[Same day – Genf, Old town]
Nion walked through the familiar streets of Old Town, her thoughts a tangled mess after her tense meeting with Alexithymia. The conversation had left her with more questions than answers, and the weight of her emotions seemed heavier with each passing step. Yet as she wandered deeper into the labyrinth of narrow alleys and uneven cobblestones, the world around her began to intrude on her thoughts. The Old Town had a way of demanding attention, its vibrant contrasts pulling her focus outward.
The district stretched out before her like a living, breathing tapestry of stories, where every building whispered of a past repurposed into something new. Here, the air seemed charged with an intangible energy, as if the place itself refused to stand still, urging both its visitors and its inhabitants to feel, create, and remember.
Tall, narrow buildings lined the streets, their facades a mix of faded pastel stuccos, vibrant murals, and occasional graffiti that ranged from political statements to chaotic bursts of color. Here and there, ivy climbed up the weathered walls, softening the urban grit with a touch of nature's persistence. Old wooden doors, some battered and splintered, others carefully preserved, offered glimpses into a world of independent shops, eclectic galleries, and dimly lit cafés.
The air carried a medley of scents: the tang of fresh coffee from artisan roasters mingling with the faint mustiness of second-hand bookstores and the unmistakable metallic tang of the river nearby. Vinyl records spun softly in the open windows of a nearby music shop, the crackling melodies of jazz and indie rock spilling out onto the street. A weathered sign swung lazily in the breeze, announcing the shop's name: Needle & Groove. Inside, racks of vinyls were stacked floor-to-ceiling, and young customers flipped through them with reverent precision, as though uncovering treasures long forgotten.
Boutiques selling vintage clothes and hand-crafted accessories seemed to spring up in every available nook. They beckoned passersby with displays of retro jackets, leather boots, and dangling earrings made from recycled metals. A particularly striking storefront had a mannequin dressed in a patchwork coat made of denim scraps, the stitching forming an intricate map of a forgotten city. Next to it, a handwritten sign in chalk read: "Wear the past, shape the future."
Despite the urban hum, there was a sense of intimacy here. Streetlamps cast golden halos over small clusters of people, their laughter and conversation mingling with the distant sound of a busker playing a soulful tune on an acoustic guitar. The Old Town was a place of paradoxes—gritty yet welcoming, chaotic yet warm. It felt like a pocket of authenticity in a world striving too hard for perfection, a reminder that beauty could be found in imperfection and in the stories woven into every crack, every faded poster, and every piece of discarded history reimagined into art.
Most of the district's clientele were young and progressive, their political views often at odds with the rigid authority of Alexithymia's regime. Yet, despite the simmering undercurrent of dissent, this part of the city remained untouched by the heavy hand of control. Alexithymia, aware of the quiet rebellion brewing in its cafes, record shops, and art spaces, chose to preserve the Old Town. It was no act of leniency but a personal indulgence; he had grown up in a similar area and understood the pulse of places like this. The eclectic, defiant spirit of districts like the Old Town had shaped him, even informing his signature style—a blend of hipster flair and rock star charisma that made him both iconic and alien to those under his rule.
As Nion passed through the streets, the Old Town seemed to observe her, its kaleidoscope of sights and sounds urging her to pause, to listen, to see. But she pressed on, her focus fixed, though the pulse of the place tugged at the edges of her mind.
She was on her way to the central hospital, but the need for a brief respite from her thoughts pulled her toward a place she used to find solace—Heaven Café.
The café, nestled in the heart of the district, was one of the few spots in the city that still carried traces of the old world, before everything had become so controlled and automated. It had been months since she'd stepped in, and as she entered, she couldn't help but wonder how much had changed.
Heaven Café had once been a warm and bustling space where people gathered, laughed, and shared stories over steaming cups of coffee. Now, it felt sterile and lifeless, the vibrant energy it once had replaced by quiet solitude. The hum of machines and the rich scent of freshly ground coffee had been replaced with the sterile clink of self-service kiosks and the sharp, artificial smell of processed beverages. Most patrons sat in silence, their faces illuminated only by the glow of their mobile devices, as though the café had become just another extension of the digital world, a place for solitary consumption rather than human connection.
Nion ordered her usual—a strawberry macchiato—and sat at the counter. She pulled out her device, slipped on her headphones, and let the smooth melody of a song wash over her as she scrolled through her private messages. A moment of peace, or so she hoped.
As she sipped her drink, her thoughts wandered. What would this city look like if people didn't wear the Kanjöga? What was life like before everything became so fake, so controlled?
Her mind briefly drifted back to the time before the Mitera System had taken full control, to memories of a world where emotions were raw, unfiltered. Now, even the simplest moments seemed curated and manufactured.
Nion opened her old, personal mailbox—the one she had kept hidden from the Mitera System. It was filled with the usual spam and encrypted news alerts from rebel groups, their messages always masked in layers of secrecy. Most of these groups were operating outside the capital, where the surveillance was weaker, but even they couldn't escape the reach of the System for long. The messages from them were always a mix of warnings, complaints, and desperate calls to arms. She read through them, her eyes scanning for anything worth noting.
The news feed was full of troubling reports: Another 'Pleasure Drug' found at the central market; Metro citizens causing havoc at 'Gate 13'; Firearms trafficked into the Metro; Prostitution rates soaring in the upper-city...
Metro was always at the heart of the chaos. A twinge of frustration twisted inside Nion. I wish I could go there, see it for myself… she thought, but the Metro was under the watchful eyes of Quinto and Terzo. She wasn't permitted to go there, not due to any personal reasons, but because of the strict assignment zones and the conflict of interests.
As she scrolled down, one message caught her eye. It was from someone identified only as "AD." These initials were unfamiliar, but it didn't look like the usual random sender or a phishing attempt. The message itself was cryptic and unsettling:
'There are cemeteries that are lonely. Clogwyn's graves full of bones that do not make a sound. My heart moving through a tunnel, in its darkness, darkness, darkness, like a shipwreck. We die going into ourselves, as though I am willing to be drowned inside your sorrow, as though I live to see you breaking into pieces of emptiness.' Signed "AD" - LOVE:less act 0 -
Nion's pulse quickened as she reread the words. There was something about the message that gnawed at her, a hidden meaning, a thread she couldn't quite pull.
She glanced around the café, feeling a sudden unease settle in her chest. It was quieter than before, and the patrons seemed more distant, more isolated in their little bubbles. She quickly closed her device, her thoughts racing as she stood up and left the café. She needed to focus—there were more pressing matters ahead, but the message lingered, heavy on her mind.
In the meantime, Alexithymia had sent a message to all Keepers, informing them of a potential security breach in the Mitera System. The report included a brief update on Terzo—the third-ranking Keeper—who had gone missing several days ago. Alexithymia assured them that he was personally handling the incident.
[Late evening – Genf, Central Hospital]
"Here goes nothing," Nion mumbled as she stepped into the hospital room, her heart pounding with unease. The boy lay motionless on the cot, his fragile frame connected to a maze of IV lines and monitors. The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor filled the room, a fragile lifeline cutting through the sterile air. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a cold, clinical glow on his pale skin.
The room was utilitarian, devoid of comfort. An outdated TV hung from the corner of the ceiling, its dusty screen reflecting the stark white walls. Outside the single window, a blank concrete facade loomed, blocking any hint of the world beyond. It felt stifling, as though the room itself mirrored the oppressive system it operated under.
Moments later, the doctor entered, his presence as brisk and formal as the institution he served. A nurse followed, handing him a clipboard before silently tending to the boy's IV. The doctor skimmed through the report, his brow creased in thought. Finally, he turned to Nion, his expression unreadable.
"Mrs. Quarta, good evening," he began, his tone neutral. "That young man you brought here... Where is he from?"
Nion hesitated. "Does it matter?"
The doctor set the clipboard down, his gaze sharpening. "It does. That pale skin, the dark curls—he doesn't look like anyone from around here. Where does he come from?"
"Elpida," Nion admitted reluctantly. "Why does that matter?"
The nurse exited, and the doctor closed the door behind her, his demeanor shifting. "Because, Mrs. Quarta, this hospital is a public facility reserved for residents of the Lands of Alexithymia. Non-residents are strictly forbidden from receiving treatment here, regardless of their condition."
Nion clenched her fists, anger rising in her chest. "You're seriously going to let him die because of some policy?"
The doctor sighed, leaning against the counter. "I've done what I could. I stopped the hemorrhaging and stabilized his heart. But further treatment is out of the question. He's no longer in critical condition, but his heart is severely damaged, and he's lost a significant amount of blood. He needs extended care—somewhere else."
"Somewhere else?" Nion echoed bitterly. "And where exactly would that be?"
He shook his head. "I've spoken to my colleagues. None of them are willing to take him, for the same reasons I just mentioned. He can't stay here. If he were a citizen, there wouldn't be an issue, but he's not. Rules are rules."
Nion's nails dug into her palms. "Rules? He's a child! Doesn't his life mean anything to you?"
The doctor's gaze flicked to the unconscious boy, his voice softening. "Not all lives are equal, Mrs. Quarta. Not in this country. You know that better than anyone."
The words struck Nion like a physical blow. She turned toward the boy, his fragile body a stark reminder of the system's cruelty. Her mind raced, guilt and helplessness pressing down on her like a vice.
"Fine," she muttered, facepalming. "When do we need to move him?"
"Tomorrow, by 15:00," the doctor replied. "I suggest finding a facility in Elpida or somewhere nearby. That's the best I can offer."
As the doctor turned to leave, his parting words lingered in the air. "I've seen many lives lost over the years. What I've learned is that compassion only goes so far in the face of policy."
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Nion alone with the unconscious boy. She stood by his side, her eyes tracing the faint rise and fall of his chest. "Not all lives are equal," she whispered to herself, the words cutting deeper than she cared to admit. The weight of her responsibility felt unbearable, yet she knew she couldn't let him die—not like this.
The child seemed to be having a nightmare, his body twitching nervously. Suddenly, his eyes snapped open, staring at the surgical lamp above him as though it were the sun, about to consume him.
"Asta!" Alexis called out, half-asleep.
After crying out his brother's name, he collapsed back onto the bed, unconscious.
Late that same evening, the Mitera System sent an emergency notification: another group of trespassers was storming the border of Elpida.
"Eighteen hours before he gets kicked out of the hospital, and now there's another raid in Elpida. Day off no more..." Nion muttered as she left the hospital, heading to the outpost.