Aurora’s eyes opened to darkness. The air was still, the kind of still that comes before the world remembers to stir. She turned her head toward him. His breath rose and fell in the hush, slow and unguarded. She let herself watch—just for a moment. Last night flickered behind her eyes—not like memory, but like something unresolved.

She slipped out of bed and stood. Her balance tipped for half a second, like the ground hadn’t caught up to her decision. She dressed quickly: shirt, jacket, boots. Fingers threaded through her hair, each motion coiled with new certainty.

By the time she stepped into the hall, there was clarity in her stride. Like something had clicked. Like the next move had finally revealed itself. She scribbled a note for him and left it by the bed:

Today we target the food system.
Gather food from the outside—a lot of it.
We'll destroy their hoarded storage.
– A

She knocked on the next door down. The artist cracked it open—bags under his eyes, hands stained with charcoal.

“You didn’t sleep?”

“Couldn’t,” he muttered, closing the door softly behind him.

He still shook in her presence, but sketches littered the floor.

“I… just need more time.”

“How much more?”

He hesitated. “At this rate, I can finish the pamphlet drawings by tonight. The lightshow art by tomorrow.”

Aurora tilted her head in thought, then nodded. “Good work. I’ll check back tonight.”

She opened the penthouse door. Milo leaned against the kitchen counter, watching her.

“No good morning?”

“Busy,” she said, grabbing the I.D. from the counter. Then she stepped closer, hesitated—just for a beat—and kissed him lightly.

“So,” Milo said as she pulled away, voice calm but weighted, “we’re destroying Josen’s food supply.”

Aurora smiled. “Of course. That’s only normal.”

He studied her.

“That’s why we hit everything at once,” she continued. “You secure the food. The artist finishes the paintings. We’ve already hacked the dome’s grid for the lightshow. And the release—the magic users, the chip deactivation—it’s all ready.”

Milo raised an eyebrow. “You want to detonate every fault line on the same day?”

Aurora nodded once steadily.

“And then?” Milo asked, the edge of a smile tugging at his lips. “What happens after your perfect chaos?”

Aurora stepped in, fingertips grazing his jaw, voice soft but unwavering. “Then you’ll have your magic.” She leaned into his warmth, eyes locked on his. “And you won’t let anything touch us… will you?”

Milo caught her wrist, as if anchoring her in place. His grip wasn’t forceful, just searching.
“You say that like I know how to protect things.”

She twisted her wrist free, only to take his instead. “Oh, Milo,” she said, voice gentler now. “I know leaving was your convoluted way of protecting me.” She let his hand fall.

He studied her for a long second, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. “You’re terrifying. I’ll get the food.”

She smiled. “Good.”

—---------------

In two days, everything was ready.

Crates of food filled trucks in storage units. Plans to sabotage muck production were locked in. Pamphlets stacked high, ready for release.

Milo would free the magic users and dismantle the suppression system. Aurora would target the distribution center. The artist, stationed in the penthouse, would launch the self-driving trucks from a tablet. Then, using the floating platforms, Aurora would deliver the artwork herself.

Josen would know soon enough.

There was no turning back after today.

The hum of the distribution center was constant. Aurora crouched behind a stack of nutrient crates. Milo had taught her the routes, the shift rotations, the blind spots. Strapped to her chest: twenty-four vials of engineered fungus—each potent enough to contaminate a tenth of a nutrient vat. Just a few would be catastrophic. Milo knew how to get…well, everything.

She inhaled. Once. Then again. The air tasted sterile.

She moved.

The air inside the distribution center was colder than she expected. Aurora kept low, weaving between crates stacked like coffins. She paused near a loading bay and waited.

Footsteps. Two workers passed, not even talking, computing.

She waited for them to pass before she kept going.

A lift groaned in the distance. Lights buzzed overhead. She reached the main vat corridor. Six cylindrical tanks lined the wall, each churning faintly, cables spidered into the floor. She unstrapped the first vial. Glass to steel.

The fungus was microscopic. Dormant in liquid. But once introduced to the vat, it would bloom—fast, invisible at first. By the time they noticed, the spoilage would already be systemic. Aurora slid the vial into the port, turned the seal, and pressed the release. It hissed.

One done.

She moved to the next. Then the third. Her fingers moved on muscle memory, but her heartbeat picked up with each hiss. A voice echoed behind her—casual, male, getting closer. She ducked into the shadows between two tanks. A maintenance worker rounded the corner, checking a clipboard, muttering to himself. Too close.

He turned his back.

She moved—silent, swift—and dropped the fourth vial.

Only two more.

She inserted the last vial, sealed the port, and exhaled. Her pulse thudded in her ears.

Go.

She turned on her heel, slipped down a side path toward the loading ramp, and vanished into the dark.

When she rushed back, the artist looked up from the tablet.

Moments later, they were on one of the flying platforms, racing full speed above the city. The machine began its work—drawings copied and cast from Milo’s machinery, raining down like ash from a burning sky.

Paintings of humans in nature – celebrating, talking, eating. Then, the message: “Do you remember how to dream?”

Below, the citizens froze. Chips flickered. Some rubbed their heads. And then the explosion.

Magic surged through the streets—fire, water, earth tearing through metal and stone. Screams rose like a storm. The air thickened with panic, power, and something older than both: awakening.

Burn marks lashed up the walls. Water burst through ventilation shafts. Earth split beneath walkways meant to stay still. Screams echoed—real ones, raw ones. Not system-approved responses. The dome had been silent for so long, the noise felt obscene. Wrong.

They ran into Milo.

The Stone citizens, who usually didn’t look around for a thing, now froze and stared at the creatures that had crawled out. Aurora almost looked away. She saw what they saw: the deformities, missing limbs, the aftermath of Josen stripping away what was human in them. She heard one citizen’s chip make a strange whirring sound, as if it couldn’t help its user compute what was happening. And he wasn’t the only one.

Aurora leaned over. “Milo, go free them. Lead them out of here.”

Milo raised his brows. “To where?”

She paused. Another unthought contingency. She trusted in her flexibility. In his ability.

Her eyes scanned the plaza—the ordered platforms, the silent doors, the blank stares. Then the chaos: magic users stumbling into light like newborns, like monsters. Flames curled from someone’s spine.

The Stone citizens hadn’t fled. Not yet. They just… stared. Like the system had frozen mid-breath.

“You once said clarity comes from pain,” Aurora muttered. “They’re in pain. Show them clarity.” She grabbed him. “I trust you.”

Milo’s eyes studied her, then obeyed. He stepped onto the main platform, walking straight into the chaos. His voice wasn’t loud, but every broken chip, every magic-born survivor, every startled citizen turned to look. Not because they recognized him—nobody did—but because everyone recognized power.

He raised a hand toward the wall. A sound like metal screaming ripped through the air. The dome split an opening to the outside Wind howled down as if from another planet. A sliver of true sky poured in, raw, unsimulated. Cold. Real. A path opened through the dome’s fractured edge, stretching into the wilds beyond the city.

A fire-wielding girl stepped forward first. Then another. Then dozens. Then all of them—shaking, burned, scarred—moved like exiles toward a future with no scaffolding.
The Stone citizens watched. They looked at Milo because he had rewritten the rules in front of their eyes.

Aurora didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. She stood at Milo’s side, watching the system fail to process what a human being could do when unchained.

“There!” someone shouted.

Titans. Towering boulders bounding toward them—impossible and brutal. Then, every screen in the square flickered to life. Josen’s face filled them. “You should’ve taken my chip before doing something so stupid.” His voice slithered through the air. “Let’s see how many more of your choices you survive.”

Aurora hurled a rock straight into the nearest screen. It shattered with a satisfying crunch.

She stepped back and smiled. “Finally.”

She looked at Milo and nodded.

Black lightning arced from his fingertips. It hit the Titans like divine judgment. They didn’t even have time to scream.

Milo turned without a word. The freed magic users followed.

Good, Aurora thought.

Two remaining Titans pointed at her. She darted forward—already gone.