In the high-security sanctum of the Forge Industry, the air was still, save for the gentle rising of steam from a cup of fine tea. Mr. Haumet sat in a plush velvet chair, his silhouette framed by massive monitors displaying the jagged geometry of weapon blueprints. He paused, the cup halfway to his lips. There, in the far corner of the room, stood a featureless mannequin—a pale, silent intruder amidst the machinery.
Mr. Haumet sighed, setting his tea down with a light clatter. "Is this one of your pranks, dear?" he asked the empty air. "It won't work on me."
The mannequin remained motionless. Then, the screens flickered—a sudden glitch in the fabric of reality. Something moved with the speed of light, a golden blur that defied the eye.
THUD.
The tea splashed onto the expensive rug, staining the fabric. Mr. Haumet lay slumped on the floor, unconscious but breathing. Panicked footsteps rushed into the room—it was his daughter, Alissa. Her eyes went wide with terror. "Dad?!" She dove to his side, her hands trembling as she checked his pulse. "MEDIC!"
A Medi-Bot whirred into the room, its mechanical treads whispering across the carpet. With hydraulic precision, it lifted the fallen tycoon and carried him toward a private ward. The machine raised its arm-embedded gun, bathing Haumet's forehead in a soft, clinical green light.
The Golden Void
Mr. Haumet did not wake in the hospital. He found himself bound to a chair in a dimension of shimmering, oppressive gold. The mannequin stood before him, its voice echoing with a hollow, metallic resonance that seemed to vibrate from the very air.
"Your greed led me here," the entity spoke. "You would rather choose gold than the salvation of your world."
"Who are you!" Haumet shouted, his voice cracking as he struggled against invisible restraints.
The mannequin ignored the plea. "You broke your promises to the GDA. You sold the future for a pittance. What punishment is fitting for a man of your stature?"
Haumet's pride flared even in the face of the unknown. "We have the finest technologies on the planet! You can't just—"
The mannequin's joints clicked as it tilted its head, an empty, faceless stare fixed upon him. "As I said. Greed comes to all of you, old man. You cannot escape the hunger of your own heart."
"Full of nonsense coming from a talking mannequin!" Haumet spat, his face twisted in defiance.
The figure froze. A low, vibrating chuckle began to build in its chest—a sound like coins rubbing together, dropping into a terrifyingly deep register. It stopped suddenly, the air turning cold despite the golden glow.
"I am not just a mannequin," the voice boomed, each word a heavy tolling bell. "I. Am. The. Periodic. Sins. Number. Three. The. Embodiment. Of. Greed. I. Am. Midasia."
The mannequin's surface began to ripple and melt, transforming into liquid, molten gold. "I am the beacon of avarice. I am not an ordinary vessel. I am a Sin. I am the non-living organization of your own desires!"
Midasia lunged forward with supernatural speed. Her golden thumb pressed into Mr. Haumet's left eye socket with agonizing, crushing force. A scream of pure, unadulterated pain tore from his throat, echoing forever into the golden void.
The Mark of the Sin
Mr. Haumet jolted awake in the medical ward, his chest heaving as he gasped for air, his lungs burning. Beside him, the Medi-Bot stood in a neutral, unfeeling pose.
"Hi Master, good morning," the bot chirped, its mechanical cheer jarring against the silence. The Medi-Gun shut off with a final, rhythmic hum.
Mr. Haumet blinked, but the world was lopsided—half of the room was swallowed in an impenetrable dark. He raised a trembling hand to his face, his fingers brushing against his skin. His breath hitched as he realized the truth: his left eye was cold, sightless, and gone. It was a permanent mark of the Sin—a debt of greed that had finally been collected.
TO BE CONTINUED