The mirror wasn’t distorted.

  Elia’s reflection stared back at her, unchanged, unbroken. The morning light softened the angles of her face, catching in the loose coils of her hair, making them shimmer like fine ink strokes.

  And yet.

  She dragged her fingers over her curls, pulling them over one shoulder. The motion was thoughtless, habitual—something grounding. Something steady.

  Still, the feeling lingered. That vague offness. Like a single note missing from a melody she couldn’t place.

  Her hands dropped to the buttons of her uniform. The fabric was crisp, unwrinkled, seamless—except where her fingers traced an old stitched seam near her shoulder. A small imperfection. A raised thread barely felt beneath her touch.

  She should have replaced this one cycle ago. The Bureau always provided pristine alternatives, identical down to the last detail.

  And yet, she had kept this.

  Why?

  A chime echoed through the apartment, crisp and mechanical.

  7:30 AM. Weather conditions optimal. Proceed with scheduled duties.

  Elia exhaled, smoothing her hands down her uniform. The answer didn’t come. But she didn’t have time to search for it.

  She turned away from the mirror and stepped into the day.

  The biometric scanner pulsed beneath her hand.

  It was supposed to be a seamless transition—place her palm down, wait for the brief hum of recognition, step through the security threshold. A system so ingrained, so practiced, that most days she barely noticed it.

  Except today, something flickered.

  Just for a second.

  The light flashed red, the hum stuttered, and the scanner beneath her palm buzzed sharply against her skin—a pulse that didn’t belong.

  Elia frowned, lifting her hand slowly.

  The error smoothed over instantly. The red flickered away, replaced by the usual green glow. The doorway unlocked with a soft hiss.

  No one around her reacted.

  She glanced over her shoulder—expecting… what? Another staff member noticing? A technician arriving to check the logs?

  Nothing. The hallway remained as it always was—pristine, untouched, undisturbed.

  Her eyes flicked to the nearest security node, its sleek lens embedded high into the wall. Watching. Recording.

  Her pulse ticked slightly higher. Had the system flagged that malfunction?

  She forced herself to keep moving, but the sensation of being observed lingered.

  The Dissenter wasn’t afraid.

  That was the first thing Elia noticed.

  Dissenters weren’t uncommon—people who strayed too far from the Bureau’s expectations, who slipped through the cracks of Astraeus’ order. But most of them? They were terrified. Unraveling at the seams. Eyes darting, hands trembling.

  This one… sat still. Poised. Waiting.

  Elia kept her posture neutral as she retrieved her tablet, pulling up his records. His vitals scrolled neatly across the screen. Heart rate, oxygen levels, cognitive function—all stable.

  Too stable.

  The enforcers flanking him remained motionless. Their black visors were unreadable, their presence a silent warning: this man was not ordinary.

  Elia reached for the pulse reader, gently pressing her fingertips to the man’s wrist. His skin was warm beneath her touch, steady. He didn’t move, didn’t react.

  Until he did.

  “You have a kind heart.”

  The moment the words left his mouth, a sound flickered through her mind—

  Not his voice.

  A whisper, layered over his, slipping in like a second shadow.

  “You always do.”

  A sharp blink. The air around her felt thin, just for a second, like stepping into a room where someone else had just been.

  Elia straightened, pressing the scanner lightly to his wrist.

  “Your pulse is steady,” she noted, keeping her voice even, pushing past the strange feeling. “No signs of abnormality.”

  The Dissenter only watched her, his expression unreadable. Not pleading. Not fearful.

  Just knowing.

  The enforcers stepped forward on cue, gripping the man by the arms. He didn’t resist. As they led him toward the exit, he turned slightly—just enough for his gaze to meet hers one last time.

  A small smile. Barely there.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Not relief. Not defiance.

  Recognition.

  Then he was gone.

  Elia stood still for a long moment, her fingers curled lightly around the tablet. The numbers on the screen blurred, unfocused.

  Her hands were colder than they should have been.

  The words echoed, lingering in her bones.

  “You always do.”

  A note escaped her lips before she even realized she was humming.

  Elia froze, mid-step.

  The song was familiar. She knew it—

  Except she didn’t.

  Her fingers twitched at her side. The tune, the melody, the way the strings bent under the performer’s hands—it wasn’t just known. It was remembered.

  Her hand moved instinctively to the sleek panel strapped to her wrist, fingers navigating the embedded interface.

  The approved catalog of musical pieces loaded instantly. She scrolled—

  Luthara compositions. Astraean orchestral arrangements. A carefully curated selection of stringed performances.

  Not this one.

  Her stomach twisted. It should be there. She knew it should be there.

  Her lips pressed together, the breath in her chest suddenly feeling too shallow.

  Where had she heard this song? And why wasn’t it recorded?

  She turned sharply, stepping away from the performer, her pulse unsteady. The streets of Astraeus stretched before her, clean and pristine as always.

  But something had changed.

  She just didn’t know what.

  Her apartment was silent.

  Elia set her bag down carefully, her fingers lingering against the fabric longer than necessary. The air felt heavier than before.

  She moved toward the small shelf near her bedside, reaching without thinking. The wooden token sat there, nestled beneath the curling leaves of the vine.

  She traced the crescent shape with her thumb, exhaling through her nose. The unease in her chest still hadn’t settled.

  She lit a candle.

  The flame flickered, casting long, uneven shadows against the walls. It should have been comforting.

  It wasn’t.

  She lay down, fingers resting lightly against the sheets. Her eyes remained open for a long time.

  Sleep came slowly.

  Fire.

  The air was thick with smoke, curling in suffocating waves. The ground beneath her shook with the distant echo of metal clashing against metal.

  She was running.

  Her heart pounded against her ribs, breath ragged, uneven.

  A voice—calling her name.

  Elia.

  She turned—too late.

  A figure loomed in the chaos, backlit by firelight. She knew him. She knew him.

  Her chest tightened.

  His voice again—urgent, desperate.

  “Elia!”

  The name tore from her throat before she could stop it—

  Cian.

  Elia jolted awake.

  The candle still burned, its wax pooled at the base. The sheets were tangled around her legs, her pulse erratic.

  Her mouth was dry. The name still lingered on her lips.

  Cian.

  She didn’t know a Cian.

  And yet—

  Elia pressed her fingers to her forehead, swallowing hard. The dream flickered at the edges of her mind, unraveling too fast to hold.

  It should have meant nothing.

  But it didn’t.

  It felt like something waiting to be remembered.

  The next morning should have settled her. Instead, it grated.

  The wellness center moved like clockwork—bodies shifting from cot to scanner, scanners beeping in steady rhythm, the quiet murmur of efficiency. It should have been comforting, predictable.

  It wasn’t.

  Elia adjusted a scanner, glancing at the patient before her. A woman in her mid-thirties, eyes unfocused, fingers twitching lightly at the hem of her sleeve. Something about her posture—too still, too resigned—unsettled Elia more than she cared to admit.

  “You’ve been feeling lightheaded?”

  The woman nodded, slow and deliberate. “And… I keep dreaming of places I don’t remember.”

  Elia stilled. Not visibly. Just enough that the breath she had been about to take remained caught in her throat.

  “Unfamiliar places?” she asked, keeping her voice neutral.

  The woman hesitated, as if realizing she had said too much. Her gaze flicked to the security node embedded in the ceiling. Watching. Recording.

  Elia followed her line of sight, an old instinct telling her not to acknowledge it.

  Instead, she tapped the scanner lightly against the woman’s wrist, her movements precise. “Everything looks normal.” The lie came easily. “I’ll monitor the symptoms.”

  The woman exhaled, something like relief flickering in her eyes. But Elia wasn’t relieved.

  Her fingers tightened around the scanner as she stepped back. How many others had come in with the same problem?

  She didn’t need an answer. She already knew.

  Her break arrived, though she didn’t remember checking the time.

  Elia moved without thinking, stepping outside, her feet leading her toward the square.

  She didn’t want to go there.

  And yet, she did.

  The musician was gone.

  In his place sat another performer, playing a melody that blended seamlessly into the background noise. Unremarkable. Forgettable.

  A pair of enforcers lingered nearby, their presence unmistakable.

  Elia didn’t look at them directly. Didn’t let herself dwell on what their presence meant.

  Instead, she turned sharply, walking away as if she had never meant to stop at all.

  A transport idled at the curb.

  Elia almost didn’t notice it—until she did.

  Two enforcers flanked a figure moving toward the open doors. Same steps. Same precision.

  Elia didn’t stop walking. She didn’t even slow down. But her eyes flicked toward them, something in her gut twisting before she could name it.

  The figure stepped inside.

  For a fraction of a second, their head turned.

  Elia’s breath stilled. Their eyes locked onto hers.

  Recognition flashed—not in her, but in them.

  She kept moving. So did they. The transport doors slid shut. The enforcers resumed their watch. The city continued, unchanged.

  And yet, something in Elia shifted.

  She didn’t know what had happened.

  But she knew it had happened before.