Mira woke with the taste of copper at the back of her throat. She lay still and waited for it to fade. It didn't. Her body felt heavy, like the bed wanted to keep her. Pipes clicked somewhere in the wall. In the kitchen, water ran and stopped, a chair scraped, a cupboard closed softly. Selina was putting things in order.
Kael was near the door. She didn't see him; she felt it the way you know there is a chair in a room even before you touch it.
"Morning," she said. Her voice came out rough.
"Morning," he answered.
Selina came in. She didn't switch on the bright light. "You didn't call," she said, gentle. "Was it a hard night?"
"I dreamt again," Mira said. "The pond. The lotus." She swallowed. "I woke with a metallic taste."
Selina set a small cup on the bedside table. "A sip before you move. It will steady you."
"Another dose?" Mira asked.
"Yes," Selina said. "We keep the schedule. That's what keeps the body from swinging."
Mira hesitated. The doses helped and hurt. Lately they hurt faster. The heat came quick, and the bleeding too. She felt Kael shift his weight. He didn't speak, but he was watching her choice like it mattered to him more than he would say.
Mira took the cup. The taste was soft at first, honey and flowers, then the ache hit under her sternum sharp and sudden. She sucked in air.
"It's stronger," she whispered.
Selina's hand was already on her shoulder. "Time?"
"Ten seconds," Kael said, counting quietly.
Mira's nose pricked. Selina had the tissue ready. The blood came faster than yesterday, bright and thin. Mira bent forward and breathed through her mouth. The bleeding stopped after a minute, but her arms felt empty, like someone had wrung them out.
Selina wrote it in the ledger. "Eight fourteen, two teaspoons, sharp ache ten seconds, nosebleed one minute, weakness persistent."
Mira listened to the pencil on paper. It made her feel both safe and small. "It's worse every time," she said. "Does that bother you?"
"It tells us the work is moving," Selina said. Her tone was calm. "The body resists change. That's expected."
"Expected," Mira repeated. "Not normal."
"Expected," Selina said again. "Not dangerous yet. We keep the record, and we adjust if we must."
Kael spoke from the door. "We're pushing her too hard."
Selina didn't look at him. "We have a plan. We stick to it."
Mira looked toward the dark blur that was the window. "We go to the clinic today?"
"Yes," Selina said. "Ms. Troy at ten. We'll have a room. Harland will try his usual. We stay together."
"Together," Mira said. The word should have helped. It sat heavy.
They moved slowly. Mira washed, sat, rested, stood, rested again. Selina said each step as they did it so nothing surprised her. Kael brought her cardigan and waited by the hall. By the time the car came, Mira's legs shook a little. She held the tote strap, breathed, and let them guide her to the seat.
The city moved around them. A bus sighed at a stop. A man argued into his phone. Two kids laughed at something the driver couldn't see. A gust of wind lifted old leaves in a corner and let them fall.
"Clinic is near," Kael said.
Inside, the air was colder. Everything smelled like polish and disinfectant. The receptionist's voice had that professional brightness people learn for this kind of job. "Miss Halden? Consultation room two. Ms. Troy will be with you shortly."
They sat. The room had a small table, three chairs, a clock that kept time loudly, and a poster about hand washing. The wall heater clicked on and off. Mira set her hands on the table to stop their small tremor.
Harland arrived first. His shoes hit the floor in even beats. "Mira," he said warmly, like this was a friendly call. "Good to see you out."
Selina didn't stand. She moved her chair closer to Mira's. Kael stayed by the wall with his hands loosely folded. He was not trying to look big. He simply didn't move.
"I wanted to check before Administration joins," Harland said. He took the chair opposite Mira and set a folder down. "How have you been? Any concerns?"
"The tonic made me bleed again this morning," Mira said. "More than yesterday."
Harland's concern appeared fast. "Bleeding? That's not what we want. How much? How long?"
"Brief," Selina said, flat. "Monitored. Logged."
Harland's smile thinned. "Always attentive. Sometimes I worry it is too much. Mira, do you feel like you have room to breathe? Or are they crowding you?"
Mira felt her shoulders stiffen. "I asked them to record things."
Harland leaned a little closer. "I've seen this before. A patient becomes the project. Every sip noted, every step counted. A girl is not a spreadsheet." He softened his tone like an older brother trying to be kind. "You know you can change arrangements at any time. If you want fewer eyes on you, or different ones, you only have to say."
"Miss Halden asked us to keep a ledger," Selina said. "We act with consent."
"And yet," Harland said, eyes on Mira, "you look paler than last week. You look tired. I wonder if the constant management is making it worse."
Kael took one step forward. "You've seen patients thrive when staff are alone with them. That won't happen here."
Harland glanced at him and then back to Mira. "You deserve independence. Think about it."
The door opened. "Miss Halden?" Ms. Troy entered with a slim stack of papers. No fuss. "I have the items you requested and the rest pending. May I sit?"
She sat. She read names and dates in a clear voice: access to the file, access to the device, the system account that touched the data, the outside address at three ten in the morning, the list of "authorized partners." She named Valerion Devices and Aegis Foundation again and placed copies on the table where Mira's hand could find them.
Mira asked her questions without raising her voice. "Who set the 'evening delivery preferred' flag?"
Ms. Troy flipped a page. "The record shows a change logged on October twelfth. The log does not show an individual user; it shows a service user connected to the clinic."
"Who signed the donor redaction?" Selina asked.
"Dr. Harland and me," Ms. Troy said. "Same date."
"Who approved caretaker placement?"
"Logged by Dr. Harland. Approval box marked 'team'."
Mira pressed her hand flat on the table so she would not fidget. "We'd like the printed access logs for twenty-four months. Names, times, reasons. We'd like copies of any partner agreements that mention my data. We'd like the device audits with origin addresses expanded. We'd like the caretaker authorization amended to state I chose Selina and I approve Kael as household. We'll sign today."
"Yes," Ms. Troy said. She didn't argue. "Some items require legal review. I'll provide what I can today and set deadlines for the rest."
Harland sat back and watched. He didn't interrupt. He smiled whenever anyone looked at him. The smile did not reach his eyes. He waited.
They finished. Ms. Troy stood. "I'll print the caretaker amendment now." She left.
Harland stood too. He spoke as he passed Mira. "Think about what I said. Sometimes the people closest to us don't mean harm, but they serve their own plans first. I can give you space if you want it."
Mira didn't answer. He left. The door closed. The clock ticked.
Selina exhaled softly. "He will try a different angle next."
"He already did," Kael said. "He tried to make her choose between us and him."
"I know," Selina said.
They stepped out into the corridor. Footsteps and distant phones filled the space. A familiar voice cut through the noise. "Mira? What are you doing here?"
Nora came, coat open, a small bag from the shop in one hand. "I thought you hated this place."
"I do," Mira said. "We had to meet Admin."
Nora reached them and then paused as if she'd missed a step. Her face changed for a second. She blinked hard. "These lights are strange," she said quickly. "You look… well. There's color in your cheeks."
Selina's hand tightened on Mira's arm for a moment, then released. Kael looked down the hall, not at Nora, like a person who decides to watch a door instead of a face.
"I brought you shortbread," Nora said, recovering. "Eat it today or it turns into building material." She squeezed Mira's hand. "Ring me when you're home. I'll put the kettle on."
"We will," Mira said.
Nora patted her arm and moved on. Harland passed at the far end, gave them his smooth smile, and turned the corner.
They collected the printed amendment. Ms. Troy watched Selina place Mira's finger on the line. "Sign here," Selina said. "Your choice, your words."
Mira signed slowly. "Add Kael," she said.
"We've added him," Ms. Troy said. "It's in the margins and the notes."
"Thank you," Mira said.
They left the building. The air outside had a bite. The sky had gone thin and pale. On the giant screen across the street, a news anchor spoke over footage of high waves smashing a promenade in another city. The caption scrolled: UNUSUAL TIDES COINCIDE WITH AURORAS AT LOWER LATITUDES — "NO RISK TO PUBLIC," OFFICIALS SAY. Another caption followed: METEOR FRAGMENT VISIBLE THIS WEEK — SCIENTISTS SAY "RARE, BEAUTIFUL." A smaller line at the bottom: POLICE NAME SECOND DOCTOR IN PRIVATE NETWORK INVESTIGATION.
"Let's go home," Selina said.
They drove back through slow traffic. On a corner, two men argued and then stopped when a police car rolled by. A bus shuddered at a stop. A woman dragged a suitcase with a broken wheel and kept going. People continued to do their morning like the sky hadn't tightened.
At the flat, Kael checked the street before he opened the door. He didn't announce anything. No car. No vans. The sycamore in front whispered dry leaves along the pavement.
Inside, the house felt like itself. Warm. Clean. The green blink watched from its table.
Selina set the folder on the kitchen table and lined up the papers. "Tea. Then we review what we got and what we still need."
Mira sat. Her legs were unsteady. "I'm tired."
"We do ten quiet minutes," Selina said. "Then we think."
Kael put the kettle on. He opened the window one finger's width. He stood there and listened to the street while the water heated.
The kettle clicked. They made tea. A radio in someone's yard played a song from twenty years ago. A siren moved far away and then faded.
They ate two pieces of Nora's shortbread out of duty. Selina put the rest in a tin. "All right," she said. "We have names for file access. We have telemetry names. We have the system account. We have partner names. We have the donor redaction date. We have the evening delivery flag date. All line up on the twelfth."
"We have the outside address at three ten that touched my device," Mira added. "We have a caretaker amendment that says I chose you and approve him."
"We still need the twenty-four-month logs," Selina said. "We still need the partner agreements. We still need the identity behind the external address."
"We also need to stop whatever keeps setting the 'evening delivery' message," Kael said. "They sent another confirmation while we were out."
"Forward it to Ms. Troy," Selina said. "Again."
Kael did. He added the time.
Mira rubbed her temple. The copper taste had lessened, but not gone. "Can we cut the dose tonight?" she asked.
Selina shook her head. "Not tonight. We reduce tomorrow if the day stays steady."
Kael said nothing. He watched Selina, not Mira. He didn't hide his disagreement.
Mira felt it. "If you two want to argue, do it where I can hear you," she said. "I don't want whispers."
Selina nodded. "Fair. I think we keep the dose tonight. He thinks we should cut it now."
"I think we should stop pushing when her body says stop," Kael said. "We're not fighting a clock. We don't have to win a race she didn't enter."
"We have a date," Selina said, quiet. "Three weeks."
"You set the date," he said.
"Not me," she said. "The sky."
Mira closed her eyes for a second. "Later," she said. "No decisions while my head hurts."
They left it. They did small tasks. Selina labeled two more drawers. Kael fixed the hinge on the bedroom door that made that little click. Mira lay on the sofa and let the house talk around her.
The TV stayed on with the sound low. Midday news repeated the tides. In another city, hail fell in sheets in a month that shouldn't see hail. A reporter in a bright coat smiled too hard and called it "odd but not alarming." Another segment covered the meteor fragment due to be visible at dusk. Children in a schoolyard held up cardboard glasses and laughed. The scientist on the screen said it would be beautiful and not to worry.
There was also a short piece about a police appeal. The voice read two names of doctors and asked anyone with information to call. A number scrolled along the bottom. Mira watched the movement of the banner even though she couldn't read the digits. She let the sound pass over her like rain.
The buzzer sounded. Selina froze for half a breath, then went to the intercom. "Yes?"
"It's Nora," came through the speaker. "I forgot to tell you—bins are Thursday again." She laughed at her own joke. "I have a magazine."
Selina pressed the door. "Come up."
Nora came in with a rolled magazine and a bag of oranges. "You should have vitamin C," she said, like a general issuing an order. She took one look at Mira and softened. "You look washed out. Sit. I'll nag you later."
"I'm sitting," Mira said. She smiled. "We saw you at the clinic."
"I know," Nora said. "I was going to the post. Those lights are awful." She put the oranges in the bowl and the magazine on the table. "Do not read that rag," she told Mira. "It's trash. But page twelve has a coupon for good tea."
Selina smiled. "We'll use the coupon. Thank you."
Nora chattered about the council and a new dog on the street that had opinions about pigeons. She didn't mention the moment in the clinic hallway. She didn't look at Mira for too long. She was good at talking about five other things when she didn't want to name the first thing.
When she left, Mira felt calmer. "She helps," she said simply.
"She does," Selina said.
Kael stood at the window and wrote something small on his pad. "Blue car. Two streets over. Not ours. Just noting."
Afternoon stretched. They set the time for the evening dose. Mira tried to nap and couldn't. She drifted in that place where you don't dream but you don't rest either. She heard Selina's pen. She heard Kael's steps. She heard the house creak in the steady way old wood does when it is used to people.
At four, the clinic called. A number Mira didn't recognize. Selina answered and put it on speaker.
"Miss Halden? This is Device Support from Valerion. We have a routine remote check scheduled for one a.m."
"No," Selina said. "Do-not-disturb is active. Any device action must be consented in writing."
"It's a ping only," the caller said. "No impact."
"No," Selina said again. "Email us. Copy Administration."
"We'll follow up," the caller said, and ended the call too quickly.
"Spoof?" Kael asked.
"Maybe," Selina said. She forwarded the number to Ms. Troy with one line: "Confirm or deny this caller."
A reply came five minutes later. Not one a.m., the email said. No scheduled pings tonight. Ignore and report.
"Okay," Selina said. "So that was not them."
At six, they ate simple food. Bread. Soup. Apple slices. Nothing that took effort. Mira kept it down. The ache in her chest stayed at a level she could bargain with.
At seven, she spoke first. "Half dose tonight," she said. "That's my call."
Selina held her eyes and then nodded. "Half. If you feel worse, we stop."
"Agreed," Kael said.
Mira took half. The warmth rose. It didn't spike. Her nose didn't bleed. Her hands shook, then settled. She breathed through it. They wrote it down.
"Thank you," she said. She meant: thank you for listening.
They cleaned up. The room dimmed as evening reached their street. Dusk turned the window into a dark square. The radio said the meteor might show between seven and eight if the cloud thinned. It didn't. The cloud held.
Mira went to the bathroom with Selina and brushed her teeth slowly. The metallic taste was still there but lighter. She looked at her face in the softened light. She could make out the notch in her eyebrow, the shape of her mouth, the lines near her eyes that hadn't been there a year ago. It was all still her. She placed her finger on the notch and put the mirror back.
Before bed, the phone rang with a private number. Selina almost didn't answer and then did, because not answering would make her think of it all night.
"Doctor Harland," the voice said from a hollow line. "A courtesy. Ms. Troy will stall on the partner agreements. She'll say legal needs time. Push once, then wait. Pushing twice makes her dig in."
"Thank you," Selina said. "We'll push once."
"And a note for Mira," Harland added, as if it had just come to him. "If she ever wants a day without watchers, I can arrange a respite in the clinic. No tests. Just rest. Doors closed. No ledgers. Consider it."
"We'll pass the message," Selina said, and ended the call. She didn't repeat the offer to Mira.
At nine, the city news did what it always did: repeated the day's weather, added a clip of a minister saying the grid was fine, and then moved to a story about a private meeting of "business leaders and philanthropists" at a historic building. The camera caught only the backs of coats and the flash of a red scarf that looked almost like a cape. The presenter called it a fundraiser. The camera cut away before anyone could ask who for.
Across town, behind a stone façade with a carved date over the door, a room full of people sat around a long table. Some of them were in government now; some had been; some would be again. The man at the head of the table wore a red garment that dragged at the floor. He spoke in a calm voice. He did not say the word cult. He did not need to. He said there was an alignment in three weeks. He said the public story would be beauty. He said the real story would be pressure. He said those who prepared would keep their place when the ground shifted. He said those who did not would sink and call it fate. He said knowledge would be shared with those who funded the work and obeyed the order in which it would be given.
A quiet man with a narrow mouth read a letter in his lap and made no expression. He had started life with nothing and had learned early that other people's bodies could turn into his steps if he pressed hard enough. He had a daughter he did not speak about unless it opened doors. He did not say her name now. He only said, "What do you require."
"Resources," the red-cloaked man said. "Lists of names. Access to buildings after hours. And a public face when we need it."
"And in return?"
"You will learn first," the red-cloaked man said. "You will stand where others cannot. You will live past the time given to men who say no."
The quiet man nodded once. He slid the letter back into the envelope and set it near his glass. "Fine."
He walked out ten minutes later with a small case and a time written on a card. In his car, his phone vibrated.
"Finally," a woman said when he answered. Her voice sounded younger than she was. "Do you know what this costs us every month?"
"I know," he said. "It changes now."
"She's still alive," the woman said. "They told us three months. It's been more."
He watched the road ahead and let the wipers clear the fine mist. "If you want it done, it will be done."
"Good," she said. "I don't want to hear her name again." She hung up.
He didn't say his daughter's name either. He folded the card with the time and the place and put it in his breast pocket.
Back in the clinic, Harland closed his office door and set his phone down. He had called the father and been scolded for not making a death happen quickly enough. He stared at the monitor that showed appointments as neat squares. He closed the window that held the list of donors and opened a different window that held a list of bills. He was short again. He thought of Selina's hand taking papers out of his reach without even touching them. He thought of the boy by the wall who said one sentence that made the air feel heavier. He hated both of them for making his day harder.
He picked up the phone and dialed a number he didn't save in the clinic system. "I need a presence near a patient's address," he said. "No contact. Just watch. Report. If someone leaves, send a message."
"Plate?" the voice said.
Harland read it. He ended the call and wiped the phone with a tissue he took from his desk.
At Mira's, the house settled. Selina checked the water, the bell, the call button. "Do you want me in the next room with the door open?"
"Yes," Mira said.
"Done."
Kael opened the window one inch. "I'm near the front," he said. "If you need me, call my name or press the bell. Either works."
"Thank you," Mira said.
She lay down. The ache under her sternum was dull now. Her body felt the way a field feels after a day of wind—flattened, then still. She closed her eyes. She didn't want to dream. She drifted anyway.
She stood at the edge of the pond again. The surface was dark and held a small light like a coin. The white flower floated with its leaf just above the water. The drop slid and joined the pond without a sound. A man stood beside her and did not touch her. He spoke in a quiet voice she knew and didn't know. She understood every word even though she could not repeat them when she woke. He said there would be a shadow across the sun. He said people would say many things. He said she should not run. He said he would put her where running did not matter. He asked for forgiveness without drama.
She woke with the name in her mouth and didn't say it. She kept it like you keep a match. She checked the time on the screen by touch. She listened to the house. Selina turned once in the next room. Kael's step moved and stilled in the front. The green light blinked and blinked.
In the morning, they would push again. They would go back to the clinic if needed. They would ask for names on paper. They would say no to late-night pings. They would decide about the dose. They would call the police with plates and times if they were ready. They would do small things, like label a drawer and walk to the door and back, because those things kept a person inside her own life.
She slept.
Later that night, when the street was empty and the houses were washed in that yellow-orange light old bulbs make, a figure stood by Mira's gate. The figure didn't knock. It took a key from a pocket and looked at it a long time as if asking permission from something that could not answer. The key slid into the lock and stopped. The figure breathed out, took the key back, and put it in the other pocket. It moved to the back. The back gate squeaked; a hand held it quiet; it swung and closed without a click.
In the kitchen, under the low light, a bag was set gently on the table. Hands touched the folded bills in a drawer and counted them. A box from the hall cupboard came out and back in. A small jewelry pouch was lifted and put down where it had been. Nothing moved enough to be noticed in the morning. A phone on silent took two photographs of a list on the fridge and a page from the gray notebook that had been left open by accident. The hands hesitated at the notebook, then closed it and placed it exactly as it had been.
The back door closed. The latch settled. The key slid back into a pocket. The figure stood still in the yard and looked up at the dark window. The figure whispered, "I'm sorry," to no one. Then the figure left by the back gate and walked away the way people walk when they have convinced themselves that what they did was for the best.
In the front room, Kael opened his eyes. He felt the air change a second too late to catch it. He stood, checked the doors, checked the windows, stood still again, and listened to the way the night had returned to normal.
He wrote one word in his pad: draft.
He sat down and didn't close his eyes again.
Far below the city, where stone met old tunnels that maps no longer claimed, a man in a red garment stood before a torch that burned cold. He smiled the way a man smiles when a plan at last begins to move like a wheel. "The lotus brightens," he said to the dark. "The faithful will be rewarded." Behind him, others spoke in low voices about weather and timing and money and the problem of people who ask for names on paper. They said it would all be fine. They said people always stopped asking when the old order offered them a new seat at the table.
Mira slept through the last of the night. The taste of metal was gone when morning came. The ledger lay open on the kitchen table, waiting for the next line. The day would ask for choices again. She would make them. The people around her would make theirs too. The sky didn't care. It would do what it did in three weeks whether anyone watched or not. But people would watch. Some would lie. Some would tell the truth. Some would do both in the same hour.
The green light blinked and blinked. The house held its breath and then exhaled as the kettle clicked on. The morning began. The trouble had already begun as well.