April, 1096

The digital display ticks over with quiet precision. It is April 1st, already.

It has been three months since I woke up in those bruised orange ruins. Three months of steamed eggs, Victorian fairytales, and the black monitor locked securely around my throat.

I sit cross-legged on the mattress, a blank sheet of paper resting on my lap. Lisa is sitting right beside me, leaning over my shoulder so closely I can feel the soft warmth of her auburn hair brushing against my arm. We just finished reading a dense, illustrated history book about Victoria, and I am currently trying my best to sketch one of the towering Steam Knights from its pages.

I press the pen against the paper. The ink flows smoothly. The lines are deliberate and clear, no longer the jerky, agonizing scribbles I produced back in January. My fingers have finally learned how to hold the plastic barrel properly.

I finish the sketch and carefully sign LETHE at the bottom of the page. It looks neat. It looks exactly like the handwriting of a diligent twelve-year-old girl.

I stare at the five letters. I try to reach back into my mind, searching for the fluid, practiced strokes I used to use when signing corporate documents or writing grocery lists in the Lower North Shore. I reach for the memory of my old handwriting, expecting to find the image there.

Instead, my mind grasps empty air.

There is nothing. The memory isn't hazy or distant; it is completely, terrifyingly gone. A blank spot on the canvas.

A cold shiver traces its way down my spine, but I don't panic. The violent, sobbing terror of January has long since numbed into a quiet, melancholic acceptance. Every time I press my palm to the biometric lock on my feeding staff to take a supervised, desperate sip of Lisa's joy or Erika's warmth, the crystals demand fuel.

"Wow, Lethe! That looks just like the book!" Lisa chimes, completely oblivious to the quiet existential horror taking place inside my head. Her ears twitch with genuine delight. "You're getting so good at drawing!"

I force a soft smile, looking up at her bright, innocent face. "Thank you, Lisa. The armor was hard to get right."

Before she can point out her favorite detail on the Steam Knight, the peaceful, domestic illusion of my sterile bubble is violently shattered.

The sound doesn't build; it strikes. A deafening, bone-rattling klaxon rips through the quiet hum of the landship. It is a mechanical, dual-toned shriek that vibrates directly into my teeth.

Instantly, the crisp white daylight simulation dies. The ward is plunged into darkness for a fraction of a second before the emergency lighting kicks in, a violent, strobing, blood- red glare that paints the metallic walls in jagged shadows.

Lisa violently flinches. Her inherent optimism vanishes in a heartbeat. Her nine auburn tails instantly puff up into massive, bristling brushes of sheer terror, and her vulpine ears completely against her head. She grabs the sleeve of my medical gown, her small hands shaking.

"Attention all personnel," a cold, synthesized voice echoes from the wall communicator, slicing through the blaring klaxon. "Catastrophe trajectory updated. Imminent interception path detected. All non-combat personnel evacuate to designated safe zones. Brace for evasive maneuvers."

My heart sinks. Catastrophe.

Erika practically collides with the doorframe as she rushes inside. Her chest heaves with ragged, shallow breaths, her light purple eyes are blown wide, and the soft feathers near her temples are pinned completely flat against her skin in a display of acute distress.

"You're okay. We're okay," Erika gasps out, immediately holding up her hands in a placating gesture over the deafening wail of the klaxon. She hurries over to the bed, looking frantically between Lisa and me. "Rhodes Island isn't in the direct path. The landship is safely maneuvering around the impact zone."

Lisa’s grip on my sleeve loosens just a fraction, a tiny, shaky exhale escaping her lips.

"But I cannot stay here with you, Lethe," Erika continues, her voice trembling as she forces herself to adopt a rigid, professional posture. Her hands clench into tight fists at her sides. "I have to report to the hangar immediately. I need to get suited up and deploy with the disaster relief Field Ops."

"Deploy?" I ask, my voice sounding incredibly small. "If we aren't in the path... where are you going?"

Erika swallows hard. "It's a localized Catastrophe. A massive, Originium-laced sandstorm. And it is tracking directly toward a nomadic mining platform belonging to Rim Billiton. They aren't going to be able to move the city out of the way in time."

My hand shoots out instinctively, my fingers grasping desperately at the empty air toward Erika. My mind screams at me to beg, to cry, to cling to my caretaker and demand she stay here in this sterile bubble where it is safe.

But I force myself to freeze.

I look at Erika's terrified but resolute face. If she doesn't go, innocent people in that mining platform will die in the ruins. If she stays to coddle me, she fails her oath as a Medic.

I slowly curl my trembling fingers into a fist and pull my hand back, resting it heavily on the illustrated cover of the Victorian fairytale book.

"Be careful, Miss Erika," Lisa says, her voice wavering, but her inherent, brave optimism fighting through the fear. She gives a small, determined nod, her nine tails curling tightly around herself. "We will be good here."

"Please be safe, Erika," I echo, pitching my voice to be as steady as this fragile body will allow. I offer her a weak, brave smile. "We will be right here when you get back."

Erika's eyes shine with unshed tears. She gives us both one last, desperately fond look before turning on her heel and sprinting back out into the chaotic corridor to face the storm.

We are alone again. I look down at the open book on my lap, the drawing of the Steam Knight resting beside it.

I reach over and gently take Lisa's trembling hand in mine.

"Do you... do you want to read the next story?" I ask quietly, trying to build a fortress out of paper and ink.

Lisa nods, scooting closer until her shoulder is pressed firmly against mine. As the nomadic landship maneuvers through the apocalyptic weather, we lower our heads and desperately retreat back into the fairytales, using the gilded pages as a fragile shield against the end of the world outside.

The door opens with a sharp snap that makes both Lisa and me jump. I instantly scramble to sit upright, dropping my pen and the sketch of the Steam Knight onto the mattress.

"Please, no blood draw!" I yelp, my hands flying up instinctively to shield my arms. My heart hammers a frantic rhythm against my ribs, absolutely convinced she has brought her pristine, terrifying syringes into the middle of a ship-wide emergency.

The Vampire doctor saunters into the room, entirely unbothered by the strobing red emergency lights or the distant, subsonic rumble of the landship evading the storm. Her white hair shifts as she stops at the foot of the bed, her crimson eyes gleaming with that familiar, predatory amusement.

"Relax, little anomaly," Warfarin drawls, waving dismissively. "I am merely here to observe my favorite blood bags…" She pauses, catching herself, and lets out a dry, theatrical cough. "Excuse me. Patients. I am here to observe my patients under the localized effects of a Catastrophe."

She leans against the brushed steel of the wall, crossing her arms. "Originium is highly resonant. Consider this a clinical wellness check."

I let out a long, shaky sigh, slowly lowering my hands. With Warfarin's focused look burning into the side of my head, I try to force my racing pulse to settle and turn my attention back to the Victorian fairytale book. Lisa scoots a little closer, and we resume reading the history chapter in hushed, nervous whispers.

The silence in the ward feels heavier now. Hours has passed by.

Warfarin has long since swept out of the room, taking her suffocating, metallic intensity back to her laboratory. Not long after, Lisa had to return to the dormitories, offering a final, reassuring wave and a synchronized wag of her nine tails before the heavy pneumatic door sealed me back into my windowless box.

When the door hisses open again, my head snaps up. I lean forward, desperately expecting the familiar, comforting sight of pale feathers and light purple eyes.

But it isn't her.

It is Lena.

No Erika.

The Vulpo steps into the dim, strobing light of the quarantine ward. She is carrying my meal, but the sight brings me absolutely no comfort. I stare at the silver pouch, the Rhodes Island logo catching the amber light. My stomach twists into a violent, icy knot.

"Lethe," Lena says, her voice a soft, steadying melody over the distant, subsonic rumble of the landship. The ambient taste of her presence is stretched terrifyingly thin, frayed by the sheer magnitude of the emergency unfolding across the ship. She sets the silver pouch gently onto the nightstand. "Erika asked me to make sure you are taken care of."

"Is she..." My voice fractures into a pathetic squeak. I clutch the blanket. "Is she going to come back?"

Lena reaches out, her movements graceful despite the underlying tension of the crisis. She rests a warm, grounding hand over my fingers. The soothing floral scent of her emotional resonance flares up, actively trying to push back the spiraling terror threatening to swallow me whole.

"Erika is incredibly brave, and she is highly trained," Lena murmurs, her eyes locking onto mine with a fierce certainty. "She knows how to navigate the storms, Lethe. You must have faith in her. She promised you she would be careful, and she meant it. And you need to be brave for her too."

I want to believe her. I want to sink into that warm comfort and pretend the world outside my metal box isn't dying. But before Lena can offer another word of solace, the sharp, synthetic blip of her personal communicator cuts through the quiet of the ward. Lena closes her eyes for a fraction. A heavy, exhausted sigh escapes her lips.

"I am so sorry, but I have to go," she says, her face lined with a grave, quiet sorrow.

"The triage centers are beginning to overflow, and I am needed to manage the incoming casualties. Please, Lethe. Eat your food, and try to rest."

With a final, gentle squeeze of my hand, the botanist turns and hurries back out into the chaotic, metallic corridors.

Left entirely alone in the amber-lit shadows, I stare at the silver pouch on the table, the metallic taste of pure dread pooling in the back of my throat.

Lena’s gentle words offered me little comfort.

Is Erika safe? The question echoes in the chasm of my chest, bouncing off the walls of my skull. Is she… still alive?

I pull my knees up tightly against my chest, wrapping my long tail securely around my ankles. I shiver violently, completely unable to stop the trembling in my hands. I bury my face in my arms, squeezing my eyes shut against the dim light.

Please, Terra, I beg the silence of the room, my thoughts raw and frantic. Not her. You have already taken my past. You are actively destroying my mind. Don't you dare take her too.

I cannot lose her…

I sit on the edge of the mattress, my fingers tracing the surface of the monitor locked around my throat. Maybe if I take it off, I can find her, somehow.

Suddenly, the door creeps open with a soft, hesitant sigh.

My hand flies away from my throat. I freeze, my breath catching as a silhouette steps into the dim, artificial dusk of the quarantine ward.

It is Erika.

She looks like a completely shattered mess. She is wearing a fresh, clean set of medical uniform, but the white fabric only highlights how utterly exhausted she is. Her pale white hair is damp and stringy, and the delicate feathers near her temples are plastered completely flat against her head. The harsh, chemical sting of a high-grade decontamination shower clings to her, completely replacing her usual scent.

She stops just inside the threshold, her hand still resting on the door frame to keep herself upright. Her light purple eyes are red-rimmed and swollen. She has been crying. A lot. She probably dragged herself here straight from the triage bays, desperately seeking the quiet comfort of seeing her ward safe and sound after witnessing the absolute horror of a sandstorm.

She blinks, clearly not expecting me to be sitting awake in the dark. "Lethe…?" she whispers, her voice cracking, completely stripped of its usual warm, authoritative cadence.

I don't think. The sheer, overwhelming relief of seeing her breathing shatters my fragile facade entirely.

I slide off the mattress, my padded slippers hitting the metal floor, and I run to her. I crash into her legs, wrapping my small arms as tightly around her waist as my fragile frame can manage. I bury my face against her damp uniform, my long horns carefully angled away so I don't accidentally hurt her.

For a long, agonizing moment, Erika hesitates. She stands rigidly still, her hands hovering awkwardly in the air above my shoulders. I can feel the tension vibrating through her body, the traumatic residue of the disaster zone, the professional hesitation of a Medic afraid to contaminate a quarantined patient, or maybe just the sheer shock of a broken child actively offering her comfort.

Then, with a jagged, shuddering breath, her defenses completely collapse.

She drops to her knees on the cold steel floor, bringing us to eye level, and throws her arms around me. She pulls me tightly against her chest, burying her face into my grey hair. She doesn't say anything, but I can feel her shoulders shaking violently as fresh tears soak into the collar of my medical gown.

I just hold her back, burying my face in her shoulder, anchoring her to the quiet safety of the room while she anchors me to life.

In the darkness of the room, anchored by the desperate grip of the trembling Medic, a rare, crystalline moment of clarity cuts through my emotional spiral.

My mind races past the immediate terror and digs into the future of this world. I think of Nymph. I think of the only Djall Operator I knew from the rosters that are still years away from existing. The lore explicitly mentioned that modern-day Djall don't just survive as parasites; they integrate into society by performing therapies. They use their Originium Arts to siphon away psychological trauma. They take away the pain.

I am a Djall. I can do that.

I slowly pull back from the embrace, my hands dropping from her shoulders to gently grasp her wrists. "Erika. Sit with me and tell me what happened, okay?"

She blinks, her tear-streaked face bathed in the dim amber light. She looks entirely disoriented by the sudden, calm authority in my voice. "Lethe…?"

"Please."

I don't wait for her to argue. I gently tug her upward, guiding her exhausted frame from the cold steel floor to the edge of my mattress. I sit beside her. With deliberate, shaking focus, I reach out with my left hand and grip the heavy metal chassis of the modified Raythean staff resting against the nightstand. With my right, I firmly squeeze her trembling fingers.

Erika's focus drops to our joined hands. A jagged sigh shudders through her chest, and the horrific reality of the Field mission spills out in a hollow, broken whisper.

She tells me about the Rim Billiton mining platform, about the shattered structures completely leveled by the sheer kinetic force of the Catastrophe. She tells me about diving into the wreckage of a crushed house and finding a Cautus girl.

"She was so small, Lethe… probably only eight or ten," Erika chokes out, fresh tears welling in her eyes. "She was in complete agony. The localized Originium density from the storm… it caused a massive, violent infection spike. Black crystals were actively sprouting from her skin."

Erika's voice fractures completely as she describes the parents. One had been instantly crushed beneath the collapsed debris of the roof. The other had succumbed to an explosive, terminal Oripathy flare-up triggered by the Catastrophe's resonance, dying right in front of the child.

"I am so sorry," Erika sobs, bowing her head, her pale feathers drooping in absolute defeat. "I was so focused on trying to stabilize her… on just keeping her breathing… I forgot to come by. I left you alone."

I don't say a word. Instead, I shift my left hand, pressing my palm directly against the biometric lock of the Raythean staff.

The device vibrates with a low, mechanical hum as the restricted channel clicks open. I don't just crack it a millimeter to graze this time. I throw the limiters as wide as Closure's engineering will allow, and I actively, aggressively inhale.

The emotional backlash hits my senses like a physical blow. It is pure, concentrated trauma. It tastes bitter, rotting, and vile, like swallowing mouthfuls of ash, spoiled meat, and cold copper. My physical stomach violently heaves, completely revolted by the toxic sludge I am pulling into my core.

But I force my jaw shut. I grip her hand tighter, and I take it all in. I swallow every bit of her despair, her crushing guilt, and her paralyzing horror.

Almost immediately, the heavy, suffocating posture of the Liberi Medic shifts.

Erika's hunched shoulders slowly straighten. Her ragged, hyperventilating breaths smooth out. The crushing despondency that had anchored her to the floor just moments ago evaporates, replaced by an unnatural, sudden lightness.

Her medical instincts, honed by years on the battlefield, catch up a second later. She realizes the trauma didn't just fade naturally; it was surgically excised from her mind. Her eyes snap wide open. She looks at her hand in mine, and then at the glowing biometric lock of the Arts Unit I am clutching. The realization hits her with horrifying clarity.

"What… no…" Erika gasps, trying to pull her hand away. "Lethe? What did you do? Stop!" She reaches out, her voice rising in sheer, frantic panic. "Your memories!"

Before Erika can completely close the distance and pry the heavy metal staff from my shaking fingers, the door opens with a sharp snap.

Kal’tsit.

She steps into the dim, amber-lit ward, her crisp white coat rustling softly against the silence. She is fully dressed, her piercing green eyes sharp and awake. Of course she is. The PRTS cameras in the corners of my ceiling aren't just for show. She has been monitoring the telemetry of my collar the entire time.

"Lethe," Kal'tsit's voice cuts through the room. "You are deliberately redlining the hardcoded limiters on your Arts Unit Unit. You are drawing at a throughput well beyond your established baseline."

I freeze. My stomach is still violently heaving from the taste of the trauma I just swallowed, but the adrenaline spikes through my veins. I brace myself for the shadows behind her to twist and tear. I fully expect the jagged, crystalline nightmare of Mon3tr to materialize and pin me to the wall for breaching the terms of my survival. I expect her to snatch the Raythean staff from my hands and lock me in the dark forever.

But the shadows remain entirely still. Mon3tr does not manifest. Kal'tsit doesn't even take a step toward the bed to disarm me.

She simply stands there, her hands clasped loosely behind her back, watching the scene unfold with a terrifying, absolute stillness. She isn't stopping me.

Kal'tsit shifts her piercing attention from my trembling form to the kneeling Medic.

"Erika. Report your current psychological baseline. What exactly are you feeling?"

Erika is breathing heavily, her hands hovering helplessly over the staff I am still clutching. She looks up at the Feline, her eyes wide with a mixture of profound awe and absolute devastation.

"I feel…" Erika stammers, her voice cracking as she struggles to process the sudden absence of her own trauma. "The panic is gone. The weight… the horror of the ruins… it's just gone."

Then, her focus snaps back to me, and her expression completely crumbles. "But Dr. Kal'tsit, she's burning!" Erika's voice rises into a desperate, pleading wail, her professional composure completely shattering as the reality of my biology sets in. "She is burning her own mind to take it away from me! She is destroying her own memories!" Kal'tsit's expression remains a perfect, unreadable mask of stone. She does not offer a single shred of comfort to Erika.

"Did she attempt to alter your perception?" Kal'tsit interrogates. "Did she implant any behavioral suggestions, force a state of artificial euphoria, or do anything else besides siphon the localized trauma?"

Erika shakes her head frantically, her damp, pale feathers trembling against her skin.

"No! No, nothing else! Just… just the pain. She just took the pain. I don’t feel anything director! She didn’t do anything else."

I swallow hard. The vile, rotting taste of the Catastrophe trauma still coats the back of my throat, thick and nauseating, but I force myself to ignore it. I look away from Erika’s devastated expression and meet Kal’tsit’s unyielding, glacial green gaze.

"Dr. Kal'tsit…" I whisper. My voice is trembling, but I inject it with a frantic, desperate resolve. "I can help that Cautus girl too. I can…"

"No!"

Erika’s voice is a sharp, jagged tear in the quiet of the ward. She lunges forward, her hands flying up to grip my shoulders with shaking intensity. Her eyes are blown wide with absolute, protective terror. "No, Lethe, absolutely not! You cannot!"

"I don't want to stay in here forever!" I cry out, my voice breaking entirely into a high- pitched wail that echoes off the brushed steel walls.

I clutch the heavy metal chassis of the Raythean staff to my chest, my eyes blurring with hot, fresh tears. I look back at the young Liberi Medic, letting the genuine gratitude of my human soul bleed seamlessly into the fragile mask of the terrified amnesiac.

"You have taken care of me for three months, Erika," I sob, my breath hitching painfully. The tears spill over my cheeks, dropping onto the blankets. "You brought me fairytales. You brought me food. You hold my hand."

I reach out, my trembling fingers grabbing the damp fabric of her white uniform. I hold on as tightly as I can, pouring every bit of the guilt and helplessness of my caged existence into the plea.

"I don't… I don't want to just be someone who sits in a locked room while you sacrifice yourself to save more people like me." I look up at her, my voice dropping to a fragile, broken whisper. "You pulled me out of a Catastrophe, too... please. Please let me help." The room falls into a heavy, suffocating silence. Kal'tsit does not immediately respond. She just stands there, her piercing green eyes evaluating my tear-streaked face and the desperate, white-knuckled grip I have on Erika's uniform.

Then, Kal’tsit exhales a slow, measured breath.

"You signed a contract, Lethe," Kal'tsit begins, her voice a flat. "A binding agreement of absolute compliance that you clearly did not bother to fully comprehend before you put your pen to the paper."

She takes a single, deliberate step forward. The weight of her presence presses down on the room, cold and absolute.

"By bypassing your monitor’s baseline and initiating an unauthorized, forceful manipulation of my medical personnel's psychological state, you have fundamentally breached the terms of your probation. You are a biological hazard operating outside of strict containment parameters. By every metric of Rhodes Island protocol, your actions in this room are grounds for immediate neutralization."

Kal'tsit pauses, letting the lethal weight of the threat hang in the amber-lit air. But the shadows behind her do not twist. Mon3tr does not come for me.

"However," the Grand Dame of Rhodes Island continues, her tone shifting seamlessly from executioner to calculating pragmatist. "Rhodes Island is an organization built on evaluating utility against risk. If you are capable of replicating this stabilization… if you can successfully siphon the terminal distress of the Catastrophe victim and stabilize the Cautus child's psychological collapse without triggering a localized psychic cascade…" Kal'tsit's eyes narrow by a fraction. "Then I will reconsider your utility to this company. You will not just be a ward. You will be an asset."

"Dr. Kal'tsit, no!" Erika whips her head around, her light purple eyes blazing with a fierce, protective outrage that completely ignores the chain of command. "She is a child! The originium density in that triage bay is lethal! You cannot ask her to willingly walk into that and burn her own mind away! It's suicide!"

Erika turns back to me, reaching out to grab my shoulders again. "Lethe, you don't have to do this to prove anything. I won't let you…"

I gently reach up and place my trembling hands over hers.

I look at her tear-stained, exhausted face, and I force the edges of my lips up into a smile. A soft, completely genuine expression, fueled by the adult soul that is willingly choosing to burn itself so this kind, devastated woman doesn't have to carry the weight of the world alone.

"Erika," I whisper, my voice steady and clear in the quiet of the ward. "I promise you. Whatever happens out there… no matter how much the crystals take from me… I will never, ever forget you."

Erika stops. The fierce outrage completely evaporates from her face, leaving behind a profound, shattered awe. She stares at me, searching my eyes for any sign of hesitation. The sheer weight of that promise hangs between us like a physical tether.

"Are you… are you serious, Lethe?" she chokes out, her voice barely a breath.

I don't hesitate. I nod.

A fresh sob tears its way out of Erika's throat. She completely collapses forward, wrapping her arms around me and pulling me into a desperate, crushing hug. I bury my face in the crook of her shoulder, my long, grey hair spilling over her uniform, holding her just as tightly as we prepare to leave the sterile safety of the cage.

The blast doors to the triage center slide open, and the sight is… devastating.

The sterile quiet of my quarantine ward had completely shielded me from the true, visceral horror of Terra. The massive hall is a chaotic sea of suffering. The air is thick and suffocating, reeking of sharp antiseptic, fresh copper blood, and the distinct, ozone-heavy static of active Originium. Medics dash between crowded cots, their white coats stained with rust and crimson.

As Erika gently guides me down the central aisle, keeping her hand resting securely on my shoulder, I can feel the eyes tracking us. Some of the better-faring patients, those sitting up with bandaged lacerations or stabilized shock, turn their heads to stare. We reach a cot set off in the far corner of the room, partially obscured by a thin, blood- spattered privacy curtain.

The Cautus girl is there.

She is so small, her long Cautus ears pinned flat against the mattress in absolute agony. She isn't screaming anymore. I think her throat is just too raw, or her body has simply run out of the energy required to scream. She is just twisting and turning blindly against the sheets, letting out high, shallow whimpers that sound like a dying, trapped animal.

It is horrific to look at. Jagged, black crystals are piercing through her pale skin, tearing through the fabric of her ruined clothes. They pulse with a sickly, toxic amber light. I grip the metal chassis of my staff, my knuckles turning completely white. I stare at those glowing Originium crystals, and a cold, heavy truth settles into the freezing chasm of my chest.

She is dying.

I reach out, my trembling hand hovering over the Cautus girl before resting gently against her fever-dampened forehead, carefully avoiding the jagged, glowing crystals piercing her skin. With my left hand, I press my palm firmly against the biometric lock of the Arts Unit.

It clicks. I throw the limiters completely open.

The influx hits me, but it isn't a taste. What I pulled from Erika earlier was a bitter sludge, but this; this is pure, terminal agony. It feels exactly like I am swallowing shattered glass and rusted blades, and the knives are actively carving up the inside of my chest as they go down. The sheer magnitude of a Catastrophe-induced Oripathy flare-up tears through my fragile nervous system, making my vision violently strobe with white-hot pain.

I push through.

A desperate, panicked gasp escapes Erika. I can feel the sudden, frantic shift in the air as she lunges forward, her hands reaching out to sever the connection, to physically drag me away from the dying child.

I clench my jaw so hard I taste my own blood. "I'm… fine," I force the words out through ground teeth, the sound jagged and distorted. "Don't stop it."

My knees buckle. The heavy metal chassis of the Raythean staff slips from my numb fingers, clattering loudly against the steel floor. I crash onto the ground, my horns scraping harshly against the grating, my long tail falling limp as the world spins into a blurred smear of white coats and red emergency lights.

But the cot above me falls dead silent.

The frantic, breathless whimpering stops. The violent thrashing against the blood- stained sheets ceases entirely.

From where I lay collapsed on the cold floor, struggling to pull air into my burning lungs, I listen as the Cautus girl's breathing evens out into a slow, calm rhythm. Slowly, hesitantly, she opens her eyes. The horrific pain that had been twisting her small face is entirely gone, leaving only the confused, innocent exhaustion of a child waking up in a strange place after a terrible nightmare.

She looks around the privacy curtain, her long ears twitching weakly in the sterile air.

"Mom? Dad?"

The two words are barely a whisper, a hopeful chime in the middle of hell. They hang in the air, utterly devastating.

Around the cot, the frantic, clinical motion of the Medics ceases for a single, agonizing second. Erika covers her mouth with her hands, her shoulders shaking with fresh, silent sobs.

The last thing I remember is the heavy metal of the Arts Unit slipping from my numb fingers, followed by the cold steel of the triage bay floor rising up to meet me.

I think I passed out.

The world returns not in a rush, but in a slow, agonizing throb. As my vision violently swims and finally begins to focus, three figures lean over the mattress. The room is still spinning slightly, but the silhouettes resolve into familiar shapes.

A Liberi. A Vulpo. And a Cautus.

Erika is closest, her pale feathers completely disheveled and her light purple eyes wide with an absolutely frantic terror. Lisa hovers right behind her, her nine tails tucked tightly together, her ears drooping so low they almost touch her shoulders.

Then, my attention shifts to the third face.

For the first time since I woke up in those bruised, orange ruins, I am looking at her in the flesh. Amiya.

Her brown hair, the distinct blue jacket, the rings weighing heavily on her fingers. Even without my Djall senses, the sheer, suffocating weight of their collective worry. It is painted plainly across their exhausted faces.

"Lethe?" Erika's voice is a breathless, fractured whisper. She reaches out, her trembling fingers gently cupping my cheek. "Lethe, look at me. Do you… do you remember who you are? Do you remember us?"

The fear in her voice is entirely justified. I close my eyes for a fraction of a second, searching the burning canvas of my mind. I still remember them.

"I…" My throat is incredibly raw, lined with the phantom taste of shattered glass and cold copper. "Yes. Erika…"

Erika lets out a jagged, shuddering sob of relief, her shoulders completely collapsing. Amiya steps forward, placing a gentle hand on the Medic's shoulder to steady her. Her presence is grounding, carrying a quiet, immense authority that entirely belies her young age.

"Hello, Lethe," Amiya says. Her voice is soft, but it carries a profound, aching sincerity that echoes in the quiet of the ward. "I am Amiya. I am so sorry I wasn't there."

She looks down at the sleek black band locked around my neck, a shadow of deep, unmistakable regret crossing her features. "If I had known Dr. Kal'tsit had placed you under such strict isolation, I would have intervened much earlier. You shouldn't have been treated like a hazard."

Amiya reaches out, her fingers resting lightly over my small, pale hand resting on the blankets. "What you did in the triage bay… you took away her pain. You saved her from dying in terror. Dr. Kal'tsit might view you strictly through the lens of utility, but I do not."

Her long Cautus ears twitch, her expression hardening into an absolute, unyielding resolve. "You are not just a ward on probation anymore, Lethe. You are not an asset. You are one of us now. You are an Operator."

Operator.

For months, it was the ultimate goal. The only way to guarantee my survival and step out of this metallic cage. But my mind isn't on the promotion. It is stuck on the small, agonizing whimpers, the jagged black crystals tearing through pale skin, and the fragile, hopeful voice calling out for parents who were already dead beneath the rubble.

I look up at Amiya, my eyes welling with fresh, hot tears that have nothing to do with my own survival.

"What…" I swallow hard, the word scraping painfully against my throat. "What was her name?"

The warm, fragile bubble of Amiya’s promise bursts. A heavy, suffocating silence descends upon the medical ward.

Erika averts her eyes, the soft feathers near her temples flattening completely against her skin. Amiya’s reassuring smile falters, a profound sadness clouding her eyes. Lisa just looks confused, her small hands gripping the edge of the mattress.

"We do not know."

The voice cuts through the quiet.

I flinch, my pointed ears twitching. The atmosphere of the room shifts instantly. I hadn't even realized they were there. Tucked into the dim, amber-lit shadows near the far wall of the quarantine ward stand Kal'tsit and Warfarin.

"The patient survived the extraction. She is currently alive," Kal'tsit states, her tone an absolute, measured strike of reality. "However, she is entirely uncooperative. The localized Originium density from the Catastrophe, combined with the extreme trauma of her parents' demise, has already caused severe cognitive damage."

Kal'tsit's piercing eyes lock onto mine. "She is hysterical, Lethe. Her mind is fractured. She has been placed in a high-security quarantine ward identical to this one. Perhaps with time, our psychological and medical staff can extract a name from her, or piece together her history. But for now, she is simply another casualty of the storm."

The words hit me with the physical force of a collapsed building. I stare blankly at the brushed steel of the wall.

I didn't save her.

In my desperate, heroic delusion I thought taking her pain would be enough. I had stopped the physical screaming, but the Originium had already shredded her mind. A different kind of cage. The brutal, suffocating reality check of this world crashes down on me.

A jagged sob tears its way out of my throat before I can stop it.

Instantly, the coldness of Kal'tsit's diagnosis is pushed back. Amiya's hands squeeze mine tighter, her thumb rubbing soothing circles into my skin. "You gave her peace when she needed it most, Lethe," Amiya murmurs fiercely, her voice thick with conviction. "You gave us a chance to try and help her."

Erika leans in, wrapping an arm around my trembling shoulders, pulling me against her white uniform. "You did an incredibly brave thing," the Medic whispers into my grey hair, her own voice breaking.

On my other side, Lisa scrambles closer on the mattress. She wraps her small arms around my waist, her nine fluffy tails draping over my legs like a warm, auburn blanket.

"We will visit her when she's better," Lisa promises, her unyielding optimism acting as a fragile shield against the dark. "Just like we visit you."

I sit there, anchored by the Liberi, the Vulpo, and the Cautus. I let the tears fall, burying my face in the overwhelming, tragic warmth of Rhodes Island, weeping for a nameless girl whose mind was fractured by death and suffering.

The heavy, tragic warmth of the embrace is abruptly punctured.

"That is enough sentimentality for one evening."

Kal'tsit’s voice instantly drains the remaining heat from the room. She steps fully out of the amber-lit shadows.

"Since the CEO herself has seen fit to formally grant you sanctuary and bypass the standard probationary protocols," Kal'tsit states, her piercing green eyes locking onto my tear-streaked face, "you are now recognized as an Operator of Rhodes Island. Consequently, given the highly volatile nature of your Originium Arts and your unique biological requirements, you will be placed directly under my jurisdiction. You are officially assigned to the Medical Department."

A cold, involuntary shudder ripples down my spine, rattling the heavy horns on my skull. The Medical Department.

To Lisa and Erika, it might sound like a logical, safe placement for a sick child. But the adult inside my head knows the terrifying reality of the lore. Kal'tsit holds the title of Medical Director, but it is a thinly veiled formality. She is the ancient, calculating architect of this entire organization. I haven't just been assigned to a department; I have been directly tethered to the most ruthless, pragmatic mind on the landship.

My dread is immediately compounded by a delighted chuckle echoing from the far wall.

"Oh, this is going to be spectacularly entertaining."

The ancient Vampire pushes herself off the brushed steel wall, her crimson eyes gleaming with absolute, predatory glee. I am no longer just a locked-up asset she has to requisition access for. I am a coworker she can freely dissect at her leisure.

I shrink back against the pillows.

Amiya clearly senses the sudden, violent spike in my anxiety. She steps smoothly between Kal'tsit's glacial stare and my trembling form.

"It also means you no longer have to wear a hospital gown, Lethe," Amiya says, her voice returning to that soft, incredibly sincere cadence. She offers me a bright, encouraging smile. "Tomorrow, you will get to choose your own uniform. Whatever you feel comfortable in."

I blink, looking down at the sterile white fabric that has draped over my frame for the past three months.

It is a small thing. A purely administrative detail. But to me… it is monumental. It is the first genuine choice I have been given since I woke up in Kazdel. It is a tiny, fragile piece of agency after so long under lock and key.

"My… own clothes?" I whisper, letting the timid, amnesiac child's voice carry the genuine, aching relief of my human soul.

"Yes," Amiya nods, her long Cautus ears twitching happily. "Welcome to Rhodes Island, Operator Lethe."

The fragile spark of relief suddenly hits a very practical, very human wall.

To the people in this room, Lethe is a amnesiac who woke up in a tattered, ash-stained dress and has worn nothing but a medical gown for three months.

I do not know how to dress myself in Terra.

I look up, my eyes darting nervously between Erika, Lisa, and Amiya. I grip the edges of the medical blanket, shrinking back slightly.

"I… I don't know what I can even wear," I murmur. I gesture weakly toward the nightstand, where the Victorian fairytale book rests. "The people in the storybooks wear big, heavy dresses… and the knights wear armor. But everyone on Rhodes Island wears… different things. I'm confused."

I swallow hard, leaning into the timid, naive persona. I raise a small, trembling finger and point directly past the three girls, aiming straight at the pureblood Sarkaz leaning against the far wall.

"Dr. Warfarin is the only other Sarkaz I know," I whisper, blinking innocently. "Am I… am I supposed to wear a dress and a really big coat like her?"

The effect is instantaneous, and perfectly chaotic.

Warfarin chokes on her own breath. A flash of genuine, aristocratic indignation piercing her usual predatory amusement. "Excuse me?" she scoffs, crossing her arms defensively over her lab coat. "My attire is a perfectly curated blend of medical professionalism and Kazdelian elegance, you little anomaly!"

But her protests are completely drowned out.

Lisa gasps, a sharp, brilliant sound of pure inspiration. Her nine auburn tails puff up and immediately begin to wag at a frantic, synchronized speed. "Oh! Oh, we can help!" the Vulpo chimes, completely abandoning the tragic atmosphere of the ward. "We can pick out the prettiest clothes! Not just a lab coat!"

Amiya’s long ears perk up instantly. The heavy burden of the CEO melts away, replaced by the unfiltered excitement of a young girl who has just been handed the ultimate project: dressing up a new friend exactly her age. "Lisa is right," Amiya beams, her eyes practically sparkling. "The Logistics Department has hundreds of fabric options and standard issue templates. We can customize everything. We can design something that fits you perfectly, Lethe!"

Erika doesn't even try to maintain her clinical detachment. The 'big sister' energy absolutely radiates from the Liberi Medic, her presence shifting from panic to a warm, bustling domestic authority. She rests her hands on her hips, her pale feathers fluffing up with determination. "Absolutely not a lab coat," Erika declares, shooting a pointed look at Warfarin. "She needs something soft. Something comfortable. And a proper pair of boots so she doesn't freeze her toes on the metal grates."

The sudden, overwhelming explosion of girly, domestic enthusiasm completely saturates the room.

Kal'tsit lets out a slow, deeply exhausted sigh. She closes her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose as if physically fending off a migraine.

"If the medical crisis has been averted, and we have devolved into a textile consultation," Kal'tsit states, her voice dripping with dry, clinical disdain, "then my presence is no longer required. I have a Catastrophe relief operation to oversee."

She turns on her heel. "Warfarin. With me. Unless you plan to stay and defend your fashion choices against a twelve-year-old."

Warfarin glares at my innocent, blinking face for one last, highly annoyed second before letting out a dramatic huff. "I have blood to centrifuge anyway," she mutters, turning to follow the Feline out into the corridor.

The suffocating tension in the room vanishes entirely. I am left sitting on the bed, surrounded by a Cautus, a Vulpo, and a Liberi who are already leaning over my mattress, intensely debating the merits of tactical skirts versus comfortable trousers, completely determined to build me a new armor for this broken world.

The glowing screen of Amiya’s data slate illuminates the dim, amber-lit quarantine ward. After nearly an hour of frantic tapping, overlapping suggestions, and intense debate between the three girls, the final design is rendered on the screen. I stare at the digital mannequin, genuinely at a loss for words. It is… quite a lot.

"Okay, here is the finalized version!" Amiya announces, her long Cautus ears standing straight up with immense satisfaction as she turns the slate around for me to see. The base of the outfit is a dark, pleated tech-skirt paired with heavily insulated black stockings. Strapped securely around the right thigh is a tactical leg band, bearing the comforting black and white Rhodes Island Medic symbol. It marks me, officially and undeniably, as one of them.

"And look at the back!" Lisa chimes in, her finger tapping the glass screen to rotate the digital model. "We made sure there is a generous cutout in the skirt and the stockings, so your tail won't get pinched when you sit down!"

I nod weakly. Accommodating the heavy, spade-tipped pendulum swinging from my tailbone is a biological necessity I am still agonizingly getting used to.

For the upper half, they settled on a crisp, white clinical turtleneck. It looks soft and warm, but the neckline is deliberately cut to sit just below my throat. It doesn't hide the sleek, black monitor locked around my neck. Instead, it frames it perfectly, ensuring the mechanical leash is still fully visible; a quiet, mandatory concession to Kal'tsit's absolute security protocols.

Layered over the turtleneck is a weather-resistant Rhodes Island jacket in dark grey, lined with a vibrant light blue inner fabric. It is intentionally rendered to be slightly oversized, the sleeves hanging just a bit too long over the fingerless gloves they picked out. The jacket is styled to fall lazily off one of my shoulders, with the words RHODES ISLAND printed vertically in bold white lettering near the front zipper. The bottom half of the jacket is split down the middle, creating a parted tailcoat effect to allow my tail to swing freely.

To tie it all together, a translucent, clinical-grade PVC utility belt wraps around the waist, ready to hold a dark crossbody bag designed specifically for carrying my own data slate and basic medical supplies. Finally, capping off the design is a pair of comfortable, thick-based white sneakers.

"It's perfect," Erika says, clasping her hands together. Her eyes shine with absolute pride. "It's practical for the medical wards, insulated for the corridors, and… well, it's very cute."

"Do you like it, Lethe?" Amiya asks softly, watching my face closely for any sign of distress.

I stare at the slate. It is real clothing. It is an identity.

"I love it," I whisper.

Lisa cheers, her nine tails swishing in a synchronized blur of excitement. "I'll submit the fabrication request to Ms. Closure right now!" Amiya smiles, tapping the final confirmation on her screen.

The next day, Erika guides me down the corridor to a space that feels entirely different from the sterile white boxes I'm used to. We step into the chaotic general store run by Closure.

The room is a sprawling, industrial space packed to the brim with life. Shelves are heavily lined with neatly stacked boxes, apparel, and supplies. The bright overhead lighting glints off the metallic checkout counter and the digital register terminal, while a lone shopping cart sits idly near a small set of stairs. It feels wonderfully, jarringly mundane.

Amiya is already waiting for us near the registers, standing beside a Sarkaz woman who practically vibrates with manic, caffeinated energy.

"The most important kiddo of 1096 so far!" Closure announces, leaning over the counter with a wide, fanged grin. "You gave me quite the engineering challenge on that black collar!"

The sheer volume of her presence makes me flinch. I instinctively shrink behind Erika, my small hands gripping the fabric of the Liberi's white clinical coat. My long, misty blue tail curls defensively around my ankle.

Amiya steps in smoothly, her long Cautus ears twitching as she offers a polite but firm smile. "Ms. Closure. Please. We are here to formalize her outfit and IDs."

Closure waves dismissively, chuckling, before ushering us toward the back to finally get me dressed.

Slipping out of the oversized medical gown I've drowned in for three months and into actual clothing feels monumental. The dark, pleated tech-skirt and heavily insulated black stockings fit perfectly. I carefully strap the tactical leg band around my right thigh, the black and white Rhodes Island Medic symbol marking me officially as one of them. The white clinical turtleneck is soft, framing the mechanical leash around my neck.

Erika helps me pull on the dark grey jacket with the vibrant light blue inner fabric. It's intentionally oversized, falling lazily off one shoulder, and the split tailcoat back allows my tail to swing freely without getting pinched. Once my feet are secured in the thick- based white sneakers, I look down at myself. I look like a real Operator.

"Alright, picture time!" Closure claps her hands, aiming a specialized terminal camera at me. She snaps a portrait and a full-body shot for my ID and the internal PRTS database. When she hands me the freshly printed ID card, I stare at the small photo. My misty blue eyes are blown wide, and my shoulders are slightly hunched. I look visibly startled. I don't know why I couldn't relax my face for a simple photo, but I suppose it perfectly fits the act of an amnesiac stray experiencing a camera flash for the first time.

"This little card is your lifeblood now," Closure explains, tapping the plastic. "You get paid your salary in there. It accesses your assigned dorm, the cafeteria, the vending machines, all that good stuff. Kal'tsit has authorized you for internal credits only, but," she smirks, leaning back against her counter, "it's not like you have the clearance to leave Rhodes Island anyway."

The prospect of having my own money sends a massive thrill in my head. A little retail therapy. I can finally buy something for myself.

Erika steps forward. Her warm presence completely vanishes, replaced instantly by a wall of absolute, terrifying medical authority. Her light purple eyes narrow.

"And you will use those credits responsibly, Lethe," Erika states, her voice brooking absolutely no argument. "If I find out you are misusing your salary to survive on sweets instead of eating properly at the cafeteria, I will confiscate that card, and you will be living back in the quarantine ward."

I freeze, clutching the ID to my chest.

I had literally just been thinking about buying out all the sour gummies in Ms. Closure's vending machines. I wanted fresh bakery treats. I wanted to buy three different plushies to stack on my new dorm bed to make up for the absolute terror of the last three months.

I look up at Erika, offering a weak, defeated nod.

Before we can head for the exit, Closure clears her throat loudly, tapping a sharp, dark fingernail against the metallic counter.

"Hold on, we aren't quite done. Hand over the old stick, kiddo."

I blink, looking down at the heavy, modified Raythean staff I've been clutching like a lifeline. I carefully pass it across the counter. Closure takes it, immediately popping open a side panel near the grip with a specialized multi-tool. A faint wisp of acrid smoke curls up into the air.

"Yeah, just as I thought," the Sarkaz engineer mutters, shaking her head. "You almost blew the entire internal circuitry trying to pull whatever stunt you did on Erika and that patient. The limiters were basically melted to slag. You redlined this thing so hard it's a miracle it didn't detonate in your hands. Columbian mass produced weapons are never designed for a pureblood Sarkaz’s Arts output."

She tosses the ruined Raythean staff into a nearby scrap bin with a loud, unceremonious clatter. Reaching under the counter, she pulls out a new Arts Unit and slides it toward me.

It is entirely different. Instead of a sleek, militaristic cylinder of brushed metal, this one feels organic. The long, black shaft tapers upward into a top that twists and curves, resembling a cluster of dark, petrified tree branches. It feels distinctly Sarkaz, a focal point designed less for industrial output and more for the intricate, chaotic nature of my bloodline.

"I completely rebuilt the limiter matrix," Closure explains, watching me wrap my small fingers around the biometric grip. "It can handle higher throughput now without frying, but don't take that as a challenge, Lethe."

Next, she slides a thin, rectangular device across the counter.

"And here is your personal PRTS slate," Closure says, her fanged grin returning. "With this, you can send messages, search the internal Rhodes Island database, log your medical tasks, and... whatever else it is that kids nowadays do with screens."

I pick it up. The smooth, cold glass and the sleek aluminum chassis feel instantly, agonizingly familiar in my hands. It is a tiny, metallic piece of comfort from a lost world.

"Alright, that's everything! Off you go!" Closure waves her hands, practically shooing us away so she can get back to tinkering with whatever mechanical monstrosity is currently sitting on her workbench.

Erika and Amiya guide me out of the general store and back into the sprawling, metallic corridors of the landship.

"So, Lethe," Amiya asks softly. "Where would you like to go first? I can show you to your new dorm room, so you can see where you'll be sleeping. Or, if you're hungry, we can head straight to the cafeteria?"

Erika nods encouragingly beside her. "They serve actual meals there, Lethe. No more nutrient paste from a silver pouch."

My grip tightens on the grip of my new Arts Unit. I stare down at the pristine white sneakers Erika and Amiya just dressed me in. I look like a proper Operator now. I have a salary, an ID card, and a future on this landship.

And I only have them because a Catastrophe ripped a family apart. My salvation was purchased directly with another girl's terminal trauma.

"I don't want to go to the dorms yet," I whisper. I slowly lift my head, forcing my vision to meet Amiya's sincere look. "And I am not hungry."

Erika's feathers droop slightly in confusion. "Then where do you want to go, Lethe?"

"I want to see her," I say, my voice trembling but absolute. "The Cautus girl from the triage bay."

The corridor suddenly feels very quiet. Amiya's smile fades into a look of profound, aching sorrow, and Erika averts her eyes, staring at the steel floor grates. They know exactly who I mean. The nameless girl whose shattered mind and horrific suffering had served as my twisted audition for Kal'tsit.

"Are you sure?" Amiya asks gently, taking a step closer. "It might be... very difficult to see her right now."

"I have to," I reply. I owe her that much.

I adjust my grip on the new Arts Unit as we walk, my fingers wrapping securely around the smooth, black shaft.

The doors of the high-security quarantine ward open. It is a chillingly perfect mirror of the room I just spent three months in. The same white walls, the same brushed steel flooring, the same oppressive isolation.

The young Cautus girl is awake.

She is sitting up on the mattress, her knees pulled tight against her chest. But she doesn't turn her head when the door clicks shut. Her ears remain pinned flat against her bandages. She is staring blankly straight ahead, her eyes fixed on the pulsing, dark reflective surface of the wall monitors.

"Hello," I say softly, taking a hesitant step toward the bed. "My name is Lethe. I'm… I'm a new Operator here."

Nothing. She doesn't blink. She doesn't even seem to register that there are three people standing in her room. Amiya and Erika linger quietly near the threshold, giving me the space I asked for, their presence a heavy, mournful weight at my back.

I step closer, lowering my new Arts Unit so the heavy base rests quietly on the floor. I reach out with a trembling hand and gently place my fingers over hers.

Instantly, my senses reach out, searching for a spark of life, a ripple of fear, or even the rotting taste of the trauma I had swallowed in the triage bay. But what I find makes the breath freeze in my throat.

It is terrifyingly empty.

It isn't a suppressed emotion; it is an absolute, suffocating void. The shock and the infection had scoured her mind clean of anything resembling warmth or light. It is a numbness so profound it feels like staring into a bottomless, freezing well.

I know that void.

I don't pull my hand away. Instead, I gently squeeze her cold, rigid fingers. I sink to my knees beside her bed, bringing myself down to her eye level, ignoring the cold steel seeping through my stockings.

"I know," I whisper, my voice dropping into a fragile, chiming melody in the quiet room. "I know how loud the quiet is."

She doesn't move, but I keep holding her hand, letting my thumb slowly brush across her knuckles.

"Three months ago, I woke up in the ruins of a Catastrophe, just like the one that hit your home," I tell her, the carefully constructed lie of my amnesia blending perfectly with the very real, very raw terror of my first day in Terra. "The sky was bruised and orange. Everything was rotting. And I had absolutely no memories. I didn't know my name. I didn't know where I was from. There was just… nothing to hold onto."

I swallow hard, the phantom sting of Catastrophe dust scratching the back of my throat.

"I was so terrified. I sat in the dirt and I cried until my chest felt like it was going to break, until I was completely dry and I couldn't make another sound," I murmur, my eyes welling with sympathetic tears. "And then Erika found me. Rhodes Island found me." I look up at her blank, unblinking eyes.

"They gave me a chance to live when the whole world wanted me to die in the ruins. They can give you that chance, too," I promise her, my voice breaking slightly. "We can help you. But you have to let us help. You have to come back."

For a long, agonizing minute, the room remains entirely still. The only sound is the low, subsonic thrum of the landship's engines beneath us.

Then, her small fingers twitch beneath mine.

It is a tiny, microscopic movement, but it shatters the dam. The Cautus girl takes a sharp, jagged gasp, her chest heaving as if she has just breached the surface of the water after drowning. She finally blinks, and a single, heavy tear escapes, carving a clean track down her ash-stained, bandaged cheek.

The emotional backlash hits me like a tidal wave.

The terrifying, hollow void instantly collapses, entirely replaced by an ocean of pure, suffocating sadness. It floods my senses, a heavy, drowning weight that tastes like saltwater and crushed stone. It is the agonizing, unadulterated grief for parents she knows she will never see again. It is the mournful, aching loss of a bedroom, of a dining table, of the warmth of a home that was violently erased from the earth.

I gently reach up, using my free hand to carefully brush a stray lock of hair away from her tear-streaked, bandaged cheek.

"What is your name?" I ask softly, my voice a quiet anchor in the heavy, sorrow-filled room.

She sniffs, her long ears trembling violently as she looks down at our joined hands.

"Opal," she whispers. Her voice is ragged and fragile, like thin glass.

"Opal," I repeat, making sure the name rings clearly in the sterile air. It is a tiny, vital piece of her identity, and holding onto it is the first step out of the void. "You are safe with us now, Opal. The Medics are going to come in soon. They will bring you some warm food, and they might ask you a few questions to make sure you are healing properly."

I give her cold fingers one last, encouraging squeeze. "You should try to eat up. It helps."

Opal stares at me for a long moment. The overwhelming, suffocating tide of her grief doesn't vanish, it cannot, but the frantic, drowning panic slowly settles into a quiet, exhausted sorrow. She closes her eyes and gives a slow, tiny nod.

We leave her in the quiet safety of the ward.

The walk toward the cafeteria is completely different from the tense, heavy shuffle that brought us here. The ambient air in the metallic corridor feels miraculously lighter. I adjust my grip on the twisted, petrified branch of my new Arts Unit, matching my stride to Amiya and Erika's.

Amiya walks beside me, her long Cautus ears perked up. The heavy burden of the CEO has momentarily lifted, replaced by a profound, quiet awe. She looks at me, her eyes shining with genuine respect.

"That was incredible, Lethe," Amiya says, her voice thick with admiration. "You reached her when none of our psychological specialists could even get her to acknowledge they were in the room. You saved her."

Erika walks on my other side, her eyes wide with a mixture of immense relief and professional curiosity. The sheer, overwhelming pride radiating from the Liberi Medic is a warm, toasted-honey flavor that seeps through the air; a comforting sweetness I can faintly graze on even without actively channeling my Arts.

"How did you know exactly what to do?" Erika asks, shaking her head in disbelief as she looks down at me. "You've been locked in a ward for three months... how did you know how to talk to her, how to comfort her like that?"

I stop in the middle of the corridor, turning to face the Medic. I look up at her, offering a bright, completely genuine smile, and tilt my head slightly so my hair falls softly over my shoulder.

"I learned from the very best."

The bright, genuine smile that breaks across Erika’s face is radiant.

Amiya watches the exchange, her long ears twitching with quiet amusement. "I am going to have to talk to the HR department about giving you a promotion, Erika," she says, her tone carrying the unmistakable, gentle authority of the CEO. "Your work with Lethe has been exceptional."

Erika pauses, her pale feathers immediately fluffing up as a flush of embarrassment colors her cheeks. She looks down, suddenly shy under the praise of her leader.

"I don't know about that, Amiya," Erika stammers softly, her hands resting on her clinical coat. She looks at me, shaking her head. "I still have a very long way to go to even match the kind of Arts she just used. If I ever can. What she did for Opal... it was a miracle."

"It's not a miracle, it's just a natural biological advantage," I pipe up, leaning into her side. I widen my eyes, layering on the absolute maximum amount of childish innocence I can muster. "And no matter what my rank is, I will forever be your little Lethe."

Erika’s embarrassed flush deepens, but her exasperation quickly wins out over her shyness. She reaches out, and with a surprisingly precise aim, she flicks her index finger directly against the top of my left horn.

"Ouchie!" I yelp. The sound isn't loud, but the sensory feedback is immediate. The light flick sends a vibrating hum ringing straight through my skull like a struck tuning fork. I drop my Arts Unit and immediately bring both hands up to rub the base of the horn, fixing the Liberi Medic with a highly exaggerated, deeply betrayed pout.

Erika just laughs, a bright, chiming sound that completely banishes the lingering. Amiya covers her mouth, her shoulders shaking with quiet giggles.

We resume our walk. The ambient smell of the air changes, the sterile bite of ozone and bleach replaced by the rich, savory aroma of roasted meats, baked breads, and spiced broths. The cafeteria.

Just as we approach the main double doors, they slide open. Two Operators step out, deep in conversation, holding takeaway cups of coffee.

One is a massive, towering Phidia man built like a walking fortress, carrying a heavy shield on his back and bearing a rugged, scarred face that radiates veteran reliability. The other is a lean, sharp-eyed Sarkaz sniper, his presence so naturally stealthy he almost blends into the shadows of the hallway despite standing right in the open.

Ace and Scout.

I freeze. My padded sneakers squeak to a dead halt against the steel floor. My hands drop from my horns, and my fingers completely lock up around the twisted branch of my Arts Unit.

To Erika and Amiya, they are just two senior Elite Ops finishing their lunch break. But to me, they are walking ghosts. Seeing them standing here, breathing, laughing, and holding coffee cups… the sheer, crushing weight of their inevitable doom hits me like a freight train.

"Ah, Amiya. Good afternoon," Ace rumbles, his voice a deep, resonant baritone. He pauses, his gaze shifting from the young CEO to the tiny, wide-eyed Sarkaz girl completely paralyzed in the middle of the hallway.

Scout tilts his head, his sharp eyes taking in my looks.

"Who's the new recruit?" Scout asks, his tone mild and observant.

"This is Lethe," Amiya introduces with a proud smile. "She was just officially cleared to join the Medical Department."

I don't say a word. I cannot. My throat has gone completely dry, and my eyes are practically entirely blown out.

Seeing my absolute, frozen silence, Ace lets out a warm, booming chuckle. He completely misinterprets the existential horror on my face as the simple, overwhelming shyness of a kid meeting the company veterans.

He steps forward, his massive frame easily Arts Unit a shadow over me. Before I can even think to shrink away, he reaches down with a hand the size of a dinner plate and gently, affectionately ruffles my grey hair.

"Nice to meet you, Lethe," Ace smiles, the sheer, protective warmth of his presence wrapping around me like a heavy blanket. He looks me up and down, noting my pale, fragile frame. "Though looking at you, kid, you look like you need to eat a lot more if you want to keep up around here."

Ace withdraws his massive hand, offering one last, reassuring smile before he and Scout turn to continue down the corridor. I watch their retreating backs, my eyes burning and my fingers gripping the black shaft of my new Arts Unit so tightly my knuckles ache.

I want to scream. I want to grab the thick fabric of Ace’s coat and beg him to stay far away from Chernobog. I want to tell Scout that the rescue mission is a meticulously designed death trap. But the words turn to ash in my dry throat.

I know exactly what would happen if I spoke up. If I suddenly start reciting classified future tactical disasters, Kal'tsit won't view me as a miraculous oracle. She will view me as a deeply embedded Confessarii sleeper agent or a catastrophic security leak. The monitor collar around my neck would be replaced by heavier shackles, and the fragile, mundane life I just signed a contract to earn would vanish in a single day. So, I swallow the warning.

We reach the cafeteria. The heavy double doors slide apart with a mechanical hiss, revealing a massive, brightly lit hall. The ceiling is a network of exposed pipes shielded by industrial metal grating, Arts Unit a clean, utilitarian glow over the yellowish epoxy floor. Neat rows of square metal tables are paired with simple, functional blue chairs. The air smells intensely of spiced broth and roasted starches. It is bustling, loud, and overwhelmingly normal.

I am so distracted by the sheer scale of the room, and the heavy, lingering guilt anchoring my chest, that I don't pay attention to where I am heading.

Thud.

I walk straight into someone. The collision throws me entirely off balance. I let out a sharp, high-pitched squeak as I land hard on my backside, my heavy tail smacking against the yellowish floor.

I expect to hear the other person stumble, or at least gasp in surprise. But when I look up, the figure hasn't moved at all.

Erika is immediately at my side, her hands grasping my shoulders to gently pull me back to my feet. "Careful, Lethe. Are you okay?"

"I'm sorry…" I murmur, furiously brushing the invisible dust off my dark, pleated skirt. I look up to apologize properly, and my breath catches all over again.

Standing in front of me is a Feline girl. She is incredibly small, about as tall as my own current frame, with pale skin and soft, silver-white hair. But the sheer physical density of her presence is staggering. I know exactly who she is.

Rosmontis. Elite Ops.

Her presence tastes like cool, smooth stone and the static electricity that precedes a heavy rain.

Amiya steps forward, her long ears perking up with a warm, welcoming energy that effortlessly bridges the gap between the two broken children in the hallway.

"Rosmontis, hello," Amiya smiles gently. "I'm glad we ran into you. This is Lethe; she's a new Operator joining the Medical Department today."

Rosmontis blinks slowly, her eyes shifts to me. Her expression is completely blank, distant and hollow in a way that feels terrifyingly familiar.

"Have you had lunch yet, Rosmontis?" Amiya asks, her voice dropping into that endlessly patient, comforting cadence. "If not, we were just about to sit down. You should eat with us."

The silver-haired Feline stares at us for another long, hollow second before her feline ears twitch slightly. She gives a slow, almost imperceptible nod. She agrees.

We grab our metal trays and join the line, but the moment I reach the main serving station, I skid to a halt. I freeze. For once, it isn't an act. I am not pretending to be the overwhelmed amnesiac stray staring at alien technology. I am completely paralyzed by the sheer, staggering volume of choices. Rhodes Island is a massive, international organization, and the culinary spread reflects it perfectly. The hot plates are loaded with everything from the rich, cream-heavy stews of the Leithanien spires to the heavily spiced, roasted skewers of the Sargon deserts.

Standing right behind me, Erika notices my hesitation. She entirely misinterpreting my indecisiveness for the confusion of a child who hasn't seen real, solid food in months.

"It's a lot to take in, isn't it, Lethe?" she murmurs softly, stepping up to gently guide my tray along the metal rails. "Since you have a bit of a sweet tooth, and you did so well with your steamed egg yesterday… why don't we start with something simple? How about a sweet bread roll and a rolled omelette?"

I follow her pointing finger to a section of delicate, perfectly folded yellow omelettes and a basket of soft pastries. My old cravings flare up, a phantom pull of Japanese bakeries from my past life. I reach out and pick a soft bread roll filled with sweet red bean paste, carefully placing it onto my tray next to the omelette.

Amiya watches my selections, her long Cautus ears twitching in quiet amusement. A bright, musical giggle escapes her lips.

"You know, for a Kazdelian, you have surprisingly Higashinese taste buds, Lethe," the young CEO teases gently, picking up a bowl of salad for herself.

I look down at my tray, a genuine, relaxed smile finally breaking across my face. I turn my head toward the Liberi Medic.

"You cannot blame me," I reply, pitching my voice with a teasing lilt. "You should blame Erika. She's the one who has been feeding me steamed eggs and soft breads for the last three months."

Erika doesn't let my teasing slide. Before I can even take a bite of my red bean roll, her fingers dart out.

Thwack.

"Ouchie!" I yelp, dropping my hands to cover my horn again.

"That's for being cheeky again," Erika reprimands. Amiya and Rosmontis both offer quiet, genuine smiles before eventually gathering their empty trays. They have their own duties to attend to, Amiya with the crushing weight of Rhodes Island's operations, and the silver-haired Feline with whatever terrifying Annihilation tasks she is assigned. With lunch finished, Erika gently guides me out of the bustling cafeteria and through the labyrinthine corridors to my new quarters.

When the door to my dorm hisses open, I step inside and simply stare. It is utilitarian; there is no other way around it. The room is a compact, rectangular box built of dark, brushed steel and reinforced panels. A LED fixture casts a cool light from the ceiling, illuminating a sleek, metallic desk equipped with a dual-monitor terminal. A simple folding chair sits tucked beneath it.

But it is mine.

The bed is built directly into a recessed alcove in the wall, framed by a wide, pill-shaped window that looks out over the passing, barren landscapes of Terra. Most importantly, I spot a heavy door near the entrance marked with a shower icon. A private bathroom. After three months of being sponge-bathed or escorted by Operators just to wash my hair in a clinical washroom, the sheer luxury of privacy makes my chest ache with profound relief.

Erika walks in behind me, running a hand along the edge of the desk before sitting on the edge of the mattress. She pats the space next to her. I cross the metal floor grates and sit down, my heavy tail curling comfortably into the split-tailcoat space of my new jacket.

"It's a bit sparse right now," Erika says gently, "but we can decorate it. Get some plants from Lena, maybe some posters." She pauses, her expression shifting into a mild, professional focus. "Speaking of Lena. Since you are officially part of the Medical Department now, we need to go over your schedule. The medical bays operate twenty- four-seven, but you won't be doing shift work."

I tilt my head, perfectly playing the attentive, curious child.

"Your working hours will follow the standard landship-wide schedule," she explains.

"Zero-eight-thirty to eleven-thirty, a break for lunch, and then thirteen-thirty to seventeen-thirty. You will report directly to Perfumer as part of her palliative care team in the Convalescent Garden."

"I will do my best," I promise, nodding solemnly.

"I know you will," Erika smiles. She reaches over and gently taps the sleek, rectangular slate Closure had given me. "Let me show you how to use this. It's your lifeline here." She guides my fingers across the smooth glass, showing me the basic interface, the messaging system, and the internal Rhodes Island database. To demonstrate, she taps the search bar and types in my name.

The screen flashes, pulling up a personnel file. Right at the top is the full-body portrait Closure took just an hour ago. I stare at the image. Framed by the oversized grey jacket and the black monitor collar, my eyes look completely blown out and startled, like a deer caught in the headlights of a Catastrophe.

Below the photo, the cold, hard data of my existence is spelled out in neat white text. Lethe Basic Info Gender: Female Combat Experience: None Place of Birth: Kazdel Date of Birth: January 2nd Race: Sarkaz Height: 143cm Infection Status: Infection confirmed by medical report I stare at the screen, my eyes locking onto the date of birth. January 2nd. The day Erika pulled me from the rubble. Seeing it codified in the official database makes it terrifyingly real. Lethe isn't just a mask anymore; she is a documented, recognized entity in this world.

Erika watches my face closely. "It's all official now, Lethe. You're home."

“Yes. I am. I am glad to be home, Erika.”

Sleep quickly claims me as soon as Erika has left.

The next morning, the door opens to reveal Erika, already bustling in. She helps me properly adjust the straps of my new tactical leg band and ensures the dark grey jacket sits comfortably over my shoulders.

As I stand in front of the small metallic mirror, I notice something that makes my breath hitch. My misty blue tail, which used to drag behind me like a heavy, dead weight, shifts instinctively. It arcs smoothly out of the way as I step back from the desk, the spade- shaped tip curling with a fluid, natural grace.

Breakfast is served in the cafeteria. A thick slice of warm banana bread and a glass of cold milk. The adult inside me had craved the smooth, roasted bite of a Latte to wake up, but Erika had immediately vetoed the idea with absolute, medical authority. No caffeine for a recovering twelve-year-old body. I had to settle for the milk, chewing the sweet banana bread while the Liberi Medic watched over me like a hawk.

We arrive at the Convalescent Garden.

I step onto the smooth path, my new sneakers squeaking faintly.

A few paces away, a young Perro girl is hovering over a bed of medicinal herbs with her watering can. She looks up, her Perro ears perking, and stares at me.

"Good morning. You are?" she asks, tilting her head with genuine, innocent curiosity. Before I can even open my mouth to answer, a rustle of leaves interrupts us.

Lisa steps out from behind a row of hanging vines. The young Vulpo freezes. She blinks once. Twice. She just stands there for a full minute, her head tilted, trying to reconcile the tiny, fragile ghost in the oversized hospital gown with the sleek, properly dressed Rhodes Island Operator standing in front of her.

Then, her eyes widen. "Lethe!"

Lisa’s bright, chiming voice echoes through the canopy. Her nine tails swishing in a frantic, synchronized blur. She bounds over and immediately begins to circle me, her eyes sparkling as she inspects her handiwork.

"Oh, the jacket looks even better in person! And the tail cutout works perfectly! Doesn't she look amazing, Miss Lena?"

The Perro girl with the watering can watches the display in complete bewilderment, her ears twitching as she tries to keep up with the Vulpo's manic energy.

Lena steps gracefully from the prep counter, wiping her hands on a small towel. She offers a serene, welcoming smile that reaches all the way to her eyes. She walks over to the bewildered Perro girl, gently placing a hand on her shoulder to guide her forward.

"Podenco, this is Lethe," Lena introduces me smoothly, smoothing over the chaotic energy. "She will be assisting us."

"You look wonderful, Lethe. Welcome to the team," Lena says, her voice a soft melody over the rustle of the leaves.

I offer a small, polite bow, gripping the twisted, petrified branch of my new Arts Unit. "I'll do my best to help with the garden, Miss Lena."

Lena chuckles softly, stepping closer to rest a gentle hand on my shoulder. "Oh, you won't be doing any actual gardening, Lethe. No pulling weeds or hauling soil for you. Your duties are strictly focused on our palliative care patients. You are here to provide relief."

Her smile softens into something profoundly serious. She kneels down slightly, bringing herself to my eye level, ensuring I am looking directly into her eyes.

"But I need you to promise me something, Lethe," Lena murmurs, her tone carrying the absolute, uncompromising weight of a sanctuary's guardian. "If it ever becomes too much for you… whether it is the terrible taste of the trauma you are siphoning, or the memory you have to burn to do it… you stop. Immediately. You let go of the staff, and you come to me. Nothing else matters. Not the patients' comfort, and certainly not your 'utility'. Your well-being comes first."

The grip on my staff loosens.

I look at Lena's earnest face, then at Lisa beaming beside her, and finally back at Erika, who is watching us with quiet, fierce protectiveness.

"I promise," I whisper, my voice thick with unshed tears.

I grip my new Arts Unit. The smooth, black shaft twists at the top like a cluster of petrified tree branches. There is no glowing biometric lock clamped near the grip… It is just the staff, a raw conduit waiting for me to open the channel.

I approach a Lupo resting on one of the benches. He is slumped forward, his eyes closed, the sharp grey ears atop his head flattened against his hair in sheer fatigue. He is the same one that was with Erika on the day I was rescued.

A few paces back, half-hidden by a row of broad-leafed ferns, Lena, Lisa, and Podenco are watching me. This is my first real attempt at palliative care.

"Excuse me," I say softly, pitching my voice to be as gentle as the ambient rustle of the leaves above us.

The Lupo opens one tired, bloodshot eye. He looks at me, he doesn’t recognise me, his gaze dragging over my small frame and the mechanical monitor locked around my throat. He lets out a slow, heavy breath.

"Can you tell me your story?" I ask, stepping just a fraction closer. "About the storm?" He pauses. For a moment, I think he might brush me off, viewing me as just a morbidly curious kid. But the Medic tag on my leg carries weight. He leans back against the golden-brown wood of the bench, his eyes dropping to his scarred hands.

"It's loud," he begins, his voice hoarse and raw. "You think you know what a sandstorm is, but an Originium Catastrophe… it's like the sky is screaming at you. The visibility drops to absolute zero. You cannot see the hand in front of your face, let alone the infected sandbeasts and Originium slugs burrowing through the dunes."

As he speaks, the ambient taste in the air begins to shift. It is a suffocating, heavy flavor of dread mixed with the sharp, acidic bite of adrenaline.

"The wind throws jagged rocks hard enough to crack armor," he continues, his fingers curling into tight fists against his knees. "But that isn't the heavy part. The heavy part is what's standing behind you."

He looks up, his gaze distant, trapped back in the bruised, howling wasteland.

"You know that if you take one wrong step, if you let just one of those infected beasts slip past your shield… it gets to the Medics. It gets to the people trying to dig kids out of the rubble. If I slip up, a Medic dies. That weight... it crushes you faster than the storm does."

I don't say anything. I don't need to. I adjust my grip on the petrified black branch. With no limiters to protect me, and no scanner to dictate the flow, I have to rely entirely on my own fragile willpower. I visualize the psychic channel opening, mentally reaching out toward the heavy, agonizing dread radiating from the exhausted Lupo.

I close my eyes, and I prepare to inhale.

The channel opens.

I don't need to throw the gates wide open and swallow the entire ocean of his trauma like I did in the triage bay. I don't need to erase the memory of the storm. I just carefully skim the surface, gently shaving off the jagged, paralyzing edges of his anxiety and draining the venom from his exhaustion.

The Lupo lets out a long, slow exhale.

It is as if invisible weights have been cut from his shoulders. The rigid tension in his spine completely dissolves, and he slumps back against the golden-brown wood of the bench with a profound, peaceful sigh.

"I… I feel lighter," he murmurs, rubbing the back of his neck. He blinks, looking at me with a soft, genuinely relaxed smile. "Much better. Thank you, kid."

"You're welcome," I whisper, offering a small, polite bow. I carefully sever the connection, the invisible current snapping shut.

I turn and walk back across the smooth floor toward the cluster of broad-leafed ferns. Lena and Podenco watch my approach with bright, encouraging smiles.

But Lisa is different.

The young Vulpo’s nine fluffy tails are swaying in a slow, highly focused rhythm, and her ears are perked straight up, swiveling toward me. Her eyes are locked onto the twisted, petrified branch of my black Arts Unit. She offers me a knowing, awestruck little smile. Lena steps forward. Her eyes scan my face critically, searching for any signs of the horrific, violent pain that had collapsed me in the triage center.

"How do you feel, Lethe?" Lena asks, her voice pitched in a soft murmur. "Are you in any pain?"

"I'm okay," I reply, my voice steady. I look up at the three of them, letting my eyes widen slightly. "But… the negative feelings taste really, really bad."

"Miss Lena… Lisa, Podenco?" I ask, letting my voice drop into a timid, fragile plea. "Can I… can I graze on your emotions from time to time? Just to wash the bad taste away?"

"Wait, they actually have tastes?" Lisa asks. "Like real food? How do you taste them, Lethe? Do you taste them on your tongue, or is it in your head?"

I look at Lisa. Trying to find my words.

"It's not like eating food with my mouth," I murmur, bringing my free hand up to rest against the center of my chest. "It doesn't sit in the throat. It is more like… breathing in a feeling that fills up your entire being. It seeps into your blood, and it stays with you." Podenco has since moved over from her own work, she slowly tilts her head, her ears twitching. "So what do we taste like?"

I offer a small, fragile smile. "When you are happy, Podenco, your emotion is a bright splash of sun-ripened yuzu tempered by the smooth, grounding taste of green tea. Lisa's happiness hits me like a wall of crystallized sugar. And Miss Lena radiates a calmness that tastes like warm lavender and steeped chamomile."

"But when people are sad, or terrified…" I swallow hard, the phantom sting of the Lupo's dread still scratching at my insides. "It tastes completely different. It tastes like old ash and cold copper. Like swallowing rusted blades and spoiled meat. It makes my stomach physically ache, and it doesn't just go away when I close the channel. It sinks into my bones and stays there."

The bright, inquisitive atmosphere in the Convalescent Garden completely evaporates. The trio is dead quiet.

Lena’s expression turns incredibly grave. The warm, soothing flavor of her presence sharpens into a fierce shield.

She steps closer, the rustle of her elegant clothing breaking the silence, and rests both of her hands gently but firmly on my shoulders. "Lethe," Lena says, her voice low, carrying an absolute, uncompromising weight. "Listen to me. If it is that terrible… you can quit right now. I will speak to Dr. Kal'tsit myself. You do not have to subject yourself to this."

For a brief, agonizing second, I want to say yes. I want to hide in this greenhouse forever, safely locked behind Closure's monitor, and just graze on sweet flavors. But the glowing Originium in my skull will continue to burn my past regardless. I might as well make the ashes count.

I slowly shake my head, my long grey hair swaying over my shoulders.

"No," I whisper, looking up to meet Lena's earnest, worried look. "I won't quit."

I tighten my grip on the petrified, twisted branch of my staff. "Rhodes Island pulled me out of the Catastrophe. You gave me clothes, a warm bed, and a name. You gave me a chance to live. Taking away the bad tastes so our Operators can heal…" I force my voice to remain as steady as possible. "It is the only way I can repay you."

They all look at me with a renewed, profound respect. Podenco’s eyes shine with absolute awe, and Lisa gives me a fierce, determined nod, her nine tails puffing up in solidarity.

But as I hold Lena’s concerned look, my Arts catch a violent, silent shift in the air.

The soothing, warmth of her presence is suddenly pierced by a sharp spike of grief. It tastes like bitter ash and crushed petals. Erika have told her the truth.

Lena's eyes glisten with unshed tears, but she quickly masks it with a serene, flawless smile. She doesn't say a word about my Oripathy.

"You are a very brave girl, Lethe," Lena says softly, giving my shoulders one last, gentle squeeze before standing back up. "But remember my promise. You are never alone here."

I nod weakly.

But then, Podenco pushes past the sudden gloom.

The Perro girl bounds forward, her grounding, citrusy tea presence washes over. She reaches out, wrapping her hands securely around my free right hand, and gently but insistently drags me away from the heavy conversation.

"Lemme show you my section of the garden, Lethe," Podenco says, her voice cutting through the humid air. "Miss Lena tasks me with the sprouts and flowers."

She pulls me down the winding path, her tail swinging slowly behind her apron. As we walk through the thick, hanging ivy and large, potted ferns, Podenco starts to point out the different flowers and their unique properties. She gestures enthusiastically to the vibrant blooms, explaining which petals are crushed for soothing poultices and which leaves Miss Lena steeps for her calming lavender and chamomile teas.

The morning passes quietly after Podenco’s impromptu tour. By the time 11:00 rolls around, the Convalescent Garden is steeped in a peaceful, humid tranquility. I sit comfortably on the crescent-shaped wooden bench, my heavy tail resting in the cutout of my dark grey jacket, carefully watching Lena work. She moves with an effortless, practiced grace, her delicate fingers pruning a large, leafy fern while Podenco diligently waters the base.

Lisa is sitting cross-legged next to me, her chin resting in her hands. Her ears twitch as her bright eyes drop to the floor, landing on the dark, twisted instrument resting against my knee.

"Lethe?" Lisa asks, her voice a soft, curious chime. She reaches out a small finger, hovering just a pace away from the top of the shaft. "What exactly is your staff made of? It doesn't look like the metal ones the Casters use. It looks like… a real tree branch." I pause. I look down at the black Arts Unit in my hands. The base is smooth, polished material, but the top twists and curves into that dark, organic, petrified wood shape. I open my mouth to answer, and then close it. I actually have no idea.

When Closure tossed the ruined Raythean staff into the scrap bin, she had just handed this to me, boasting about the rebuilt limiter matrix. I had been so overwhelmed by getting real clothes and an ID card that I didn't even think to ask where this heavily customized Sarkaz relic came from.

Artifacts like this aren't just lying around in standard supply closets. If the Chief Engineer of Rhodes Island pulled this out from under her counter and handed it to a quarantined anomaly, it was unequivocally Kal'tsit-approved. The Old Well must have dug this out of some highly classified Kazdelian archive specifically for me.

"I… I actually don't know, Lisa," I admit, tracing the dark, petrified grooves with my pale thumb. "Ms. Closure gave it to me yesterday, but she didn't tell me what it was."

I look toward the heavy glass doors of the garden, a sudden spark of genuine curiosity overriding the melancholy of the morning. "I have my lunch break soon. I think… I think I'm going to go to the engineering and ask her."

Lunch with Erika is exactly the overwhelming, hyper-attentive affair I expected it to be. Over a tray of actual, solid cafeteria food, the Liberi Medic practically interrogates me with endless, gentle questions about my first half-day in the Convalescent Garden. I assure her multiple times that Miss Lena is taking perfect care of me, and that I feel completely fine.

Once she is finally satisfied that I am not on the verge of an Originium-induced collapse, she lets me wander off for the remainder of my two-hour break.

I navigate the labyrinthine, metallic corridors of the landship until the doors slide open, depositing me into one of Closure’s Engineering Workshops.

It is a sharp contrast to the humid, earthy warmth of the garden. The workshop is a massive, sprawling cavern of sleek white flooring and brushed steel. Bright, industrial LED strips reflect off glass partitions and heavy, silver pillars. Large, angular desks are strewn with rolled-up blueprints and stacked diagnostic slates. It is a space built for cold, hard logic and mechanical precision.

I approach one of the empty white tables and gently lay my new Arts Unit down. The dark, organic shape of the staff looks completely alien against the sterile, high-tech surface.

A passing engineer pauses. She is a Perro, her ears twitching as her sharp eyes lock onto the table. Almond. She looks at the ancient, unsettling Sarkaz artifact resting on the pristine Rhodes Island workbench, and then shifts her focus to me: a tiny girl in an oversized jacket with a mechanical monitor locked around her throat. Almond tilts her head, a flicker of intense professional curiosity crossing her features, but she doesn't say a word. With a quiet huff, she adjusts the tools on her belt and briskly walks away.

"You aren't breaking it already, are you, kiddo?"

Closure’s voice echoes from behind a nearby terminal. The Vampire engineer strides over, a digital slate in one hand and a half-empty mug in the other.

"No," I reply, my voice chiming softly in the cavernous room. I look down at the staff. "I just wanted to ask… what exactly is this? When I used it this morning, it didn't feel like the metal one you gave me before. It felt… natural. Like an extension of my own arm." Closure leans against the table, her fanged grin flashing under the harsh fluorescent lights. She taps a sharp, dark fingernail against the petrified wood.

"Well, Kal decided that an authentic Kazdelian artifact is apparently a perfectly valid toy for a twelve-year-old," Closure snorts, her tone dripping with highly amused sarcasm.

"It’s a resonant Originium focal point. It was just sitting down in deep storage gathering dust before she requisitioned it for your new leash."

Deep storage. A Kazdelian artifact.

"Wow…" I breathe out, picking the staff back up with both hands. "It must make me a very cool Caster now then!"

Closure doesn't even blink. Her fanged grin flattens into a deadpan stare.

"Kiddo, that stick is worth far more than you are," she says bluntly, completely refusing to entertain my childish wonder. She points a warning finger at me. "And unless you have questions that actually require my advanced engineering degrees and skills to answer, I am going to start charging your account just for existing in my workspace." I freeze. My hand instinctively drops to the pocket of my skirt, where my new ID card rests. My salary.

I had spent the entire morning thinking about using my newly acquired work allowance to buy the soft plushies I saw sitting on the shelves of her general store. The absolute last thing I want to do is drain my meager credits paying a completely arbitrary loitering fee to an engineer.

"Thank you, Ms. Closure! I'll leave now!" I chirp, grabbing the Arts Unit and practically sprinting toward the heavy blast doors before she can access her terminal to bill me. The doors shuts behind me, sealing the bright, metallic workshop away. I slow my pace to a walk as I blend back into the foot traffic of the main corridor. I let out a long sigh, my fingers tracing the smooth, black shaft of the staff.

Degrees. Closure’s words echo in my mind over the low, subsonic hum of the landship's engines.

What is a degree again?

I don’t remember.

I am back at my dorm once again. The water from the shower had been wonderfully, intensely relaxing. Now, sitting cross-legged on my recessed bed, the cool, recycled air of the dorm prickles against my damp skin.

Dinner had been loud. A vibrant, overlapping symphony of Lisa’s bright chiming, Podenco’s grounded yuzu enthusiasm, and Erika’s warm pride. They had celebrated my first day on the job, wrapping me in a protective, affectionate bubble.

But now the silence is deafening.

I unscrew the cap of the plastic bottle. The milk tea from Closure’s vending machine is cold and artificially sweet.

I set the bottle on the metallic nightstand and look at the glowing, rectangular screen of the slate resting in my lap.

I have forgotten my degree.

The thought doesn't arrive with a panic attack; it simply drops into the freezing, hollow chasm in my chest like a heavy stone into a dark well. I try to trace the memory back... it is a blank canvas.

I push further, a cold sweat breaking out on my palms. The job I had before I woke up in those bruised orange ruins. I used to work at the heart of an engine, an operational hub managing massive networks. In Sydney. But what was the name of the company?

It’s gone.

My thumbs hover over the digital keyboard of the slate. Every instinct screams at me to open a blank document and write it all down. To meticulously catalog the 21st century, the blue hydrangeas, the rain against the glass, the name Iori, before the Originium eats the rest of my soul.

My thumb twitches.

I slowly lower my hands. If I start typing out frantic, vivid descriptions of a world without Catastrophes, of cities that don't move, of a life completely devoid of Terra's brutal history, PRTS will flag it instantly. Warfarin will eagerly diagnose me with advanced Oripathy-induced psychosis.

Iori’s memories have to die.

I take another slow sip of the cold milk tea, letting the chill settle my twisting stomach. I open a standard, non-classified personal log. I adjust my posture, and I begin to type. Erika, Amiya, Rosmontis, Lena, Lisa, Podenco, Opal…

The clock in the corner of the slate ticks over, moving past midnight and deep into the quiet hours of the landship's night cycle. I keep typing, desperately carving my new identity into the digital glass, long into the night.

The blue light of the screen reflects in my misty eyes, the only illumination in the dark, metallic box of my new dorm. I am halfway through typing another line about Miss Lena when a sharp, synthetic chime shatters the absolute silence of the room.

A direct, high-priority chat notification drops down from the top edge of the slate. My breath catches in my throat. I stare at the notification banner, completely paralyzed. I tap it with a trembling finger. The screen transitions to a secure, encrypted messaging channel. There is only one line of text.

[Kal’tsit]: 00:05 I almost drop the slate. It slips from my sweaty palms, clattering harshly against my pale knees. My tail, which had been resting comfortably in a loose coil behind me, shoots up rigidly, the spade-shaped tip freezing mid-air.

She is watching.

On the screen, the small, animated typing bubble appears. Three pulsing grey dots. It doesn't disappear. It stays there for a long, agonizing minute, a digital manifestation of Kal'tsit’s suffocating presence pressing down on me through the network. Then, the paragraphs arrive. They fill the screen in a rapid, blocky cascade of blinding white text. [Kal'tsit]: Sleep deprivation is a severely detrimental variable for any developing adolescent frame. For a Sarkaz suffering from severe malnutrition and stunted physiological growth, it is entirely unacceptable.

[Kal'tsit]: Furthermore, you are actively compromising your Originium stability. Fatigue elevates neurological stress, which in turn agitates the crystalline structures localized within your temporal lobe. If you accelerate your own cognitive decline out of sheer negligence, my medical intervention will be severely complicated.

[Kal'tsit]: I have reviewed the telemetry of your terminal. While your attempt to proactively document your interpersonal tethers and anchor your current cognitive state is a biologically sound coping mechanism for your specific Oripathy progression, it is not an emergency operation. Such clerical archiving can and will be conducted during your designated operational hours.

I stare at the glowing text, She knows exactly what I am doing.

Another message pings.

[Kal'tsit]: You will power down the slate immediately. Should this entirely avoidable breach of medical protocol occur again, I will instruct Closure to implement a hardcoded operational blackout on your terminal. You will find yourself completely locked out of the network between 20:00 and 07:00, effective permanently. Do I make myself clear, Lethe?

The threat is absolute. My hands are shaking so violently I can barely hit the right keys. I frantically backspace over a typo, my heart hammering.

[Lethe]: I am sorry, Dr. Kal'tsit. I understand. Goodnight.

I hit send. I don't wait to see if the pulsing grey dots return. I instantly press the physical power button on the side of the aluminum chassis.

The screen goes black, plunging the room back into total darkness.

I shove the slate onto the metallic nightstand, scrambling under the blankets. I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing my breathing to slow, desperately trying to simulate the perfect, compliant sleep.