EZREN’S POVThe street hadn’t changed. Not really. Not in the ways that mattered. The pavement still buckled near the old elm roots, and the air still carried that faint, warm smell of yeast drifting from the corner bakery. The same bakery where I used to linger too long, pretending I didn’t want the leftover rolls the baker always “just happened to have.”Walking here felt like stepping back into my own pulse. The afternoon light fell in long, syrupy streaks across the rowhouses, and somewhere a child laughed … that wild, bright laughter that makes every adult on the block turn their head just to smile.I breathed in slowly. “Home,” I murmured. “Or what’s left of it.”Zara’s envelope was still in my coat, the donor list stiff against my ribs. The name she’d found … the name from my childhood … had struck me with a strange tidal pull. Not dread. Not exactly. More like the reawakening of a question I thought I’d outgrown.Down the block, the new community plaque gleamed in the late sun

MITCHELL’S POVThe briefing room smells of old coffee and sharpened pencils, a strange comfort against the cold steel of the folding chairs and the humming projector. A new map hangs on the wall … same regions, same fault lines, but now it’s threaded with red pins marking fresh flashpoints: data seizures, contractor raids, public demonstrations swelling into something hotter.Mitchell stands at the front, arms folded, her posture a blade barely sheathed. Her team filters in, murmuring, exchanging wary glances. The encrypted message sits on her tablet like a bruise: Reparations are noble. We prefer order. Aveline forwarded it immediately. And Mitchell recognised the phrasing with a cold certainty.The voice behind it belongs to a diplomat she’s argued with for years … the unofficial emissary of a faction obsessed with stability. They never call it authoritarianism. They call it stewardship. They cloak it in silk: preservation, continuity, rational governance. But the meaning is the sam

AVELINE’S POVThe archive chamber is quieter than usual… more peaceful than any room has a right to be after the week we’ve had. The vault lights hover like pale moons above the aisles, soft and cool, steady in the way my pulse isn’t. After Devon’s exposé detonated across the networks, the world fractured again. Protest threads, counter-threads, emergency statements, legal fireworks… It’s all still unfolding, jittering, mutating.I came here to breathe.The temperature is always kept a few degrees lower than the main facility. Preserved media need the cold. So does my mind, apparently. I step into the central aisle, where the shelves rise higher than I can stretch, each row stacked with recorded lives… voices, memories, fragments saved from the noise. My fingertips hover near a sealed capsule, not touching, just feeling the gravity of what’s inside.“Not all preserve to save.”The phrase has been looping in my head since the message hit Devon’s relay. It’s a warning. Or a philosophy.

MITCHELL’S POVThe Gatekeeper’s words refuse to fade.We hold the whole.They echo through every secure channel, every encrypted briefing, every hurried whisper between aides who were not supposed to panic… but did anyway.Mitchell stands before a wall of screens that curve like a broken horizon. World leaders flicker into place one by one, faces arranged like constellations: presidents, ministers, elders, chairs of councils that once thought themselves permanent. Some sit rigid. Some lean too close to their cameras. A few try to look calm and fail.A chime sounds. The channel seals.“Director Mitchell,” says the Secretary-General, voice low. “You asked for this emergency convening. You have the floor.”Mitchell exhales once. She does not raise her voice.“Thank you,” she says. “I will speak plainly. The Gatekeeper claims to possess a complete copy of the root library.”The reaction is immediate.“That’s impossible,” snaps a trade minister from the northern bloc.“We were assured…”“D

EZREN’S POVThe rooftop is quiet in the way only cities manage… never silent, just breathing. Vent fans hum. Somewhere a train sighs and goes on. The lights below don’t flicker as much as they pulse, a thousand little lives insisting on being seen.I sit on the concrete with my back against the low wall and think of the child’s question.If you can keep songs, can you keep people?I fold my hands and stare out. Each light is a story. Not preserved, not indexed. Lived. I try the answer again, the one I didn’t say.“We keep what must be chosen,” I whisper to no one.The wind doesn’t argue.Mitchell’s voice drifts up from memory, sharp and calm. Consent is the shield. Aveline’s quieter counterpoint follows: Verification is a form of respect. Devon’s laugh, brittle and bright: If they’re scared of the mess, they’ll try to vacuum it.I smile despite myself.My comm buzzes softly. Not urgent. Not an alarm. Just a reminder that I am still part of a web. I ignore it for a moment and stand, br