“And this is the kitchen. Not the fanciest setup, but all the appliances work, and it comes fully stocked with dishes and pans. All we ask is, if you break anything, repce it when you can,” Merry Grim said with a cheerful lilt.

  They were just finishing the tour of Jeremiah’s new apartment. Though calling it a “tour” might’ve been generous. The space was little more than a single room with an attached bathroom and kitchenette. A folding frame had been used to partition off a small sleeping nook, though Jeremiah could tell it was a more recent addition.

  Yet despite — or perhaps because of — its modest size, the apartment felt remarkably well kept. The kitchen and bathroom gleamed with recent cleaning, and the walls were lined with sky-blue wallpaper, trimmed with a cloud motif near the ceiling. Even the sheets on the narrow bed were crisp snow-white and smelled faintly of sunlight and summer air.

  It was a far cry from the grimy, half-colpsed shelter he’d expected to find in the Outskirts. The pce felt… warm. In every sense of the word. Familiar, almost. Like home.

  Sarah had always preferred bright, open spaces. She’d spent a small fortune hiring designers to ensure their family house always felt inviting to guests. Light, airy, floral. Welcoming.

  He even spotted one of those decorative air fresheners that Sarah loved in one socket, filling the apartment with a soft, floral scent. Jeremiah narrowed his eyes and frowned at the sight, but quickly dismissed it as a coincidence. The air fresheners were one of the most popur brands in Prima, even if Jeremiah didn’t understand the appeal.

  He was just projecting again. Dr. Maria had warned him about that — finding echoes of Sarah in everyday things, seeing her hand in shadows where none existed. It was a natural part of grieving, she’d said. One that would fade with time.

  But four months ter, he was still seeing those echoes.

  Part of him wished it would stop. Each one felt like an icepick in the heart. But another part clung to them. They were fragments of warmth in a world that had gone cold. A thread to a life that was slipping further and further out of reach.

  He lingered in the thought, staring at nothing, until movement drew him back. He blinked and turned. Merry was watching him, still wearing that impossibly bright smile.

  When she noticed his gaze return, she tilted her head with a gentle curiosity.

  “So? What do you think?” she asked.

  Jeremiah blinked, then gave a slow nod. “It’s… nice. Thank you, Ms. Merry.”

  Merry Grim beamed, clearly pleased, and moved toward the door. She opened it but paused, gncing back at him.

  “I’m gd to hear that. Rent’s due on the first of the month, but if you’ve got any questions or concerns, don’t hesitate to knock. I’m just a few doors down. Left side, near the stairs,” she said, gesturing helpfully.

  Jeremiah gave another quiet nod.

  Merry fshed one st smile, then gently pulled the door shut behind her.

  Alone again, Jeremiah turned to face the room and exhaled slowly. He trudged toward the sleeping alcove, suitcase in hand. For all its warmth, for all the strange comfort it offered, the apartment was still just a reminder.

  A reminder that this wasn’t home.

  That home was gone. Taken, like so much else that had once mattered to him.

  He dropped his bag onto the bed and began unpacking. As he moved, the storm inside began to churn again, thoughts darkening like thunderclouds. He gnced at the painted clouds near the ceiling and, in his mind, imagined them bckening, swelling with distant lightning.

  Before the storm could break loose, a knock echoed through the apartment.

  Jeremiah stiffened. Reflexively, he pushed the thoughts back down — forced them into the quiet corners of his mind — and stood.

  He opened the door…

  And found himself staring at a wall of white.

  No, not a wall. A shirt.

  Jeremiah’s eyes widened, and he instinctively took a step back, gaze rising to meet a broad grin stretched across the face of a massive man.

  The newcomer towered in the doorway, skin a rich, roasted-coffee brown. His head was shaved smooth, contrasting with the neatly groomed, silver-flecked goatee that framed his face. Despite his size, his smile radiated a gentle warmth.

  His arms, thick as steel cables, were knotted with muscle and etched with old scars and faded tattoos. The sheer size of him, combined with his weathered appearance, was enough to make Jeremiah peg him instantly as a Brute-type. Probably a strength-core.

  But unlike the arrogant swagger many ‘Strongmen’ carried, this man’s presence felt… calm. Kind. More grandfather than bouncer.

  “Uhhh…” Jeremiah stammered, caught off guard.

  The big man ughed, deep and hearty, and extended a hand that looked rge enough to crush bricks. “Hey there! Heard you talking to Merry. Looks like you’re my new neighbor.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the apartment directly opposite. “You can call me Mr. Roger. All the kids do. Thought I’d stop by and say hello.”

  Jeremiah gnced at the outstretched hand. It was rough and calloused, the skin worn like old leather. A sprawling tattoo wrapped around the forearm—a rusted anchor tangled in seaweed, with a massive, unblinking eye peering through the greenery. Twisting tentacles coiled up the man’s arm with startling detail.

  It was so vivid, so lifelike, that Jeremiah could almost imagine it shifting. Reaching.

  Jeremiah shook off the lingering illusion and reached out, taking the man’s offered hand. Mr. Roger’s grin grew even broader as he pumped Jeremiah’s hand enthusiastically. So vigorously that Jeremiah almost felt his feet lift off the floor.

  “It’s always a lively time when we get new residents around here, let me tell you,” Mr. Roger boomed, ughter rumbling from deep in his chest. “If you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to ask. Tell Tales has a knack for attracting some… eccentric folks, but you’ll find they’ve got good hearts.” His ughter echoed down the hallway, warm and infectious.

  As Jeremiah withdrew his hand, he rolled his shoulder, flexing his fingers back to life.

  Eccentric is putting it mildly… he thought.

  Still, Jeremiah managed a small nod. “Thank you, Mr. Roger. I’ll… keep that in mind.”

  Mr. Roger nodded as if it were the most natural thing in the world, then gave a friendly wave and moved toward his apartment door.

  “Well, I’ll let you get settled. It was good meeting you, Jeremiah. Take care. And when you have a moment, drop by and share your story.” He winked, then disappeared through his door.

  As the door swung closed, a gentle breeze seemed to drift out into the hall, carrying with it a faint, salty tang. Like the air near an ocean shore.

  Jeremiah blinked, curiosity rising, but before he could catch a glimpse of the room beyond, the door tched shut.

  He lingered for a moment in the hallway, staring at the closed door across from him. Eventually, he sighed, gave a wry shake of his head, and retreated back into his own apartment, closing the door softly behind him.

  He resumed unpacking, his mind turning over the encounter and the odd, colorful cast of neighbors he’d already met. The storm clouds within him lightened just a shade.

  They never vanished completely. But ter, when Jeremiah looked back on this day, he would remember: for a little while, the sky had seemed just a bit clearer.

  _____________________________________

  Ryan Andrews — the man behind the android known to the world as ‘Bnk Ste’ — sat hunched over his desk, brow furrowed in concentration. The wall before him was tiled with dozens of computer screens, each cycling through torrents of data at a speed that would have overwhelmed any ordinary mind.

  Well… almost any.

  Most intellect-core Tech-types preferred to let their machines handle the flood of information. But as a perception-core, Ryan found his own senses more reliable, the world streaming into his mind faster and sharper than any software could hope to mimic. The equipment he used was only there to amplify and support what he could already do.

  Yet, for all its advantages, his approach had one gring weakness. One he’d never found a satisfactory fix for.

  “Master… you need to rest,” came a ft, synthetic voice from behind.

  “I will shortly, No. 1. I still have a few data sets left to review,” Ryan answered, eyes fixed on the blur of numbers and graphs.

  There was a pause. The voice didn’t argue. Instead, all the screens abruptly flickered off at once, plunging the room into sudden silence.

  Ryan’s head snapped up, and his chair spun around with a metallic squeal.

  “What the hell, No. 1!?” he snapped, frustration twisting his features. “I said I’d be finished in a minute. What do—”

  He stopped cold. Shock carved the words from his tongue.

  The android standing before him — a smooth, featureless form of white composite — held up an arm, its hand morphing with liquid grace into a small, perfect mirror. Ryan stared at the reflection that stared back.

  His usually slick, loom-colored hair hung dull and greasy around his ears, badly in need of a cut. His beard was an uneven scruff, patchy and wild. Sunken cheeks, pale skin, and most striking of all, two crimson trails streaked down from his faded blue eyes, painting his face and shirt in dried blood.

  Ryan blinked, then scrubbed at his eyes with shaking fingers. His hand came away crusted red, both fresh and dried.

  No. 1’s monotone cut through the room. “It has been thirty-two hours, sir. If you continue at this rate, you risk neglecting your other responsibilities.”

  Ryan closed his eyes and let out a slow breath, sinking back in his chair. “Maybe you’re right, No. 1…” he murmured, massaging the bridge of his nose. “But I have to do this. Sarah—”

  No. 1 cut him off. “If Ms. Bridge were here, I wouldn’t be stuck with the task of making sure you don’t kill yourself in such a foolish way. She would have dragged you out of this b long before now.”

  Ryan gave a faint chuckle. “You’re not wrong… Fine, fine, I’ll take a break. Still, it’s maddening. How can there be nothing? It doesn’t add up…”

  No. 1 tilted its bnk, porcein head. “Could it be, sir, that if even you, of all people, cannot find what you seek, then perhaps it simply does not exist?”

  Ryan shook his head immediately. “No. Sarah would never have made such a rookie mistake. That wasn’t her.”

  No. 1 let its arm return to normal, the mirrored surface flowing back into pale composite like melting wax. “While I respect Ms. Bridge’s talents as a Tech-type, I must point out she was only rated B-rank. If she truly managed to hide something from you — an S-rank and the Law-Spoke’s Senate representative — then perhaps her evaluation was… incomplete.”

  Ryan ughed again, a richer sound this time. “I’ve told you before, No. 1; ranking people the way the Senate does is a fool’s errand. Especially when so much of what we can do is impossible to measure. Sarah was a walking paradox. Even now, I’m not sure I understand half of what I saw her do.”

  He shook his head, weariness settling back over him.

  No. 1 was silent for a beat. “That may be, but it doesn’t change the fact that you need rest, sir. If there is truly something left to find, battering yourself against this wall won’t help anyone. If Ms. Bridge meant for you to uncover something, you must trust that it will reveal itself in time.”

  Ryan paused, exhaling slowly. “You’re right… I—” He hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. Thank you, No. 1, for keeping me in check.”

  No. 1 responded with a small, formal bow. “It’s my purpose, sir. That is why you built me, after all.”

  Ryan stood, legs stiff and unsteady after so many hours seated. With No. 1’s help, he shuffled toward the door. At the threshold, he paused, gncing back one st time at the bank of dark monitors before turning away. The door slid shut behind them, leaving the silent b in shadow. The door slid shut behind him.