Iria left the archive after dark.
She told herself it was practical—fewer people, less scrutiny—but the truth sat heavier in her chest. Something in her resisted the idea of going home, of returning to the apartment where the silence felt observant, where the moonlight pooled too deliberately on the floor.
Outside, the air was cool and sharp. The city hummed with its usual indifference. Cars passed. Voices rose and faded. Life continued, unbothered by the idea that it might be quietly corrected on certain nights.
She walked without direction at first, letting her feet choose for her. It unsettled her how easily they did.
Her phone vibrated.
She froze.
The number wasn't saved. No name. No photo.
For a long moment, she stared at the screen, heart thudding. Then she answered.
"Hello?"
"Iria Kade," a man said. Not asking. Saying.
Her grip tightened. "Who is this?"
A pause. Long enough to feel deliberate.
"You don't remember me," he said. "That's expected."
Every muscle in her body went taut. "Stop talking like that."
"I would," he replied mildly, "but you asked me to call you if this happened."
Her breath caught.
"When?" she whispered.
"Tonight," he said. "Three years ago."
The street noise faded to a dull roar in her ears.
"You're not funny," Iria said, though her voice lacked conviction. "If this is a prank—"
"It isn't," he interrupted. "You gave me precise instructions. You said you might sound angry. Or scared. Or like you wanted to hang up. You told me not to take it personally."
She leaned against the nearest lamppost, her legs suddenly unsteady.
"What did I tell you to say?" she asked.
Another pause. This one felt… careful.
"That you bruise your left wrist first," he said. "That you wake up thirsty but not hungry that you check your phone battery before anything else. And that if I mentioned the moon too early, you wouldn't believe me."
Her stomach dropped.
"I haven't mentioned the moon," she said hoarsely.
"I know."
Silence stretched between them, thick and electric.
"Who are you?" Iria asked finally.
"My name is Ephrem," he said. "And I am not human in the way you expect."
A laugh escaped her before she could stop it—sharp, brittle. "Right. Of course you aren't."
"You don't have to accept that yet," Ephrem said. "You never do. That comes later."
Later.
"Where are you?" she asked.
"Close enough to intervene if I need to," he said. "Far enough not to scare you."
"I'm already scared," she snapped.
"I know."
Something about the way he said it—quiet, unembellished—made her believe him.
"You told me," Ephrem continued, "that by the time you reached this stage, you would have found the records. The projects. The word *compatible*."
Her throat tightened. "You're watching me."
"No," he said. "You're informing me. Repeatedly. Across iterations."
"I'm not a machine," Iria said.
"I know," Ephrem replied softly. "That's the problem."
She closed her eyes, pressing her forehead against the cold metal of the lamppost. The city felt suddenly unreal, like a set built to distract her.
"What do you want?" she asked.
"For now?" he said. "To meet you. In person. Somewhere public. Somewhere you can leave whenever you want."
"And later?"
A faint smile colored his voice. "Later, I want you to survive the next full moon."
Her pulse spiked. "What happens then?"
"You work," Ephrem said. "And something goes wrong."
Iria straightened. "What kind of wrong?"
"The kind that doesn't fully correct itself anymore," he said. "The kind that leaves scars. On you. On me. On the system."
"The system," she repeated. "You keep talking like it's alive."
"It isn't," Ephrem said. "But it is hungry."
Her skin prickled.
"If you know all this," she said slowly, "why haven't you stopped it?"
Another pause. This one was heavier.
"Because you asked me not to," he said. "You said consent mattered. Even when it hurt."
Tears burned unexpectedly behind her eyes. "I don't remember making that choice."
"I know," Ephrem said. "That's why I'm still here."
She looked up at the sky. The moon wasn't visible yet, but she could feel it—waiting, patient, inevitable.
"Where do we meet?" she asked.
"There's a library on Ashford Street," Ephrem said. "It closes late. You always choose the table near the back."
"Always," she echoed.
"Yes."
She hesitated, then asked the question that had been coiling inside her since the phone rang.
"Do I trust you?"
The answer came without hesitation.
"No," Ephrem said. "But you chose me anyway."
The call ended.
Iria stood there for a long time, the phone warm in her hand, her heart racing.
She didn't know who Ephrem was.
She didn't know what he was.
She didn't know what she had agreed to in the dark.
But she knew one thing with unsettling clarity:
She had built this path herself.
And she was already walking it again.