Her knuckles hovered at the door. For a second, her mind flicked back:

“Won’t Josen trace it?” she’d asked. “Find this place—find you?”

Milo had only smiled, quiet and assured. “Smart question. But you’re missing a piece.”

He’d stepped closer, eyes sharp beneath his calm. “He doesn’t know this place exists. I never told him. And even if he caught a glimpse…” He tilted his head. “He’d see the wrong faces. The wrong coordinates. That’s the beauty of building the system your enemy relies on—you know exactly where to twist the mirrors.”

“What do you mean?” she’d asked.

He’d turned to the silent city. “Josen still thinks I live inside the system. That I’m trackable. Contained.” A pause. A breath. “He doesn’t realize I left a long time ago.”

He let that hang in the air. “The cameras show me in another district entirely. If he comes looking… he’ll be chasing a ghost.”

Now, she knocked twice.

“Come in,” came the answer.

She stepped inside. Color burst across the studio—streaked canvases, glowing palettes, half-finished pieces clinging to walls and floor.

“Nice job out there,” she said, eyes scanning the room.

The artist nodded, arms wrapped tightly around himself. “Pretty sure they scanned me.” His voice was thin. “I—I don’t think I should go outside again.” He looked at her, eyes wide. “They scanned me, so they’ll come here, won’t they?”

Aurora’s voice softened, just slightly. “Then we don’t have much time.” She glanced at the tremble in his hands. “Josen can probably trace us to this building—but not immediately.” She stepped toward the window. “If they scan it, it’ll reroute. Show up on their system as somewhere else. That buys us time. Just enough to start the lightshow.”

But he didn’t look calmer. If anything, he looked more haunted. Maybe because it wasn’t just Josen he feared.

“You have a name?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“You do,” she said, gentler now.

His shoulders tensed. Then, barely audible: “Matner.”

Aurora repeated it. “Matner.” Her gaze swept the room—his whole world etched across canvas and paper. And it was finished.

She nodded. “It’ll be okay.”

She moved closer, studying the artwork. On the left wall: three stark panels.

A mother holding a child—not with warmth, but with necessity. Her arms were mechanical. Her eyes, flat. The infant didn’t cry. Didn’t blink. Just stared—already resigned.

Next: children in rows. Blank-faced. Seated at sterile desks. Wires looped into ports at the base of their necks. No pencils. No scribbles. Just white light and stillness.

Last: an old man, alone. Leaning toward a chrome wall unit. Mouth open. A clear tube fed him paste. No movement.

“Nice… social commentary,” Aurora said quietly. “We’ll project these soon.”

“Wait,” Matner stammered. He pointed to the other side of the room.

She turned. Saw the same scenes—but reversed.

The mother now crouched in dirt, laughing as her child smeared fruit across her cheek. Clothes threadbare. Feet bare. But their faces: alive.

The children no longer sat still. They ran. Screamed. Painted with their hands.

A firelit room. A circle of people. They tore bread with their hands. Shared from chipped bowls. No screens. Just faces turned toward one another.

But it was the center mural that held her.

Milo and Aurora—drawn in charcoal and ash. Kissing.

It wasn’t graceful. Her hair was a mess. His hand tangled in it, like he wasn’t sure if he was holding her or catching her. They didn’t look posed. They looked surprised. Like life had snuck up on them. Like they were still deciding if they deserved it.

Scrawled beneath in graphite:

Not efficient. Not perfect. Just alive.

Aurora didn’t speak at first. Her breath hitched, then steadied. She pointed. “Not this one.”

Her voice was quiet, almost too quiet.

“Everything else is perfect.”

Then she turned and walked away.

—-------------

Later that night, she leaned against Milo’s chest, eyes half-closed, listening to the rhythm of his breath. His arm was wrapped around her, steady, warm. For a moment, the world felt quiet, like it had held its breath. The fire was warm against her skin. Then the screen buzzed to life.

Milo didn’t flinch. He reached out and answered, movements unhurried.
Josen’s face filled the frame, furious. “Enjoying your little honeymoon?” His voice was smooth, but his eyes burned.

“Josen,” Aurora said, amused. “Did you enjoy the exhibition? I thought you’d appreciate the realism.”

Josen laughed—a low rumble that twisted into something unhinged. “Is this what the cold, brilliant mastermind has become?” His gaze slid between them. “The Milo I knew would’ve despised this.”

Milo didn’t flinch. “He would have,” he said. “Because he feared it. Because connection complicates things. Makes you hesitate. Makes you human. But then she showed me that maybe that’s the point. Maybe that’s where meaning begins.”

Josen snarled. Aurora tilted her head, fingers brushing the tablet. “We’d love to chat, but we’re terribly busy.” Her voice was smooth. “Enjoy the finale.”

Josen’s image flickered out.

Milo set the tablet down. Aurora rose, untangling herself from his warmth, and moved to the window. Milo followed.

When they looked up, the sky exploded in color.

Matner’s images played in succession. So far so good. Then, their image blazed across every screen and dome. Aurora’s breath hitched. Her cheek flushed as she turned sharply away. Matner, who now entered the room, didn’t comment. He stepped behind them, eyes down.

Gasps echoed through the plaza below. Chips buzzed—glitched, sputtered. Some blinked red, trying to filter the emotional surge. Others failed entirely, falling silent.

Aurora stepped to the edge of the platform, watching the fracture ripple outward. Then, she heard a man crying. Like the body remembered what the mind had been forced to forget.
He clawed at his chip, nails scraping metal.

Below, a small boy reached toward the sky, eyes wide with something ancient and nameless.