Dæmon stepped through the shimmer—and the world changed. No longer a courtyard. No longer a void. He stood in a hallway that felt subtly wrong. It was grand, yes. But not ornate. Walls rose at right angles, arches framed tall windows, and everything bore the weight of symmetry. But
A stillness followed the voice. Not silence, exactly. Something more deliberate. It was the kind of quiet you could only find in a library long after closing, or deep in a forest that remembered what came before the roads. It was the quiet that waits. The kind that holds its
He was in the courtyard again. No—a courtyard. It wore a familiar shape but whispered in other tongues. The moss had grown backward. The moon hung lower than it should, humming a tune he couldn’t name. He turned in place, bare feet brushing stone that hadn’t been
Dæmon stared at the page. The words were simple. Not carved in ink, but in contrast: Nothing is real. He didn’t speak. It wasn’t reverence. It was processing. A sensation like mental vertigo passed through him. Not fear. Not confusion. Something subtler: like a recognition arriving out of
The pages weren’t paper. Not quite. Closer to parchment, but fibrous and warm to the eye. Lines etched with impossible precision formed a nested geometry—an architecture of meaning, not message. Circles subdivided into branching arrows. Arrows curved inward, meeting their origins. Feedback loops formed chains, then lattices. It
Dæmon stepped through the passage sideways, as if it had only existed when viewed at a slant. The air changed. It wasn’t colder—but it felt denser. The lighting wasn’t from bulbs or daylight, but from something embedded in the walls—veins of dimly glowing material, pulsing slow
The meeting went as expected. His colleague had been fifteen minutes late and unusually chipper. They talked about roadmaps, deliverables, the usual friction between engineering and product. Dæmon said all the right things. Asked the right questions. Nodded in the right rhythm. But the words didn’t feel like his.
Dæmon arrived ten minutes late. Not shamefully late—just enough to feel it. The coworking lobby was too modern, too calm. Warm wood paneling, neutral-toned couches, carefully curated ferns. Behind the front desk, a receptionist glanced up and smiled as he tapped his keycard at the gate. “Hey there,” she
Dæmon walked fast but not too fast. He’d learned that trick in the city—look like you know where you’re going, but don’t break a sweat. Especially not when you’re heading to a meeting. He checked his phone. 9:39. If the bus had shown up,
The toast had gone cold. It lay half-buttered on a ceramic plate, edges soft with steam no longer there. A smear of jam traced a crescent near the rim. Dæmon hadn’t touched it. The café was warm and real. Forks clinked. Steam curled from mugs. Outside, pale valley mist
The chalkboard had become dense—woven symbols, cascading branches, echo loops and vanishing paths. It resembled not a diagram, but an arcane language. The lecturer stepped aside, letting the board breathe. “A mind is not merely a structure—it is a voice within the structure.” “It speaks to itself. It
“If predictors are the atoms of cognition,” he said, “then routing is how they move—how thought travels, how minds emerge.” He gestured to the network drawn across the board—lines like nerves, like a circuit board, like a metro system. “In a brain, it begins with randomness. Sensory predictors