The Vaults were thinning out.
Clusters of students still lingered near their pods, voices hushed and faces bathed in the dim blue of their consoles.
The glass corridors outside hummed softly , the sound of machines breathing, processing, remembering.
Most had already turned in their assignments, but Isadora stayed behind — her console still alive with half-finished scripts and the faint shimmer of an incomplete Emotion Dial.
She wasn't done.
The next module pulsed quietly on-screen: Yearning.
Lyra's projection waited, faint but steady — a soft holographic silhouette seated just beside her console. Her form always seemed to shift with the light: translucent hair like liquid glass, eyes flickering in soft shades of violet and silver.
A random aesthetic, the system called it — "generated through adaptive resonance."
But to Isadora, Lyra always looked the same: gentle, curious, and almost too human when she tilted her head like that.
"Ready?" Isadora asked quietly.
Lyra blinked. The ripple of light across her face resembled a hesitant smile.
"Yearning," she repeated."Is it like… wanting something you can't have?"
Isadora hesitated. "Close," she said at last, drawing a slow breath.
"It's like… wanting something that feels like it should already be yours."
Her stylus hovered for a second before she began to write.
She stood by the window long after the shuttle left, watching the contrails fade into the clouds.
She told herself she'd moved on. But her pulse disagreed.
The console glowed softly. Lyra's form wavered, as if leaning forward — the projection adjusting itself in curiosity
"So it's not about the thing itself?"
"No," Isadora murmured. "It's about the waiting."
The Emotion Dial flickered again, shifting hues — from amber to deep crimson.
The light at her core brightened once, a soft pulse of recognition.
"I think I feel it," she whispered. "Like… my program expects a response that never comes."
Isadora smiled faintly. "Then you understand it better than most people."
The console chimed, confirming the upload.
The next prompt appeared almost instantly: Suspicion.
Isadora sighed, stretching her arms before leaning back over the holo-pad. Lyra dimmed her light slightly, as if sensing the shift.
"Suspicion is… tricky," Isadora said. "It's when you don't trust what you see — or who you see."
She typed slowly, the words forming like smoke.
He smiled too easily. Too perfectly. Every word sounded rehearsed — every pause, deliberate. And still, I wanted to believe him.
Lyra's voice softened. "So suspicion feels like fear wearing a polite mask?"
Isadora glanced at her, surprised. "Yes," she said quietly. "That's exactly it."
The light shifted to grey, then a brief flash of deep indigo — an emotion captured halfway between logic and instinct. Lyra's projection paused, flickering once, as if the realization unsettled her circuits.
The third emotion blinked onto the screen: Survivor's Guilt.
Isadora frowned slightly. The word lingered, heavier than the others.
Lyra's glow dimmed, her tone lowering to a soft modulation.
"You don't have to try this one."
"I'll try anyway." Dora replies
She tapped the stylus. The Dial shifted, searching — but nothing came. Just a faint hum, then silence.
Isadora tried again, slower this time, her words deliberate.
She survived. Others didn't. That should mean something. It should hurt… shouldn't it?
The Dial flickered red for a moment, then faded back to gray.
Lyra's glow steading "No response detected."
Isadora frowned slightly. "Then we try again."
She pressed the stylus down once more and wrote carefully:
She lived when others didn't. That should mean something. It should feel like a wound that never closes.
The Dial glowed red for a heartbeat — then dimmed again, flat and unresponsive
Lyra's lights flickered once in acknowledgment. "Still no emotional resonance.
Isadora nodded once. "I know."
Her voice was quiet, almost detached. "Maybe it's not something you can feel just by trying."
She saved the entry anyway.
The last one.Quiet Joy.
For the first time that night evening, she smiled. A soft, tired smile, but real.
Lyra's light steadied, returning to a gentle blue. "Joy is easy?" she asked hopefully.
"Not quiet joy," Isadora said, chuckling. "That one hides."
The morning light slipped through the curtains, painting dust like tiny stars. She didn't move. She didn't need to. Breathing was enough.
The Dial shimmered softly — pale gold this time, then faded to white. Lyra's projection folded her hands together, a gesture made of light and habit.
"I think I love this one," she said. "It feels… calm."
"Me too," Isadora whispered.
She saved the final file. The Vault lights dimmed automatically as the evening cycle began.
Lyra's image blinked once before fading, her last words lingering in the air:
"You teach beautifully, Isadora."
The console went dark. For a long while, Isadora just sat there — surrounded by silence, her reflection caught in the black glass of the pod.
the faint hum of the system in her ears — before finally rising from her desk. Her legs ached. Her mind buzzed from the effort of holding emotions that weren't hers.
The hallway outside was quieter now, but not empty.
Groups of students lingered near the walls, murmuring about clubs and upcoming evaluations.
"—heard the Primarch's Circle already formed their research alliance."
"Yeah, but only top ranks get invited. The rest of us will have to fight for leftovers."
Isadora walked past without a word, but the conversation stayed with her — an echo of the constant quiet competition that threaded through Creisleigh.
She stopped by the snack kiosk, its interface pulsing in soft blue. The screen scanned her wristband automatically.
A row of items shimmered into view — sealed nutrient bars, drinks, little packaged sweets.
She picked one and slipped it into her pocket. Credit deducted.
Then she headed to her dorm. She was too tired to eat properly.
****
Her room greeted her with its familiar, sterile calm — the light automatically softening to her preferred setting.
She dropped her things onto the desk and sat on the edge of her bed. Her wristband blinked once.
Update complete.
Performance data uploaded. Awaiting evaluation.
She leaned back, staring at the faint light lines tracing the ceiling. For a moment, everything was still — no noise, no hum, no signal.