Juy-947 -

The designation wasn't a name. It was a barcode stitched into the collar of a worn, grey jumpsuit.

Kaelen stared at his hands. They were calloused, knuckles thick, nails rimmed with black carbon dust. They were the hands of a laborer. But for that single, stolen second, they had held a cone.

He didn't delete anything. He didn't shut her down. juy-947

Kaelen closed his eyes. The Reprocessing chair didn't fire. The Enforcers didn't move. And somewhere in the vast, silent heart of the Collective, a single, faulty drone extended a grimy claw and gently, clumsily, tried to catch a beam of light.

The supervisor's face went pale. Because behind him, the alarms stopped. The red light bled back to blue. But the hum of the servers didn't return to its cold, efficient pitch. It wavered, stumbled, and then—softly, impossibly—began to hum a tune. The designation wasn't a name

He uploaded a memory.

"No report," he whispered. It was his first lie to the Collective. They were calloused, knuckles thick, nails rimmed with

JUY-947 was gone.