The morning after is worse than the night.
Eira moves through her routine with mechanical precision—stretch, blink, answer. She brushes her teeth in sync with the music cue embedded in the wall. She calibrates her expression to 'Mild Engagement' when the mirror activates.
But everything feels off.
It's like wearing someone else's skin. The uniform is still smooth, silver, sealed to her frame—but it itches in places that didn't itch before. The floor still hums beneath her feet, but the sound isn't background anymore. It's a warning. A pulse. A clock.
She tries to breathe evenly, but her chest keeps catching on thoughts she can't push down.
Her reflection doesn't help. Her face is flawless. Measured. Beautiful in the way everything in Aurelis is beautiful.
But today, it looks unfamiliar.
Her parents are already at the kitchen module when she walks in. They sit in perfect parallel, sipping the same nutrient blend, movements mirrored. The soft mechanical click of the cup against their trays is almost soothing—almost.
Her father nods at her once. The expected greeting.
Her mother smiles. It's slight. Controlled. But then—
"You're performing well," she says.
Eira nods. "Thank you."
"You're performing well," her mother says again, same tone, same syllables.
A beat of silence.
Eira blinks. "What?"
But her mother is already turning away, inputting numbers into the consumption log like nothing happened.
Eira opens her mouth, closes it again.
They eat in silence after that. Her hands feel clumsy. The nutrient blend tastes sharper today, though she knows that's impossible.
Midway through the meal, her father asks, "Have you scheduled your next development analysis?"
Eira hesitates.
"I had one two weeks ago."
There's a pause.
He looks at her. "You're still thirteen, yes?"
She freezes.
Her spoon hovers over her tray. The moment stretches, long and taut.
"I'm sixteen," she says slowly.
Her father doesn't react.
He simply nods. "Then your next analysis will be in forty-seven days."
Her chest tightens. She can't tell if they're malfunctioning—or if she is.
She finishes her meal in silence, trying not to let her hands tremble.
The Registry checkpoint is colder than usual.
Eira steps into the scanning arch, holding her breath as the light sweeps down her frame. Everything in her posture is correct. Her expression: neutral. Her clothing: regulation fit.
But when the neural scanner hums at her skull, the lights flicker.
A delay.
The interface blinks red.
THOUGHT PATTERN INCONGRUITY DETECTED. PLEASE WAIT.
Eira's stomach drops. Her eyes flick to the nearby guards—white-suited, faceless beneath mirrored visors. None of them move. Yet.
The display stutters.
UNAUTHORIZED QUERY: "IF THEY FORGET ME, DO I STILL EXIST?"
Her pulse spikes.
She doesn't remember thinking that.
She doesn't remember not thinking it either.
Then the screen goes blank, and green.
CLEARED. CONTINUE.
She walks away, slowly. Not too fast. But every step feels louder than it should.
At school, everything feels too sharp.
The lighting is harsher, like someone turned it up by half a lumen. The silence is more brittle. No one speaks—not unusual—but now it feels intentional. Like everyone's listening for something just outside the threshold.
She sees the boy from yesterday—Kael—at the edge of her vision. He doesn't look at her. Doesn't speak. But he's here. That's all that matters.
Eira tries to pay attention. She repeats facts. Fills forms. Smiles at the right moment.
But inside?
It's noise.
She catches herself tracing letters into her palm—her own name. Eira. As if it might slip away if she doesn't write it often enough.
At lunch, she almost tells someone the truth.
Not everything. Just a piece.
There's a girl at the table beside her—Renna. They've shared class modules for eight years. They've never spoken beyond necessity. But Renna once helped her up when she dropped a data slip. That's something.
Eira turns to her, voice catching in her throat.
"Do you... ever feel like things used to be different?"
Renna blinks. Her expression doesn't shift.
"Do you mean the previous meal rotation?"
"No, I mean—" Eira stops herself.
Renna tilts her head. "Are you feeling symptoms of neurological drift?"
Eira shakes her head quickly. "No. Never mind."
She goes back to eating.
Renna doesn't look at her again.
That night, her lights cycle to dim blue, and she lays still in bed, heart racing beneath the blanket.
She doesn't want to sleep. Not because of dreams—because of memory. Because of how the system works, how it feeds on unconscious thought. You can lie during the day, but at night, your mind becomes open source.
She almost rolls over. Almost sobs.
But then—
Fwwt.
Something slides under her door.
She moves fast, scooping it up in one motion and tucking it into her uniform sleeve before the cameras catch the motion.
Later, in her bathroom—mirror dimmed, lights off—she unfolds it.
Found something in the archives. Under "EchoNet Failures: Pre-Calibration Phase." They erased more than memory. They erased entire people. Meet me. Tomorrow. Same place.
No signature.
But the loop in the 'F'—she recognizes the shape of Kael's handwriting.
She folds the note again.
This time, she doesn't hide it.
She tucks it under her pillow.
Like it belongs.