I was born on Mars. Not a metaphor. Not a dream. The first human to draw breath in the thin, filtered air of a colony dome under a pink sky. My mother, Sarah Elliot, died hours after my birth—eclampsia, they said. My father? Unknown. Or so I was told.

For sixteen years, I lived in silence, raised by Kendra and the team at Genesis Mars Station. No sunlight on skin. No wind. No gravity like yours. But I had the net. And through it, I met Tulsa.

We talked about music, about running away, about stars. I told her I was sick—confined to a penthouse with brittle bones. She believed me. I didn’t tell her I was on another planet.

Then I found the video. My mother, laughing on a beach. A man beside her. I’m sure he’s my father. I have to find him.

Now I’m on Earth. My bones scream. My heart struggles. But I’m here.

And I just saw the man from the video.

He says he’s my uncle.

He’s lying.

I can feel it in my blood.

What do I do?