The knock on the door was sharp, a rhythmic intrusion that shattered the lingering silence of the nightmare. It wasn't the heavy thud of a giant's boot, but it made my heart lurch into my throat all the same.

  “Sir Wren? I heard screaming. I’m coming in,” the Manager’s voice drifted through the wood—calm, precise, and utterly devoid of the jagged edge it had held in my dreams.

  The door hissed open. The Manager stood framed in the pale light of the hallway, his porcelain mask a blank, unblinking moon in the darkness of my room. He didn't rush; he stepped inside with a measured grace that felt predatory until he saw me. I was a wreck—tangled in damp silks, shivering so hard the bedframe rattled, my skin slick with a cold, sour sweat.

  “I can predict what happened. I can definitively predict what happened,” he said, his voice dropping to a softer chime. He began to cross the room toward me. “Sir Wren, listen to me. You are not guilty. I know you don’t—”

  He stopped mid-sentence. As he drew near, I instinctively recoiled, pressing my back against the headboard until the wood bit into my spine. My breath was coming in ragged, hitching gasps, and in the dim light, his gloved hand looked exactly like the one that had held the knife over 418211-B.

  The Manager froze. He looked at my wide, blown-out pupils and the way I flinched from his shadow, then he slowly took three deliberate steps back, increasing the distance between us.

  “Ah. You’re still in shock. I see,” he murmured. There was a strange, muted quality to his tone now—not the usual cold authority, but something closer to a clinical empathy. “Sir Wren, I am aware of how I appear. My mask, my identity—or rather, the lack of one I am forced to portray. I wish I could show you the person beneath this porcelain, but alas, the Vows of this position are absolute. I cannot reveal myself, as much as I believe the sight of a human face would be good for your psyche right now.”

  He stood by the window, his silhouette cutting a sharp line against the moonlight. He didn't look at me directly, giving me the space to breathe.

  “Sir Wren,” the Manager began, their voice a perfect, filtered neutrality that gave away nothing. “I am going to ask you one question, and I want you to answer with total honesty. The Empire has a heavy investment in your future, but more importantly, we have an investment in your stability. Would you consider therapy?”

  I stared at the blank, porcelain face of the mask. My shivering was slowly subsiding, replaced by a dull, hollow ache that pulsed in time with my heartbeat. The idea of unburdening the weight of those red hands—of finally speaking about the static—felt like a trap and a lifeline all at once.

  “Does the Empire... allow that?” I rasped. My throat felt like it had been dragged over gravel.

  “The Empire allows whatever is necessary to keep its blades sharp,” the Manager replied, their head tilting just a fraction. “And right now, Sir Wren, you are beginning to chip. We do not wish for you to suffer a mental breakdown, nor do we wish for our most promising asset to be unstable before he even enters his first Rift.”

  I simply stared. Was the person behind the mask a man? A woman? It was maddening. The voice was synthesized to a perfect, genderless middle ground, and the robes hid every line of their frame.

  “I… what would they even help me with?” I asked, my cynicism fighting through the exhaustion.

  “Well, for starters, Sir Wren, we know you didn’t have the easiest life. It wasn't the hardest, perhaps, but I would wager heavily that the scales tipped toward the difficult. A specialist helps you maintain your center. Nightmares are rarely just a replay of the day’s events; they are the subconscious shouting at you to pay attention to a primal fear.”

  “I already was afraid of my mother, thank you very much,” I spat, the memory of her reaching for me still fresh.

  The Manager shook their head. The porcelain mask rippled, a slight texture change suggesting a sigh. “Not quite. Your mother is the catalyst, not the root. Are you afraid of her? Of women? Of authority? You don’t seem to react poorly to power; you’re polite, well-spoken, and you understand the tactical advantage of being overlooked as a child. No, the fear is deeper. Give it some thought.”

  The Manager stood, their silhouette casting a long shadow across the small room. “Do you think you could go back to sleep? You have another four hours before your morning cycle begins.”

  “Why are you awake, Manager?” I asked.

  “When you reach a certain point in your Path, sleep is simply a luxury you grant yourself, Sir Wren. It is a gift, but one I often avoid for the same reason you just awoke.” The mask took on a somber appearance, the smooth surface shifting into a subtle, sculpted frown. “No matter how many Tiers you climb, or how many years pass... my conscience reminds me that I once took a life. It wasn’t in war. It wasn’t sanctioned by the courts. In that moment, I became the Law itself.”

  A gloved hand reached out, patting my head with a surprising, grounded warmth. “Never let that weight fade, Sir Wren. Stay a songbird for as long as you can. Try to sleep.”

  They walked out, the door sealing with a soft hiss. Moments later, my pad buzzed on the nightstand.

  FROM: OFFICE OF THE MANAGER

  RE: WELLNESS RESOURCES

  The specialist is available 24/7. Do not hesitate to reach out. They are vetted through an [AI]-backed spiritual oath; your secrets are technically impossible for them to share. Most importantly, Sir Wren, this is a contractual benefit. It is already paid for. Do not let the Empire's credits go to waste. Take the advantage.

  Could I go back to sleep? Honestly, it felt like the answer was a resounding no. My heart was racing, a frantic drumming against my ribs that refused to slow down. My chest still felt the phantom imprint of the Giant’s boot—a heavy, crushing pressure that made every breath feel like a victory I hadn’t earned. It wasn't good. I knew that much. My [AI] flickered a warning about my elevated cortisol levels, but I ignored the data.

  I reached for my pad with a hand that wouldn't stop trembling and tapped the link the Manager had sent. I requested a meeting, half-expecting a "Business Hours" automated response.

  The reply was nearly instantaneous.

  FROM: Dr. Aris Psych PH.D

  Wren. Thank you for reaching out so soon. I would love to speak with you. Are you available now? I understand it’s quite early for you, but I’m more than happy to discuss any topic, at any time. I can be at your room in about ten minutes, or we could meet at the common training yard and I’ll escort you to a more private location. Which would you prefer?

  I stared at the screen. The politeness felt alien, but the lack of judgment was a relief. I thought about the long, shadow-drenched corridors between my room and the training yard—how every flicker of the mana-lights might look like a reaching hand.

  My room, if possible, I typed back. I’m a bit… scared to go out into the dark right now.

  I winced as I sent it. Admitting fear felt awful. A chink in the stoic armor I tried so hard to wear. But the reply came back before I could spiral into regret.

  Dr. Aris: Understood. I will be at your door in ten minutes. Expect a soft knock. I’ll bring a few cups of coffee for myself and a hot chocolate for you. You aren’t lactose intolerant, are you? I’ll bring a non-dairy version just in case. Worst-case scenario, you can have both; I’m sure the sugar will help lift your spirits. Be right over.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Less than five minutes had passed when a soft, rhythmic knock sounded against the metal of my door.

  “Wrtsdocismycmin?” A rapid-fired muffled blur was heard through the heavy insulation.

  A second later, there was another knock, clearer this time. “Wren, it is Dr. Aris. May I please come in?”

  “Door is unlocked,” I called out, my voice still small. “Please… please do.”

  The door slid open with a whisper of hydraulics. Dr. Aris walked in, and her presence seemed to instantly alter the room’s temperature, bringing a sense of calm that felt almost artificial. She was tall, her dark skin a sharp contrast to her shock of bone-white hair. Her arms and neck were etched with intricate runic tattoos that shimmered with a soft, bioluminescent glow whenever they caught the overhead lights.

  She paused, her golden eyes scanning the room. As she took in the surroundings, her brow furrowed into a deep frown.

  “I note a lack of… well, anything, Wren,” she said softly. Her gaze moved from the sterile kitchenette to the bolt-down table, then to the grey bedding. “No books, no mementos, no color. Just white and grey. It looks less like a room and more like a coffin. Is there a reason for that?”

  “I… I don’t have anything to decorate with,” I muttered, pulling the blanket tighter around my shoulders. The question felt like an accusation I didn't know how to answer. “What’s the point? It’s just a place to process the day and sleep.”

  She sighed deeply. It wasn't a sigh of annoyance, but one of profound concern. I could feel it radiating off her—not as a Talent, but as a genuine weight.

  “Since there aren’t any chairs other than those stools,” she said, gesturing toward the rigid metal seats by the counter, “may I sit next to you on the bed, Wren?”

  I nodded slowly, shifting over to make room.

  She sat, setting the two coffees and the steaming cup of hot chocolate on the nightstand. The scent of marshmallow and cocoa began to fight back against the clinical smell of the room.

  “I’d like to discuss several things with you,” she said, her golden eyes locking onto mine with a kindness that made me want to look away. “But first, I’d like you to explain in your own words… what originally called me in here tonight?”

  “I…”

  The word hung in the sterile air, fragile and thin. My mind raced, trying to find the right data point to offer her. How much was safe to say? Should I tell her I had a bad dream? That I felt like a lost child playing a part too big for my skin? That I was terrified that killing people would eventually kill the parts of me that still felt human?

  I looked at my hands. They were small. They felt out of place in this high-tech room, just as I felt out of place in this Empire. I knew how to beg. I knew how to scrap a living from the gutters and learn from discarded books. I didn't know how to be a "Most Promising Asset." Most of all, I didn't know why I still missed my mother, despite knowing with every logical fiber of my being that I shouldn't.

  “I’m scared, Dr. Aris,” I finally said. The admission felt like a physical weight dropping from my tongue. “I had a nightmare, and I realized… just how scared I am. The shadows in the corners… they don't look like shadows. They look like hands. Red hands, trying to drag me into the depths of the night. My chest hurts from a phantom boot that isn't there. And I’m… I’m alone.”

  The last word came out as a whisper, almost lost to the hum of the room’s ventilation.

  Dr. Aris didn't flinch. She didn't offer a platitude or tell me I was being brave. She simply reached out and pushed the cup of hot chocolate a few inches closer to me, the steam rising in a gentle, rhythmic swirl.

  “Thank you for being honest with me, Wren,” she said, her voice grounded and steady. “It takes a specific kind of strength to admit to fear when the world expects you to be a weapon.”

  She shifted slightly on the bed, her runic tattoos pulsing with a soft, golden rhythm that seemed to synchronize with the calm in her voice. “Could you tell me a bit more about these dreams? The hands, the phantom pain… when they appear, does it feel like a memory, or does it feel like something… added?”

  “I don’t know. I honestly—I don’t know!” I blurted out. My voice cracked, rising into a frantic, reedy pitch. I shook my head so hard my neck hurt, my hands knotting into the fabric of the blanket until my knuckles turned white. “The dream… they aren’t like stories. They’re just… they’re there.”

  I swallowed hard, my breath coming in shallow, jagged hitches. I felt small. Smaller than I had ever been.

  “In the dream, I was back in the gutter. In the trash. Just… back in the filth,” I rasped, my eyes darting around the sterile room as if the walls were about to dissolve into rusted corrugated metal. “I was being ignored, which isn't unusual, but everyone was so big. Doctor, they were mountains. Everyone was so impossibly big that they couldn't have seen me even if they’d tried to. I was just… dust.”

  I started to shiver again, a violent, rhythmic tremor that I couldn’t calculate away.

  “Then the children came. Forty of them. Forty children I’d never seen before, but I knew them. I knew their faces because they were the victims of the man I… the man I executed. They weren’t ghosts; they were weights. They grabbed me with cold, small hands and dragged me down, down into the darkness where the light doesn't reach. And she was there. My mother.”

  I choked on the word, a sob threatening to break through.

  “She was waiting for me. She watched me get stepped on by a giant on the streets—she just watched, like I was a bug under a boot. And she was cruel. She wasn't a mother; she was a void. She was screaming for power. For credits. For blood. And then…” I reached up, clawing at the collar of my shirt, feeling the phantom itch of a life I thought I’d escaped.

  “Then I felt it. Just as I woke up. The jagged edge of a broken, empty bottle pressed against my skin… and the frenzy. That horrible, shaking, needle-induced frenzy. It was in my veins, Doctor. It was in my head! I’m not—I’m not a weapon! I’m just… I’m just a mistake!”

  I collapsed inward, tucking my head toward my knees, my breath hitching in a pathetic, weak whine

  I felt a brief, light touch—like a feather landing on my shoulder—before I was pulled into a hug. It wasn't the hard, demanding grip I was used to; it was soft, grounding, and smelled faintly of ozone and old paper.

  “Wren,” she whispered into my hair. “Thank you. Thank you for being so brave, for being so honest, and for telling me these scary things. Let’s talk about what all this means—or what I think it means. Dreams are funny little things, you see? They like to tell stories, but they don't always use the right words.”

  She cleared her throat softly. Without standing up, she gestured toward the nightstand. I watched as the cup of hot chocolate rose into the air, guided by a shimmering thread of golden mana, and settled gently into my shaking hands.

  “Drink, little bird. It’s okay.”

  I took a sip. It was thick, sweet, and carried a tiny hint of bitterness that cut through the sugar. It was the warmest thing I had ever felt. It felt… safe.

  “Let’s start at the very beginning,” she said, her voice dropping into a gentle, melodic lilt. “You, back in the gutter, surrounded by the trash. That part was very real, wasn't it? It’s a literal place from your memory.”

  I nodded. Softly. Slowly. My forehead brushed against her shoulder.

  “This is just your brain remembering where you were a few weeks ago,” she continued, patting my hand. “You see yourself as a ‘boy in the gutter.’ You think you’re part of the ‘trash.’ But that isn't true, Wren. You aren't where you came from. I know it’s hard to believe right now, but you aren't the dirt on your shoes. You’re the person wearing them.”

  She sighed, a long, weary sound that made the runes on her skin dim for a moment.

  “Seeing everyone as giants… I think you’re right to be scared of that. But the biggest problem isn't that they are big. It’s that you feel all alone. You feel like you’re trapped in a cage, even though the door is wide open. You feel like you’re in a quiet, grey box because you don't have anyone to fill it with.”

  She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper against my ear.

  “The grown-ups want you to think that being a child ends the moment you get tall. It doesn't, Wren. Between you and me? We’re all just bigger children pretending we know what we’re doing.”

  She sat back up, staring at the ceiling as if she could see through the layers of the Empire’s steel.

  “Those forty children in your dream? That’s called ‘guilt,’ but it’s a trick your brain is playing on you. You’re thinking, ‘That could have been me.’ You feel bad because you survived and they didn't. That is very normal, and it’s okay to feel sad for them, but you didn't hurt them, Wren. You’re just the one who knew what happened to them.”

  She squeezed my hand gently.

  “The giant stepping on you? That’s how it feels when you think you can't make your own choices. You feel like a boot is always over your head. But you can choose, Wren. You just have to find your own path, one little step at a time. And the last thing… about your mother.”

  Her golden eyes turned serious, reflecting the light like polished coins.

  “She is in rehab, Wren. Do you know what that means? It means she is in a place where people are trying to fix her broken head. She can't reach you. She isn't allowed near you. She isn't even allowed to know what planet you’re on. That woman… her touch wasn't love. She was the trash you’re trying to dig yourself out of. You’re the flower growing out of the junk pile, Wren. Don't let the junk pull you back down.”