Chapter 1

"Ethan, are you sure about this? Elysian Fields is... experimental. Highly experimental." Dr. Peterson' s voice crackled with concern over the phone.

I stared out my dorm room window at the New York skyline, the city lights a blur. "I know, Professor. But it' s the only option I have left." My own voice sounded hollow, distant. The leukemia diagnosis from yesterday still echoed in my ears, a death sentence.

"There are always other avenues, support groups, palliative care. This cryopreservation... the success rates are non-existent for revival, Ethan. It's suspended animation, not a cure."

He meant well, my empathetic university professor. He' d been a lifeline since my parents... since everything fell apart. But he didn' t understand. This wasn't just about the leukemia.

"I've made up my mind, Dr. Peterson. Thank you for the information. I have to go." I pressed the end call button before he could argue further.

My laptop screen glowed, open to a tech news site. The headline seared into my brain: "Tech Queen Olivia Hayes Announces Engagement to COO Marcus Thorne." Below it, a photo. Olivia, radiant, beautiful, her arm linked with Marcus Thorne. He was smiling, a triumphant glint in his eyes. And on his wrist, a smartwatch. Not just any smartwatch. It was the custom design I' d poured weeks into, a digital locket meant only for Olivia, filled with our shared memories, inside jokes, a secret map of our favorite places in the city. A gift for her upcoming birthday, which was also today. My nineteenth birthday.

The watch was supposed to be a symbol of our bond, a silent acknowledgment of everything she meant to me, my guardian, the only family I had left. Now, it was a public declaration of her commitment to another man. A man who barely tolerated my existence. Betrayal felt like a cold stone in my gut.

I glanced at the small, clumsily wrapped gift on my desk. A first edition of her favorite architectural monograph I' d hunted down. It seemed pathetic now.

Hours later, the door to our shared apartment clicked open. Olivia. I' d waited up, a small, hopeful cake I' d bought sitting on the counter.

She walked in, shedding her coat, the scent of expensive perfume and champagne clinging to her. She looked tired but exhilarated. "Ethan? What are you still doing up?" Her voice was crisp, business-like.

"Happy birthday, Olivia," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "And... congratulations on your engagement."

She gave a curt nod, her eyes scanning some message on her phone. "Thank you. Marcus is wonderful. We' re very happy." She didn' t look at me.

"I... I wanted to talk to you about something," I began, my heart pounding. "There's this experimental treatment option I found. For... for my condition." I couldn' t bring myself to say leukemia. "It' s called cryopreservation."

Olivia finally looked up, her brow furrowed. Marcus had probably been in her ear for months, whispering about my "unhealthy attachment," my "dramatic tendencies." He loved to remind her of my father's scandal, my mother's breakdown.

"Ethan, stop being so dramatic," she said, her voice sharp, laced with an unfamiliar harshness. "You need to accept reality. This constant focus on me, on us... it' s unhealthy. Marcus is right. You need to move on, build your own life." She gestured vaguely. "Cryopreservation? Honestly. You' re nineteen, not eighty. Get a grip."

Her words were like slaps. Unhealthy. Dramatic. As if my love, my silent, desperate devotion, was something disgusting.

I swallowed, the cake on the counter suddenly looking like a monument to my foolishness. "Right. Of course. I understand, Olivia. I' ll... I' ll stop." I meant, I' ll stop bothering you. I' ll stop hoping. I' ll stop being a burden.

A memory flickered: Olivia, years ago, after my parents died. She was younger then, not yet the CEO, her face softer. She' d held me, stroked my hair, her voice a warm, comforting blanket against the cold terror of being orphaned. "I'm here, Ethan. Always." Where did that Olivia go?

The next morning, Marcus posted on his Instagram. A picture of him and Olivia, clinking champagne glasses. Her hand, with a massive diamond ring, was prominent. The smartwatch I designed was still on his wrist. The caption: "She said yes! The future Mrs. Thorne. #luckiestmanalive #powercouple." It felt like another turn of the screw.

An email pinged in my inbox. From Elysian Fields Cryonics Institute. "Dear Mr. Miller, please find attached the consent forms for your cryopreservation procedure." It was happening. Point of no return.

I picked up my phone, my thumb hovering over Olivia' s contact. I called. It went to voicemail. I called again. Voicemail. The third time, she answered, her voice impatient. "Ethan? I' m busy. What is it?"

"Olivia," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "I just... I wanted to officially congratulate you. And Marcus. I wish you both all the happiness."

A pause. "Thank you, Ethan. That' s... mature of you."

"Can I ask... when is the wedding?"

"Oh, we' ve set a date. It' s going to be next year. October 26th."

October 26th. My twentieth birthday. The day I had just scheduled for my cryopreservation. The universe had a sick sense of humor. Each word was another shard of ice in my heart.