From the top of the tower, the miniature city stretched out before them—an intricate lattice of memory palaces, each humming with quiet significance. Daemon scanned the architecture, eyes drifting from tower to rooftop. Symbols accompanied some rooftops, though not all—strange icons, surreal in shape and hue. A stack
Dæmon stood quietly, but his silence wasn’t empty. Something was pressing against the inside of his mind, like a knot waiting to unravel. "Back in the waking world... in the shower... what was that?" he finally asked. The Mage turned slightly but didn’t speak. "What
Dæmon stood beside the Mage, both facing the miniature city that crowned the topmost ring. The city pulsed—not like light, but like breath. It inhaled ideas. Exhaled forms. One sector glowed amber and gold, with gently arching towers shaped like teardrops, clustered like neurons. Another flickered in cooler tones—
Dæmon stood at the threshold of a place he almost recognized. Massive arches loomed in a ring around the chamber—doorways without destination. Through one shimmered a galaxy, rotating far too quickly to be real. In another, nothing but darkness, endless and ancient. They stood like celestial sentinels, framing the
A knock at the door. Daemon stirred from his thoughts and crossed the room. The hall light spilled in as he opened the door to a polite, impassive face in a black vest. He signed with a borrowed pen and a practiced smile. No words. He wheeled the tray inside,
The call connected on the second ring, and suddenly the room felt warmer. Daemon’s face shifted before he spoke—a softness replacing the watchful scan he wore all day. The smile wasn’t forced; it bloomed. “Hey, stranger,” said Dors, the camera catching her in profile as she lounged
Daemon had stood too long staring at his phone, willing it to change. When it didn’t, he gave up and ordered food. He slipped on sweatpants and a worn Aphex Twin t-shirt a size too large, and then padded barefoot across the carpet. He grabbed his laptop from the
The rideshare slid beneath the portico with a low, hydraulic sigh. Daemon nodded to the driver, already pocketing his phone. “Thanks, Jerome,” he said, hand on the door. “It was a real pleasure. That ride just flew by.” Jerome chuckled. “Pleasure was mine. Conversation’s a dying art. Even in
The car pulled up—a dark electric sedan, glossy and impersonal. Dæmon slid into the back seat, grateful for the quiet. The driver nodded a greeting but didn’t speak. The car eased away from the curb like it had never stopped at all. The city moved past in hushed
"Hey—sorry, you can’t sleep here. We’re closing up." Dæmon opened his eyes to the ceiling of a co-working lounge, its exposed beams glowing faintly under the last lights of the evening. The receptionist’s voice was kind, but firm—well-practiced. She stood a few feet
The man didn’t flinch. He shook his head—almost pitying—as Dæmon began to breathe harder. “Every soul carries voices. Some they inherit. Some they create. Some they are born to hear. I am more than a voice—I am an agent. But I too am haunted by voices,
Dæmon slowed. He didn’t ask what this place was. Not now. The man didn’t move as Dæmon approached. “You said you’re here to find something.” “Yes.” The man turned fully toward him. No smile now. Just weariness. “The original pattern. Buried when the world grew too loud.