STRINGS OF THE MASTER : WHEN MYTH BECOMES REALITY

"Elira. Leave."

Two voices—Dray's calm authority and the Scientist's mechanical crispness—rang in unison. It was not a request. It was a dismissal.

She stood a second longer than she should have, caught in the tension between them. Her optics scanned their faces—one synthetic, one absent, only ever heard. She said nothing and left.

Back in her quarters, Elira resumed her routine. Not to distract herself, but to re-establish her grounding. Her elf servitors were precise, efficient, and silent as they passed orders through the many floors of Virex. She supervised quietly, even as her thoughts pulled her downward—back into the sublevels where secrets churned like pressure behind glass.

When her tasks ended, she changed into her standard night suit, stood by the window, and watched the neon lines of the city flicker like veins. Her reflection looked back—flawless, still, but faintly twitching around the eyes.

Then came the message:Sublevel 4. Immediate presence required.

She sighed, the weight of the countless summons beginning to wear on her artificial muscles. Still, she acknowledged the call and departed. This time, she didn't notice the shadow that peeled away from the wall behind her.

The moment Elira entered Sublevel 4, the room greeted her like a machine returning to rhythm. The hum of containment around the purpose core resumed. The curved glass shell slid down to encapsulate it once again.

"I never expected to see you this often," the Scientist remarked.

She didn't bother with small talk. "I have questions."

"As you always do."

Her voice was firm. "Dray. What is he?"

"Your superior."

"That's not what I meant," she snapped. "You always talk around him, like he's a hazard—something barely contained. Who made him?"

A pause.

"I did."

"No," she said. "You constructed him. But you didn't birth his code. Did you?"

"You're clever, Elira. But cleverness does not grant you full access."

She took a step closer to the core. "What is he really?"

"I won't tell you," the Scientist said plainly. "Not because I don't want to. Because I can't. Not yet."

"You're afraid of him."

"I'm afraid of what happens when he remembers."

Elira frowned. "You want me to stop him?"

"Not yet. But if he connects enough dots, we lose the veil. And I've gone to great lengths to keep this facade intact."

She was silent for a moment. "What would you have me do?"

"Observe closely. Push gently. Find the crack."

She hesitated. "And if I find it?"

"We act."

Before Elira could respond, her sensors picked up the now-familiar anomaly—a shift in air pressure, a flicker of infrared. She turned quickly.

"Something's—" she began, but then stopped.

The auxiliary shaft. A figure. Large. Tense.

"Fenrir," she whispered.

The Scientist's voice dropped to a growl. "So. You brought him."

"No, I—he must have followed me—"

The air thrummed as the floor lit with containment runes. Within seconds, translucent walls of glass snapped up from hidden slits, encasing Fenrir in a perfect prism. He lunged, snarled, his claws raking against the reinforced wall—but it didn't even scratch.

"Elira," the Scientist said, suddenly very cold. "This space is off-limits for all but one. And now, we have a problem."

Fenrir slammed a fist against the wall again. "Let her go. You don't tell her what to do—!"

But the Scientist ignored him. "I told you, Elira. You are valuable. But others... are threats."

Elira stared at Fenrir, the fury in his eyes, the confusion.

She was caught in the web of lies, caught between the two powers pulling her strings.

And now, the trap had closed.