It has been almost three months since Jack arrived in the Association of Sovereign Nations. Just like the ocean after a chaotic storm, he had settled down. The culture shock had faded into quiet fascination. The clang of hammers, the pulse of electricity in wires, the wheeze of old pneumatics — the sounds of ASN had become the rhythm of Jack's new life.

  But something wasn’t right.

  Smoke had crept into Jack’s heart. His prototype kept failing — every iteration, every spark, every weld, betrayed by his unsteady hands. The tremors were worse now. Sometimes he couldn’t even hold a pencil right. His peers helped when they could — no one mocked him — but their kindness only deepened his frustration. He didn’t want help. He wanted control.

  The headaches hadn’t left either. Some nights he’d lie awake for hours, staring at the ceiling of his dorm room, wondering if he had been wrong about everything.

  “No corporation is actually good, Jack.” “It’s about choosing the lesser evil.”

  Doubt buzzed in his mind like a mosquito that wouldn’t die. What if CIS wasn’t the dream he thought it was? What if all the stories back in Suraghar had been polished lies?

  And now the Diamond Guards — CIS’s private security force — had a bigger presence on campus. Their silver uniforms shimmered like cold steel under the sun. They were everywhere now. Too many patrols. Too many eyes. Smoking had become harder to pull off, and he’d been caught once already. The guard didn’t say a word — just stared with sharp, expressionless eyes before walking away.

  Jack hated being watched.

  Then there was Helen. His one anchor in this strange land.

  Gone.

  She hadn’t shown up at the library steps near his dorm in over two weeks. No sign of her in the cafeteria. She didn’t show up at the old stone bridge either — the place where they used to talk, sometimes in silence, sometimes with everything but words. Jack tried not to admit how much her absence hurt. But he felt it, like cold wind slipping into his lungs.

  Everything around Jack felt like ash in the wind.

  Then came a spark.

  One morning on the way to the workshop, Jack passed a group of students buzzing with excitement. Something about a new CIS pilot program. EarthGift.

  In the cafeteria, more whispers. Apparently, there would be an education trip — a joint excursion between VIAS and RCI to one of the EarthGift test sites.

  Jack asked his lab supervisor, Mr. Renjik, who confirmed it. “You’ll get the official memo in two days,” he said, brushing metal shavings from his coat. “Only the top percentile gets selected. Don’t mess it up.”

  That night, Jack didn’t sleep.

  Something was shifting again — a chance, maybe. A way out of the fog.

  But the storm hadn’t passed.

  One evening, the lecture was unbearable again. His fingers slipped over the interface panel, the lines on his notebook blurred. He left early, again.

  He made his way toward the abandoned freight tunnel behind Workshop Row — one of the few quiet corners left. A cigarette calmed his hand. The lighter clicked to life. Smoke filled his lungs.

  He wasn’t alone.

  “Didn’t think the nice boy Jack Rudberg smoked like a factory pipe,” a voice said behind him.

  Jack turned. A tall figure leaned against the wall, arms crossed, smirking. He wore an oversized jacket with a nearly torn VIAS patch, a backwards cap, and a jagged scar over his brow.

  “Who are you?” Jack asked, already uninterested.

  “Bastian. Bastian Creed,” he said. “Year three. Mechworks. Not the friendly type.”

  “Then why are you talking?”

  That smirk twisted. “Feisty for a newbie.”

  Jack took another drag and looked away. “You done?”

  Bastian stepped closer. “I’m trying to be nice, Rudberg. Thought maybe you’d want to hear that Diamond Guards have your number now. You’re not good at hiding it.”

  “I don’t care.”

  That actually made Bastian blink. “You should. People disappear for less.”

  Jack flicked ash onto the ground, still not looking at him. “Then I’ll disappear. Wouldn’t be the worst thing.”

  Bastian chuckled — but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re that type, huh? The quiet ones who act like they’ve got nothing to lose. Guess you think you’re hard.”

  “No,” Jack said calmly. “Just not scared of loudmouths in torn jackets.”

  The smirk dropped.

  Bastian’s voice got lower. “You got a problem with me?”

  “I don’t know you,” Jack said. “And I don’t want to.”

  Silence stretched.

  Then Bastian stepped forward until they were barely a foot apart. “I’ve been here three years. I know how this place eats people like you alive. You think you’re different? You’re just a pretty face with a tremor problem and a sob story.”

  Jack didn’t flinch. “I don’t remember asking for your advice.”

  “You’re going to regret that tone.”

  Jack crushed the cigarette under his boot. “Maybe. But not tonight.”

  Bastian stared at him, breathing hard — like he wanted a reason.

  But Jack didn’t blink.

  Bastian’s nostrils flared. “Whatever,” he muttered. Then he turned sharply, walking off into the shadows of the tunnel, footsteps echoing with disdain.

  Jack watched him go. Then, slowly, he reached for another cigarette.

  Click. Inhale. Silence.

  The second one burned slower.

  The cigarette in Jack’s fingers burned to ash.

  The wind was picking up again.

  As the last strand of smoke escapes Jack’s mouth, wind picks it up — spiraling it around him in slow motion. The trees swaying far behind the buildings seem to hum in response. Clouds gather above, drawing shadows across the campus.

  Jack flicks the cigarette butt into the gravel. It flashes briefly — a tiny ember — then disappears.

  He rises with a long exhale, trying to clear his mind.

  His next class is in the workshop. A group project presentation. Jack had helped build the drone — a terrain-mapping unit using LiDAR. He even helped with the presentation script.

  It’s finally their turn.

  Jack checks the drone one last time before stepping up to demo it. That’s when he notices something’s off. The low-orbit stabilizing motors are gone.

  On his bench, a note:

  “Good luck, kid. I made your drone as shaky as you.”

  He doesn’t need to guess. Creed.

  Jack mutters a curse under his breath and swaps in a backup part — a makeshift EMP thruster. He expects failure.

  But the drone performs better than expected.

  The demo finishes. The professor seems impressed. “Impressive field balance... This might have potential for habitat mapping,” he says, stroking his chin. They’re selected for prototyping at ValeLab. Jack and his group are stunned — it feels like validation after weeks of failure.

  Later, walking to the cafeteria, Jack spots Helen.

  She’s there.

  Standing on the west side, away from everyone. No book. No coffee. Just her arms crossed, head down, like she’s waiting for something to pass.

  Jack slows. His heart lifts, slightly. He wants to talk to her. Ask where she’s been. Ask if she’s okay.

  But they don’t have that kind of friendship.

  At least, he thinks they don’t.

  He sits by himself with a bowl of steaming barley stew — thick with herbs and diced root vegetables. The broth is peppery, the bread roll warm and slightly charred from the campus oven.

  He dipped the bread slowly, dragging each bite out like time itself might yield her voice if he gave it long enough, pretending the warmth could fill the silence Helen had left behind.

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  He dipped it again, glancing up every few bites to see if Helen was still there.

  She is. But she doesn’t move. Doesn’t look around. Her gaze is somewhere distant somewhere far away from campus.

  Jack wonders if she’s waiting for someone. A part of him the part that smokes when no one’s looking starts to believe she might already have someone. A boyfriend maybe. It would explain her absence. Her distance.

  Then like the first gust before a storm Helen’s eyes met his. She quickly looks away. So does Jack.

  The next time he looks back at her, she’s gone.

  He finishes eating in silence, pretending not to care.

  The workshop always felt quieter after lunch. Most students lingered in the commons or dozed in lounge chairs, letting the warmth of a meal slow their steps. Jack preferred the lull. It meant fewer eyes, fewer questions.

  He slipped back into Workshop 3B, the door groaning softly as it shut behind him. Sunlight leaked through the high windows, catching in dust motes and half-assembled parts. At the far end, Renjik stood over the drone rig—his sleeves rolled high, one hand tapping at the interface like he was coaxing it to confess.

  “You changed the capacitor lines,” Jack said as he approached, nodding toward the projection. “Didn’t think they’d hold at that junction.”

  Renjik didn’t look up. “They didn’t. You were right. The load cracked the sealant layer under heat. I’m switching to staggered flow.”

  Jack set down his bag, the motion practiced. “I’ve been thinking—what if we double-layer the solar mesh? Use a reflective buffer between the upper and lower skin, with directional tuning?”

  Renjik paused. Then he chuckled—a low, satisfied sound. “That’d cook the battery if you don’t time the bleed cycles right.”

  Jack smirked. “Only if we skip the calibration buffer. But we won’t.”

  They fell into rhythm then—adjusting specs, running quick sim pulses. Renjik let Jack work without hovering. That was his way of showing trust. The kind of mentorship that didn't need praise or hand-holding.

  “You ever think of running your own module someday?” Renjik asked suddenly, mid-scroll.

  Jack blinked. “Not really.”

  “You should,” Renjik said. “You’ve got the eye. And more importantly—you argue like someone who knows what failure feels like.”

  Jack didn’t answer. He only smiled a little, quiet and honest.

  For the first time that day, the ache in his chest eased.

  By the time they wrapped up the test sequence, more students had filtered into the workshop in pairs and trios, lugging half-built chassis and energy packs. A few loud voices bounced off the high rafters, half-joking, half-serious.

  Jack stepped aside to clean up his tools, not meaning to eavesdrop—but the word “Zimbabwe” caught his ear.

  “—total collapse,” someone was saying. “They say inflation crossed 800% again. And no food subsidies this time.”

  “Didn’t CIS pull out of that project last minute?” another chimed in. “That’s what triggered it, right?”

  A third voice—a tall girl from power systems—snorted. “It wasn’t CIS. That was Titan Meridian. They just blamed CIS because no one trusts megacorps anymore.”

  Jack straightened slowly, a screwdriver still in hand.

  He’d heard whispers about Zimbabwe three weeks ago in the cafeteria. Back then, he believed the headline—that CIS had abandoned a major infrastructure deal, tanking the economy. It fit the image people liked to project: ruthless, cold, all-powerful.

  But now?

  “That true?” someone else asked. “About Titan Meridian?”

  “Yeah. Turns out CIS never signed on in the first place. Local media just ran with the wrong name. It’s been corrected now, but who even reads corrections?”

  Jack felt something shift. Just slightly. A breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding released from his chest.

  It wasn't an absolution. But it was something like relief.

  He set the screwdriver down gently and returned to the table, not saying a word.

  That evening, while cutting through the freight yard path near the edge of campus, Jack noticed something.

  Two figures.

  Helen — unmistakable even in the dusk. Standing close to a man in a sleek black coat. The kind of coat you only saw on faculty or high-ranking corporate types. Not a student. Jack couldn’t hear anything from where he stood, half-shadowed between overgrown trees and utility fencing.

  The man leaned in. Helen didn’t move.

  Then her hand rose, brushing his sleeve.

  Jack’s stomach dropped.

  He stepped back, gravel crunching beneath his boot.

  The man looked up.

  Jack didn’t wait to be seen twice.

  He turned and left.

  The shortcut suddenly felt like a detour through a place he no longer belonged in.

  Later that night, the wind curled around the old stone bridge like it had done a dozen times before. It was quiet — that kind of silence you only heard when the machines went still and the night carried weight.

  Jack stood there with a cigarette tucked between his fingers, thumb flicking the lighter.

  Click. Click. Click. Flame.

  Smoke flowed past his lips and nose, swirling before being devoured by the breeze.

  He leaned on the stone railing and stared into the black ripple of the water below.

  He didn’t expect her voice.

  “Jack?”

  He turned. Helen was already there — sitting low against the corner edge of the bridge, knees pulled in, face half-buried in her arms.

  He hadn’t noticed her. Somehow, that made him feel even worse.

  “Didn’t mean to crash your spot,” she said, voice hoarse. Her cheeks were wet.

  Jack froze. Half of him wanted to hold her. The other half wanted to vanish.

  So he just stood there.

  He stayed quiet.

  “You ever feel like you just... don’t belong anywhere?” she asked.

  Jack took a drag. “Yeah,” he said. “More than I care to admit.”

  Helen wiped her face. Her fingers were trembling.

  Jack flicked the cigarette into the river. A tiny ember — gone.

  He didn’t sit next to her. He didn’t ask why she was crying.

  He just stood there.

  The silence between them was no longer gentle.

  It carried weight.

  The mirror hadn’t cracked yet — but the line had begun to show.

  Helen’s voice was quieter now, almost too quiet for the wind to carry.

  “There are things I want to say,” she murmured. “But I can’t. Not yet.”

  Jack nodded. Not because he needed to — but because he understood.

  He had things he didn’t speak of either.

  The air between them shifted again, like it was learning to hold them both without pressing too hard.

  Helen looked at him with watery eyes, then asked softly, “Would it be alright if I... hugged you for a little?”

  Jack didn’t say anything.

  But he didn’t move away.

  She stepped in gently, arms wrapping around him — not tightly, not desperate, just there. Quiet warmth in the cold.

  Jack stood still, arms at his sides, his heartbeat loud in his ears.

  The hug lingered just long enough for the silence to grow heavy.

  Helen’s cheek brushed against Jack’s chest. He didn’t move, didn’t breathe too loud. A strange stillness fell between them—not awkward, not warm—just something brittle. Like if either of them spoke, it would crack.

  Then, as if forgetting he could hear her, Helen whispered:

  “Sometimes I wish I could disappear.”

  Jack froze. “What?”

  But she didn’t repeat herself. Her hands slowly loosened around him, and when she stepped back, her face was unreadable.

  “Forget it,” she said quickly. Too quickly.

  She looked down at her boots. Her fingers curled against her coat. Then she looked up, and her expression tried to soften—but didn’t quite make it.

  “You did great today,” she said. “Really. That drone—it has serious potential. Habitat mapping, right? You’re not just building machines. You’re building something that matters.”

  Jack rubbed his thumb against his wrist. “It’s just wiring and code. Nothing special.”

  “Still.” She smiled—barely. “Some people turn wiring into purpose.”

  Their eyes met. Something unspoken flickered between them—uninvited and fragile.

  Then she blinked, and just like that, the moment folded back in on itself.

  “Goodnight, Jack,” she said.

  Her voice was quiet. Not tired. Not casual. Just… sad.

  Like it might be the last time.

  She turned before he could answer, walking into the wind, her silhouette thinning under the streetlights. She didn’t look back. But her shoulders curled inward, like someone bracing against more than the cold.

  Jack watched her vanish into the fog.

  He told himself it didn’t matter.

  She was just someone from another world—polished, brilliant, untouchable.

  But her voice clung to him.

  Sometimes I wish I could disappear.

  He lit a cigarette with shaking fingers.

  Feelings were a luxury he couldn’t afford.

  He wasn’t built for soft things.

  And yet… something was slipping through.

  From across the street, half-hidden behind the skeletal frame of a parked service van, a figure stood watching.

  Still. Silent. Wrapped in shadow.

  The wind brushed past them, but they didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

  Just watched.

  As if memorizing every word. Every breath.

  Jack never looked up.

  But across the street, half-hidden behind the skeletal frame of a parked service van, the figure still stood — silent and unmoving. Wrapped in shadow, just outside the reach of the streetlight’s flicker. Watching.

  As if waiting for something to break.

  Jack just stood there, shoulders hunched against the cold. The silence stretched long after Helen’s silhouette had vanished into the fog, swallowed whole by the night.

  Then, with shaking fingers, he lit another cigarette.

  Click. Click. Flame.

  The lighter slipped once. Then again. He clenched his hand tighter, but the tremor didn’t stop. It had been getting worse — lately, it felt less like nerves and more like something caged trying to shake its way free.

  Across the street, the space behind the van was suddenly empty.

  No footstep. No sound. Just gone — like they’d never been there at all.

  Jack inhaled. Slow. Deep. Like control could be borrowed from the smoke.

  His eyes dropped to the river below — dark, rippling, restless beneath the old stone bridge.

  There it was.

  His reflection.

  Dim. Distorted. Almost human.

  He stared, unmoving, as the current tugged at his image — bending the lines of his face, blurring the details. A gust of wind rolled across the surface and the waves fractured his features into pieces, jagged and shifting.

  Behind those broken shapes, he saw something else.

  Not a boy with kind eyes and steady hands.

  But something feral. Watchful. Waiting.

  Jack exhaled through his nose, and for a moment his lip curled — just enough to show the sharper points of his teeth. Not a grin. Not a snarl. Just a flicker of what lay beneath the skin.

  His hand trembled again. This time, he didn’t try to stop it.

  The current stirred.

  The cigarette burned low.

  The reflection shimmered, and for a breathless instant, he swore the water didn’t show his face at all — just the shadow of what he used to be. The thing that fought in alleys. That didn’t hesitate. That didn’t feel.

  He dropped the cigarette.

  It hit the water with a hiss — a sound too sharp for such a small thing.

  Then silence.

  Not peace. Just stillness.

  The kind that comes before something breaks.

  Jack didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

  The mirror hadn’t shattered. Not yet.

  But the cracks were showing now.

  And his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.