorously each generation, holds rigid definitions of inheritance through bloodline. As an adopted child, Daphne is not considered an heir, nor is she included in any known trusts or holdings.

This left her in a peculiar position: educated among the elite, trained in etiquette and diplomacy, fluent in multiple languages, but without dowry, inheritance, or much more than a lifestyle expense account. In their social circles, her future is a delicate matter of whispered speculation. It is understood, though rarely said aloud, that her best and perhaps only chance at securing her place in the world is through an appropriate marriage.

But things were off with Daphne, even as an infant. She exhibited unusual reactions to the world around her. Touch, temperature, and even minor injuries seemed to overwhelm her system. A scraped knee would induce tremors; a mild fever might render her bedridden. She was eventually diagnosed with hyperalgesia, a condition that causes extreme sensitivity to pain, though no treatment offered lasting relief.

More troubling, however, were the inexplicable episodes. Daphne would awaken in the night gripped by searing pain without cause. She might collapse during school hours, overcome by nausea or a burning sensation in her limbs. These episodes rarely coincided with any discernible illness or injury, leading physicians to dismiss them as psychosomatic or emotional in origin.

Privately, Daphne began to wonder if the pain she experienced was not always her own. She could sense the physical suffering of others in close proximity, often with disturbing clarity. A classmate’s toothache would become her migraine. A maid’s sprained wrist would cause her arm to throb. As she matured, she learned to mask these reactions, concealing her discomfort behind a quiet, impassive exterior. Unbeknownst to her or her adopted family, the explanation for her condition extended far beyond medical understanding.

Daphne was not born alone. She had a twin brother unknown to her and to those who raised her who had been used at the embryonic stage for a scientific initiative operating under the guise of fertility research. The embryos were subjected to a series of advanced and ethically dubious genetic modifications, but their fates diverged sharply by design.

Daphne’s twin was engineered to possess an extreme resistance to pain. His body was prepared for a lifetime of cybernetic experimentation, one that would require the suppression of physical sensation in order to endure invasive procedures and integration with technology. Daphne, by contrast, was altered to experience the opposite: heightened sensitivity to physical and emotional stimuli. She was intended to serve as a living case study in empathetic perception and sensory vulnerability.

What the scientists had not predicted and failed to understand was that Daphne's soul carried a rare form of sentience, and one that bound her psychically to her twin. While he could not feel the pain inflicted upon him, Daphne could. Their connection, forged in the womb, remained intact after birth despite their separation. Over the years, she experienced phantom echoes of her brother’s suffering: flashes of pain with no clear source, moments of anguish that belonged to a life not her own.

This unexplained resonance became the undercurrent of her identity. Though she had never been told of her twin, Daphne came to believe that someone else was out there; someone who felt both familiar and impossibly distant. This conviction eventually became the quiet motive behind her pursuit of her biological origins. She was not seeking love or answers, but rather a missing part of herself that she could not name but had always known.

Daphne is paradoxical, though. Although her soul is finely attuned to the suffering of others, she presents herself as detached, logical, and emotionally reserved. Her demeanor is cool and proper, shaped by years of managing overwhelming sensation through intellectual control. She avoids physical contact whenever possible and prefers solitude to social gatherings.

Her academic interests lean toward the philosophical, neurological, and metaphysical. She is dedicated to her studies, particularly in fields that allow her to impose structure like ethics, linguistics, classical literature, and cognitive science. She is deeply rational, even when confronted with experiences that defy logic. Her emotional life is largely internal, fiercely guarded, and expressed only in moments of untold intimacy or extreme crisis.

Socially, Daphne is regarded as elegant but aloof. Suitors find her beauty and intellect captivating but are often discouraged by her lack of warmth. Rumors about her status within the Volthström family circulate in their social circles, casting her as either a tragic foundling or a clever interloper. Few know the truth, and fewer still would understand it if they did.

After years of suppression, her sense of being incomplete of carrying someone else’s pain has only intensified. What began as isolated episodes of phantom sensation has grown into something more persistent, intimate, and increasingly difficult to dismiss.

Though she has asked her adoptive father, Timothée Volthström, on multiple occasions about her origins, he has offered nothing of substance. With his characteristic restraint, he has explained that he is legally unable to speak on the matter, and that even if he were permitted, there is little he knows. The contract’s specifics are known only to those who drafted it, and they are long dead or long silent. Whatever sentiment Timothée might feel toward her, he has made it clear: this is not a past meant to be unearthed.

Emmeline, for her part, urges caution but lacks the conviction to truly stop her. She has always loved Daphne in her own quiet way, but she, too, is bound by the rules of the house. The Volthström legacy is heavy, ornate, and guarded. It was never designed to accommodate questions from outsiders, even those raised within its walls.

Yet Daphne is no longer content to remain in the dark. It was her adopted brother that implied she look into the Volthströms’ archives. If the truth is in the past, the past is where she ought to go.

Under the guise of continuing her academic studies in historical economics and dynastic legal structures, Daphne has begun traveling to various Volthström holdings across Europe. The family’s ancestral holdings in London, Frankfurt, Vienna and Rome, were each operated by distant relatives or historical stewards, but in the case of Vienna or Frankfurt, were outright dead ends. Ostensibly, she is researching transgenerational wealth preservation. In truth, she is quietly searching for records, correspondences, or overlooked mentions of the mysterious clause that sealed her place in the family.

In London, she visited the Volthström townhouse in Belgravia, where her cousins received her with mild politeness and cultivated disinterest. She is tolerated, even humored, but never taken seriously. Her questions about family records are redirected, her inquiries into past adoptions or wardships brushed aside with smiles and vague excuses. It was here, during a formal dinner, that something subtle occurred: something that would have passed unnoticed by anyone else.

Seated across from an elderly cousin, Aunt Honoria, a woman sharp of wit but dulled by dementia and age, Daphne felt a ripple beneath the surface of conversation. While reminiscing about traveling across the world prior to the turbulence of the 20s, Honoria made a comment about leaving treasure behind in New York, and though the words were quickly swallowed by laughter and dismissed as senile rambling, Daphne felt a sharp, almost electric echo in her chest, like a wire pulled taut. She felt the pain of regret as her own.

When the conversation moved on, Daphne remained frozen, not by the words themselves, but by the emotional disruption beneath them. Her empathic sense registered a wave of shame, followed by something tightly sealed: a fear of being overheard. It was not Honoria who reacted this way, but it was her cousin Tobias seated nearby, who stiffened imperceptibly when the phrase was uttered.

Daphne made a fateful leap in logic: a Volthström child was given away. It must have been her. She cannot imagine any other explanation.

Daphne arrived in New York City in mid December of 2046. Her inquiries were discreet. She consulted archival registries, leveraged minor connections in academic and preservation circles, and spent long hours in digital municipal databases. Eventually, in the maze of public property records and tax transfers, she found cousin Tobias’ name.

The listing showed that Tobias once owned a pied-à-terre in the East Village, that he suddenly sold for a reported $17.5 million in 2021 without a known reason. There were no inheritance records, no death certificates, and no linked familial claims. To the casual observer, it was an ordinary transaction. To Daphne, it was a rupture. With the winter sun low and pale over Manhattan, she went to see the building for herself.

The building stood three stories tall, framed in faded red brick and cast-iron columns. The original façade remained intact, but the interior had changed. Through tall, street-level windows, she could see that the space had been converted into an art studio: an open-concept loft with high ceilings, abstract light fixtures, and paint-splattered concrete floors.

Inside, she glimpsed the glow of hanging lights and canvases arranged in haphazard clusters. Music filtered faintly through the glass, but there were clues that a celebration was being prepared.

It was December 29th, and her presence was expected in Paris for New Year’s Eve, where the family was hosting their annual black-tie gathering. Her seat had already been assigned, her dress couriered from the Rue Saint-Honoré. She was already cutting her return close, but something was pulling her inside. A window placard indicated that a New Year’s Eve celebration was also to take place at the studio, and she couldn’t resist the temptation to explore its interior.

Two nights later, she defied her mother’s insistence on her presence in Paris, and arrived at an entirely different sort of party.

Lore settled easily into her new life in Moscow. Jessika was insanely busy, and Lore still coordinated her diary and generally smoothed her day-to-day with efficient tweaks, but it was more a hobby than a necessary job. The new Privilege had plenty of her own people to rely on, and even if Lore obviously did a better job, it wasn’t taxing work. It was beginning to feel like perhaps Damien had just wanted her out of Mexico.

Unperturbed, Lore turned her free time to her own endeavours. In the coming days she had a meeting with Ana Vega, though it was only out of courtesy given she was in the city. She had no desire to interfere with how they would run Second Chances here, but she was eager to hear what wonderful things they had planned – to see the business really spread its wings and thrive. Similarly she had a meeting arranged with Ephraim Haart to discuss the IP she had sold on from Cyberpoint. From the portfolio she had perused, it was an exciting opportunity.

Beyond that she was busy filing and making notes on potential contacts - that was the way her mind truly flourished and started making connections. The Vasiliev’s masquerade had provided some networking openings, though mostly Lore had simply observed the glamour around her. She hadn’t even danced. A table in the cosiest coffee shop on the street alongside the company of her spreadsheets was much more her speed though. She much preferred to be prepared for speaking to people.

Colette stood in a cathedral made of pure glass.

The walls shimmered like oil on water, rippling with light that had no source, as if the building breathed. The pews were carved from bone-white marble, but when she ran her fingers across them, they felt warm. Almost... pulsing. Organ music filled the air like something playing behind a locked door.

She didn’t remember walking in. She didn’t remember why she was here. But of course she was here.

In the front row sat a man with no face. He was wearing a familiar coat. She couldn't place where she knew it, but that sharp cut at the collar, the lay of the lapel... It was Adrian's coat. The night of the masquerade. The man wearing it didn’t look at her, but she knew, in the way one just knows things in dreams, that he was waiting.

She turned to leave, but the aisle stretched.

She ran. Her footsteps echoed too long, like each step was falling into the next dream.

Life was beginning to settle down a little more. Married life was great, Rachel was doing significantly better after her healing even if she still had her issues, and and he was going to be a father. Jared was becoming a little complacent though. After he had spent time in the dojo with the kids at Nox's place, he realized he had missed training. It happened often with adults. You train, learn a lot, and then life gets in the way.  After earning his Nidan* in Aikido, he'd went into the Marines, then the Roswell PD, and then the Leigon. It hadn't left much time for training. Jared had kept up his skills, but he hadn't gone any farther. Being married to one of the richest people in Moscow helped with that particular issue. He had also put on a couple of pounds since the wedding.  He decided it was time to come back.

Jared had searched and The Monkey King's School of the Mystical Arts seemed to suit him.  It was owned and run by the famous movie star, Tan Li. That wasn't what attracted Jared to it. At least, Li's celebrity wasn't what attracted Jared to it. Anyone with a discerning eye could tell that Tan Li didn't fake his stunts in his movies.  He knew his stuff and was quite adept at what he did.  The man was a true master of martial arts, including what Jared had studied - Aikido. The commercials also showed something else that intrigued Jared. It showed Tan Li channeling, and it claimed that he could show you how. Jared knew how, but no one ever stopped learning.

Jared arrived at the dojo.  He wasn't dressed in his gi or hakama, but he had brought the garments and had them in his gym bag. He wasn't a member of the dojo yet, but was just going to see if this is where he wanted to be, but he was pretty certain he'd fit in here. The building was two stories and he entered into a lobby on the first floor.  He approached the desk and spoke to the person there.

"Good morning. My name is Jared Vanders. I saw some of your commercials and I was interested in learning more about your school here. I have a Nidan in Aikido, and I'm looking for somewhere to train. I'd also be interested in learning some other arts as well. Would like to see what you're about."

[[OoC: The title of this thread is the translation of the word "Aikido"

*Nidan = Second Degree Black Belt]]