My name is Leo Harrow. At least, that was the name written on my student ID, my medical records, and the cheap rental contract my forgot to pay on time.
But my mother used to call me lyra harrow .
She was gone now. Cancer didn't care about lies, disguises, or promises. It took her slowly, cruelly, and left me alone in a house filled with women who weren't my mother—and children who weren't my siblings
I have always moved through the world like a shadow—seen, but never noticed. People assumed I was a boy. Short hair, neutral clothes, quiet movements. A disguise my mother insisted upon, decades ago, after an accident during her pregnancy left her unable to have another child. I had been born her secret, hidden in plain sight, trained to survive in the empire my father built with her brilliance and his cunning.
He had used her—my mother, selena Harrow, a master pianist and the daughter of the legendary Selene military family—to expand his empire across the regions. She was beautiful, brilliant, enough to see him through the first years. He courted her with charm and careful calculation, always aware of the connections and influence she carried. She married him believing in love, only to discover that trust had a price she could not afford. By the time I came into this world, the cost had already been paid.
Now, at nineteen, I live in her apartment. Every corner smells of her: the faint trace of lavender sachets in drawers, the smell of polish lingering on the floor, the soft echo of piano notes that sometimes drift through the walls at night. After she died, I stayed. My father never came here. Not that he needed to. His empire was built on appearances, deals, and the power to bend people to his will. I had grown up knowing him only in fragments, through whispered rumors and the quiet absence of a father who claimed to love me—but never truly had.
The alarm buzzed at six. I stared at the crack in the ceiling, tracing its crooked line with my eyes. My mother once said that this apartment was like her—fragile, beautiful, but stubborn enough to endure the pressures of the world. I had learned to endure too.
I swung my legs over the bed and stood. Short hair, plain clothes, a face that could pass for anyone. Everyone outside thinks I'm a boy. It is easier that way. It is safer. My mother made it so. To survive the twisted calculations of my father's world, I had to be invisible and underestimated.
I dressed quickly, grabbed a simple breakfast, and locked the apartment door behind me. Outside, the city pulsed with life. Cars crawled along the streets, students hurried to their universities, everyone staring at the world through glowing screens, oblivious to anything that might disrupt their routines. They had no idea the world they knew was about to end.
University was predictable. Lecture halls half-filled, professors droning on about abstract theories, students whispering, scrolling, nodding off. I observed everything. Names, faces, routines. Patterns. Weaknesses. Preparation comes in many forms, and I had been preparing all my life without knowing exactly what for.
During lunch, I sat near the window, watching groups argue about homework or complain about assignments. The certainty of their lives—their belief that tomorrow would mirror today—was almost infuriating. Almost.
By late afternoon, I wandered home, taking side streets that reflected in puddles from the light rain. Neon signs buzzed faintly. Cafés glowed, and the air smelled faintly of wet concrete and distant food carts. And then, something shifted. Not violently, not visibly, but enough that my skin prickled.
Then a voice spoke.
It did not come from the laptop.
It did not come from my phone, though the device slipped from my hand and clattered to the floor.
It came from everywhere.
A voice followed—neither male nor female, distorted like metal scraping reality itself.
"Congratulations, Earth."
"You have been selected for the Chrome Apocalypse."
"Survive the races. Entertain the realms. Evolve—or be eliminated."
The words slammed into my mind like a physical force.
Across the city, I heard distant crashes—doors flung open, objects knocked over. Somewhere nearby, someone screamed.
Participation is mandatory. And refusal is impossible.
My heart pounded, breath shallow, but I didn't move. I didn't need to. I had spent my entire life learning to wait, learning to watch, learning to survive in a world that didn't care.
The spinning wheel appeared on every screen: laptops, phones, TVs. Chrome, polished, turning slowly, almost mocking. The Realm Races Apocalypse. A system. A test. A chance. A nightmare.
I felt it first on my wrist. The mark. Hidden all these years, protected. My inheritance. My mother had told me to hide it, but now the world knew. I touched it. Warm. Alive. A signal that the races were real, that I was chosen, and that nothing would ever be the same.
I remembered the other child—my father's secret. The one older than me. Whispers I had learned from my mother, kept in her private journals, revealed to me at her funeral. He had hidden them all, manipulating everyone. Controlling everything. I clenched my fists. Not revenge. Proof. I would show him that the empire built on lies and betrayal could not contain me.
I returned to the apartment and packed carefully. Clothes, chargers, documents, a small notebook filled with strategies, calculations, contingencies. Everything my mother had taught me. Everything I had learned from years of being underestimated. I was ready.
By midnight, the city had erupted into chaos. Sirens, shouts, car alarms. News outlets speculated, people screamed into phones, social media exploded with hysteria. But I sat at the edge of my mother's piano bench, tracing the keys with my fingers. She had believed in discipline, in mastering your own fate. I would follow that lesson now.
The countdown began.
Somewhere, someone screamed. Somewhere, someone ran. Somewhere, my father probably thought he had accounted for everything.
He had not accounted for me.
But for the first time since my mother died, I felt… freedom
Tomorrow, the Realm Races Apocalypse would begin.
And I, Lyra Selene Harrow, would survive.