The hum of machinery filled the chamber, low and constant, a pulse that never faltered. Rowan’s workstation, like all others in the facility, was pristine—untouched by error, optimized for efficiency. The data streams flowed in synchronized patterns, feeding endless projections across the screens before her.
Order. Precision. Function.
Her fingers moved swiftly across the interface, inputting commands with measured efficiency. Each task executed without hesitation, without deviation. The system responded in kind—clean, seamless, absolute.
But something was off.
A flagged correction report flickered across the lower screen.
Rowan’s pulse did not quicken. Her breath remained steady. Her fingers, however, hesitated for a fraction of a second before proceeding.
Corrections were standard. The Astraeus Bureau of Civic Harmony adjusted as needed, refining processes, ensuring stability. Deviations occurred, and when they did, the Bureau eliminated them.
Yet this report was too precise.
She scanned the entry. There should have been a trace of residual data—a partial log, a flagged inconsistency. Instead, there was nothing. A seamless removal.
Her fingers hesitated, hovering just above the keys before pressing down.
This was not the first time she had noticed this pattern.
She executed a secondary query, rerunning an older data string for comparison. The system retrieved nothing. No record of previous corrections. No flagged anomalies.
The individuals involved had ceased to exist in any measurable way.
A message pulsed at the bottom of the screen:
Correction Report Processed. Stability Preserved.
Rowan exhaled slowly.
Her fingers resumed working. There was nothing to report.
Nothing out of place.
Even so...
She was hesitating again.
Her shift ended precisely on time. The moment her final log was entered, the workstation powered down, releasing her into the city.
Astraeus functioned as efficiently as always.
Drones hovered in seamless trajectories, executing deliveries with calculated precision. Enforcers patrolled their designated paths, their steps measured, their visors unreadable. Pedestrians moved through the streets in unspoken synchrony, adhering to the rhythm of an optimized system.
Rowan observed. Cataloged. Filed.
Her mind processed the world like a dataset, filtering information through logic and repetition. The drone adjusted its path by exactly 0.4 meters. The enforcers cycled their rotations every 12.6 minutes. A citizen paused for 2.3 seconds before stepping into the crosswalk—longer than necessary, but not enough to be considered a deviation.
Perfect.
Her gaze drifted toward the central plaza’s towering digital display. The Correction Report flickered across its surface, unchanging, absolute.
Correction Report Logged. Order Maintained.
The words pulsed in flawless intervals—a design choice, meant to reinforce stability.
A reminder that order had been preserved.
But the phrase clung to Rowan’s mind, too precise, too practiced.
She had seen it before.
Not here. Not today.
Somewhere else.
She inhaled. A recalibration. A process of dismissing unnecessary data. She had no memory of this phrase existing outside of its designated function.
Still, the feeling wouldn’t leave her.
Her fingers twitched at her sides.
Rowan turned sharply and walked toward the nearest public archive kiosk.
The kiosk interface glowed dimly as she initiated a query.
She wasn’t sure why she was doing this.
Her hands moved before her thoughts caught up, inputting a request.
Query: Correction Report Logs
The system retrieved the data instantly. Every recorded correction, every approved adjustment. The files were pristine, as expected. No anomalies.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
Rowan’s lips pressed into a thin line.
Another command.
Query: Correction Report – Anomalies
A delay. A pause so brief it should not have been noticeable.
And then—
A fragmented entry surfaced. Incomplete. Corrupted.
Reset 12.
Rowan’s fingers went still.
Reset?
She scanned the fragmented file, but it was unreadable. The Bureau had buried it deep, leaving only enough remnants to signal that something had once existed.
She should close the file. Report the inconsistency.
She didn’t.
Instead, her pulse shifted—not quickened, just... adjusted.
Her fingers moved. An attempted retrieval.
The screen flickered. A sharp error message cut across the display.
Access Restricted. Unauthorized Query Logged.
Rowan’s breath remained even, but her posture straightened.
Her gaze lifted, scanning the plaza. No enforcers had changed their patterns. No drones had deviated from their flight paths.
The system had flagged her action. Logged it.
Nothing had happened.
Not yet.
She stepped back from the kiosk. The query had been recorded. The Bureau would compensate accordingly.
She shouldn’t have searched for it.
But deep in her mind, a realization settled, cold and precise.
This wasn’t the first time she had looked.
Rowan’s apartment was as it should be—precise, ordered, undisturbed.
She entered, the door sliding shut behind her with a low hiss. The space was minimalist, functional, every item in its designated place. The air smelled faintly sterile, the scent of synthetic purification systems filtering out contaminants with quiet efficiency.
She crossed the room without hesitation, her fingers gliding over the sleek surface of her desk. The terminal activated instantly at her touch, its interface glowing with familiar data streams.
Still.
Her mind was caught on the anomaly.
She had run unauthorized queries before. That was certain now. Not a speculation, not a paranoid assumption. A fact.
But how many times?
How many queries had she executed, only for the system to erase all traces of them?
She stared at the screen, fingers poised above the console. The Correction Report was still open, the Bureau’s message clear and absolute.
Correction Report Logged. Order Maintained.
She could submit a report. File the anomaly for review.
Her fingers twitched.
She didn’t.
Instead, she navigated away from the correction logs, pulling up her personal records. Not officially sanctioned. No one in her position was required to keep independent logs.
But Rowan had kept them anyway. Patterns. Inconsistencies. Deviations.
A redundancy. An unnecessary habit.
Something guided her forward.
Her hand moved with practiced ease, entering the command to decrypt the latest entry. A list of past correction reports unfolded before her, each one filed before the system erased them from existence.
Rowan exhaled.
She had recorded them. Even when she wasn’t supposed to.
A fragmented list scrolled before her. Names she didn’t recognize, flagged for correction. Redacted notes. Cases closed without explanation.
And then—
Reset 12.
Rowan stiffened.
She had seen this before—documented it, recorded it, and yet, the memory refused to surface.
Why couldn’t she remember?
Her jaw tightened. She ran another scan, her fingers moving with sharp precision. No attachments. No context. Just the designation.
Reset 12.
Something was wrong.
Her gaze dropped to the desk, to the neatly arranged collection of objects resting at the edge of the console. A pen. A data chip.
A circular metal pendant, worn smooth with time.
Her fingers hesitated before reaching for it.
The metal was cool against her palm, the surface marked with faint, nearly imperceptible scratches. She had kept it for years, yet she had no memory of acquiring it.
She had never questioned why.
Until now.
She turned it over in her hand, the ridges familiar beneath her fingertips. The design was simple—nothing remarkable. Nothing worth remembering.
But something didn’t fit.
She felt as though she had seen it before.
Not here. Not in this life.
Somewhere else.
The thought should have been absurd.
She closed her fingers around the pendant.
The city was silent beneath her.
Rowan stood on the balcony, her gaze fixed on the skyline, where the artificial lights of Astraeus glowed in perfect symmetry. The streets stretched out below—clean, structured, seamless.
She had lived in this city her entire life. She knew its rhythm, its movements.
Even then…
Tonight, it felt different.
Not in any tangible way. The enforcers still patrolled in measured intervals. The drones still adjusted their flight paths with precise calibration. The Correction Report still played on the digital displays, a silent reassurance to the citizens below.
Correction Report Logged. Order Maintained.
The words felt hollow.
A breeze swept through the balcony, cool against her skin. Rowan exhaled, pressing the pendant between her fingers.
She should submit the anomaly. She should return inside, file the report, let the Bureau correct what needed correcting.
She didn’t.
Instead, she stayed where she was, watching the city below, the weight of something unspoken, forgotten, inevitable pressing against her mind.
A loop. A design.
And for the first time, Rowan considered the possibility that it had not started with her.
