2025-10-22 04:34:01
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Ties That Bind
ZARA’S POVThe embassy hums faintly around me… ventilation, distant traffic, the low murmur of a world trying to sound normal. My office is the opposite of that: curtains drawn, lights dimmed, just the soft glow of two monitors and a mug of cold tea.On the screen, a string of transactions crawls downward… numbers that look meaningless unless you know how to read them. Devon’s data from the memorial matched the trust fund’s routing pattern. It shouldn’t have, but it did, and now the trail leads here… to the International Cultural Preservation Foundation, where the scent of moral virtue covers everything like expensive cologne.I tap the secure line. “Elric,” I say softly, “we need to talk about your donors.”A pause. Then a sigh, tinny through the speaker. “Zara, it’s late. Can this wait?”“It can’t.”Elric Hyland, foundation director, sounds like a man who sleeps beside his phone because guilt makes it ring too often. “If this is about the trust fund, the records are confidential. Yo
Private Memorial
DEVON’S POVThe guard at the gate doesn’t even blink as our credentials flash green. Mitchell’s forged donor IDs are flawless… embossed seals, layered QR verifications, the whole ceremonial theater of privilege. The kind that opens any door if you wear the right clothes and pretend you belong.Inside, the air smells like wealth pretending to be reverence. Polished marble, warm incense, the faint static of hidden speakers. A string quartet hums softly somewhere above us. The lobby gleams with curated restraint… cream walls, gold trim, and a single inscription in serif letters across the archway:“Preserve What Cannot Be Replaced.”Sora mutters under her breath, “Except when it’s stolen.”I keep my voice low. “Remember, we’re donors. Smile like you’ve just bought eternity.”Kira smirks faintly, tugging the silk scarf around her neck. “I’ll try to look expensive and morally conflicted.”We move together through the lobby, every step cushioned by thick carpet. Around us, clients drift lik
Remark
AVELINE’S POV The lab hums with a tired rhythm… the soft whine of processors, the low pulse of filtration vents, the faint buzz of the light strips flickering like anxious eyelids. I lean over the microscope, eyes dry, breath fogging the lens. The drone’s core rests beneath the glass, a dull metal pearl cracked along one seam. Etched into its inner casing… human handwriting, not machine code… are names. Kira. Amara. Sora. My own. I stare at the tiny curves, the way each letter is cut with the kind of pressure that comes from muscle and thought, not automation. The scratches shimmer faintly where my light catches the grooves. Whoever wrote this didn’t rush. They wanted these names to be read. I whisper to myself, “You carved our ghosts before we even died.” Beside me, the spectrograph pings, a small chime like glass breaking. Chemical analysis complete. The alloy on the etching tool… rare, proprietary. My stomach knots as the readout scrolls: Compound A-17… restricted to Triarch L
Sanctuary Threat
KIRA’S POV The sanctuary hums like a sleeping animal… steady, rhythmic, unknowing. I walk through its hallways barefoot, the way I always do when I need to think. The soft lights follow me, sensors registering warmth and motion. Behind the doors, volunteers rest in narrow bunks, machines whispering low songs of life-support and data sync. It should feel peaceful. It used to. But tonight, peace tastes like bile. On my handheld screen, the contractor’s video loops for the fifth time… a map, grainy and flickering, with our sanctuary marked in pulsing red. The voice that accompanies it is calm, male, detached. “We can reach any node. Even yours.” Then silence. Then static. I pause the clip, the frozen map hovering mid-blink. The bile rises again, higher. They didn’t say why or when. Just that they could. A demonstration of reach. A threat meant to rattle us from the inside. For a second, I want to barricade the entire building… seal the exits, double the guard rotations, turn the sa
Breakable Bones Fall
SORA’S POV The air inside the shelter is thick with soup steam and rain. A generator hums in the corner, the sound barely masking the tremor of whispers. Children huddle around the stove, clutching tin cups. I move through the crowd slowly, nodding to a nurse I know, and she nods back, eyes heavy. The room smells of stew, disinfectant, and exhaustion… the scents of survival. A woman catches my sleeve. Her fingers are trembling but firm, her nails broken. “You’re Sora,” she says, like a name half-remembered from a broadcast. “You… you help people.” I lower myself to her eye level. “Sometimes,” I say. “Tell me.” She glances at the floor. “My son. He took a job. They said it was a placement from the Choice Station. He was happy… said he’d work fixing solar panels near the border. That was three weeks ago. Then no word. They told me not to ask questions.” My gut tightens. “Who told you that?” “Men in gray vests. With the Station symbol on the van. But… it looked wrong. I know those s
Framed Fall
ZARA’S POV The lights are too bright. They always are. I’ve spent half my career under them… on podiums, in press rooms, in halls lined with flags… but lately they feel less like illumination and more like interrogation. The microphones glint in front of me like a field of eyes, each waiting to blink at the first misstep. Behind me, Mitchell stands steady, unreadable. To my right, Callum Traye sits in a chair he never wanted, pale and trembling, his hands folded so tightly his knuckles are white. The room hums with tension: reporters, aides, a dozen camera drones hovering above like quiet predators. “Ready?” I whisper to Mitchell. She nods once. “Keep it factual. No adjectives.” “Understood.” When I turn back to the microphones, the noise stills… the low murmur of journalists recalibrating lenses and instincts. “Thank you for coming,” I begin, voice firm. “The Coalition has uncovered an internal breach that led to the unauthorized dissemination of Echo data. The individual resp
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