Raptured

Nueva York, a city known for its highly developed technology and infrastructure. High skylines that dominate their respective horizons, while intense lightwork that flash far and wide, inevitably catching the eyes of all who pass by. The light hum of energy circulating through each street, accompanied by the bustling movement of people, adds to the city’s atmosphere, creating a captative symphony of urban life. Despite the appearance of being a well-developed capital, it concealed a myriad of societal disparities and struggles that casts shadows upon its gleaming façade. Not that it wasn’t concealed per se, but rather was overlooked. Everyone knew the insurmountable obstacles that had be faced to live here, everyone was aware about the corruption that ran deep within the city- a system beyond repair. Yet, like a moth to a flame, everyone seemed to be drawn to the idea of living life on the high lane.

You are overlooking the view from the highest floor on the building which seems to tower over the city. The sprawling expanse of urban landscape stretches before you, a mosaic of twinkling lights and towering skyscrapers. Bringing your palm to the window, you feel the coolness of the glass tingle against your skin. Such moments were rare- a time when you could just simply pause and gaze out. In a world that moved too swiftly, there was little time to be doing something so menial or unproductive. But you didn’t care if it were stupid, it was refreshing to just savour the moment of doing nothing. This moment, however, didn’t last long. It was soon interrupted by the jabbering voices of two individuals that resonated throughout the hallway.

“You can’t do this, you can’t quit. I won’t allow you to,” a familiar voice echoes through the hallway. A voice that you knew all too well, and it was enough to pique your interest. You walk slowly towards the source of the voice, doing all that you can to not create noise that could potentially break the alluring conversation. Pressing your back against the wall near to the slightly ajar door, in hopes to hear the tête-à-tête better.

“Look, I can’t keep involving myself in this kind of work. It goes against everything I stand for. I feel responsible for all that is happening out there, do you know this makes me feel?” a deep, rich voice protests.

“Miguel, I understand but this is what the people want. And you were one of our best head geneticists. I am honestly doing you a huge favour for giving you this title, you sure as hell wouldn’t be able to get a job like this anywhere else,” the first voice retorted back. “Look, it’s getting late how about I talk to you about this later?”

The voice belonging to Miguel hums back in response.

You begin to hear shuffling in the room, the sound of heavy footsteps rings louder at each passing second. A tall man with sleek, dark brown hair that was slicked back from his attractive face that wore a scowl, etching lines of intensity onto his features. His piercing brown eyes, framed by slightly furrowed thick brows, locked onto yours. His prominent nose and firm jawline added an air of frustration, while his full lips now tugged slightly upward, conveying a subtle hint of disgust upon seeing you. Your face is quick to react, mimicking the same emotion portrayed on his face. You were unsure of whether he had caught onto it since he was moved past your person rather quickly. Your eyes still lingered on his figure as it faded into the distance.

Scoffing at the brief yet eventful interaction, you enter the room that the man had exited. You found a lean man standing, his hands gripping the edges of the table. His back faced towards you and the door. Smooth, white hair glistens in the dimly lit room; he was clad in a grey suit patterned with black stripes paired well with black leather Penny loafers.

“Mr Stone,” you call out. The man swiftly pivots to face you, his countenance bearing signs of visible aging, his cerulean eyes gazes towards you. A soft smile plasters across his face showing off a bit of his pearly whites and had seemed to pull up the wrinkles by his face.

“Mr Stone? Please darling, refer to me as dad,” Tyler Stone breaths out.

You roll your eyes at him. “Dad,” you say through gritted teeth, reluctantly.

You didn’t take any pride yourself in being related to Tyler Stone, the CEO of Nueva York’s influential organization, Alchemax. This company had basically owned the whole city, casting a shadow of control over every corner. Alchemax often oversaw the medicinal field, one of their prized work was the drug, Rapture. The drug was able to assist the user to rewrite genetic code to heal illnesses like cancer.

“That man, what was that all about?” I question, unable to hide your curiosity.

Tyler Stone clears his throat taken aback from the sudden inquiry. “Miguel, he wants to quit,” he responds, his voice carries a note of annoyance. “He believes he is responsible for the state of Nueva York,” Tyler Stone wipes his hand down his face and lets out a deep sigh.

"Responsible for the st-" you chuckle. "What on earth is that supposed to mean?" You smile to yourself at the ludicrous statement. Who did he think he is? He's contributing his life's work to cure for diseases and other pestilences, how is he ruining the world?  Your train of thoughts was abruptly comes to a halt, your eyes now wandering towards Tyler Stone as he paces restlessly around the room until he abruptly stops.

“Y/N, I need you to do me a favour,” he takes a long, hard look at you before continuing. “I’m assigning you to work on a project with Miguel. Your task is do whatever it takes to prevent him from quitting. He’s a valuable asset, and I can’t afford to lose him.”

“Mr S- Dad! No, what? How on earth am I supposed to do that?” you exclaim in exasperation. Memories of your first encounter with Miguel enrages you. Your body tenses, and you clench your fists struggling to contain the overwhelming emotions. You recall the way he looked at you- judgmental eyes, disgust written all over his face. He might as well have said it aloud to your face.

“No, it’s final. I am trusting you with it. Now, leave,” he points to the door. “I have work to do. To deal with this bastard, Spiderman character,” he mutters.

Reluctantly, you head towards the door. You wished to have yelled out in defiance against the absurd favour your father had just asked of you to do. But messing with a man like him was inviting trouble. Many knew not to challenge Tyler Stone, not even his own daughter.