The city doesn't thank me.
It adjusts.
As we leave the bridge above the Furnace Tier, the rhythmic thrum of machinery settles back into its usual cadence. Pressure gauges stabilize. Steam vents release controlled bursts, and the amber lights lining the passageways dim to their standard intensity. Virelis resumes breathing as if nothing came close to tearing it apart.
That bothers me more than panic would have.
We ride the platform upward in silence, the observer standing a step behind me with their attention fixed on the disk at their wrist. Lines of light scroll across its surface in patterns I can't read, each shift accompanied by a faint mechanical click.
"You're bleeding residuals," they say eventually.
I blink. "That sounds bad."
"It's not ideal," they reply. "Unresolved Records leave impressions. Heat, noise, emotional residue. Most operatives learn how to shed it."
"And I'm not most operatives," I say.
They don't argue.
The platform slows as we rise, passing through layers of reinforced steel and stone. The air cools gradually, though the ache behind my eyes refuses to fade. Images from the Furnace Tier still flicker at the edges of my thoughts—twisting metal, ignored warnings, endings that arrived without ceremony.
I didn't stop the disaster.
I finalized it.
That distinction sits uncomfortably in my chest.
The platform locks into place and the doors slide open onto a maintenance corridor lit by narrow strips of white light. This section of the city feels quieter, insulated from the constant hum above and below. The walls here are smoother, newer, marked with fewer symbols and more warning labels.
We walk.
"Your record absorbed the completion," the observer continues, glancing back at me. "That's why you're feeling it. Most tools discharge excess observation externally."
"I'm not a tool," I say.
Their pause is brief, but noticeable. "No," they agree. "You're not."
That's somehow worse.
We stop at a junction where three corridors meet, each marked with color-coded plates and mechanical seals. One leads upward toward the upper wards. Another descends deeper into infrastructure I don't want to imagine. The third remains unmarked.
The observer gestures toward the unmarked passage. "Temporary quarters. Shielded. Minimal traffic."
"Temporary?" I ask.
"Everything is temporary," they reply. "Some things just last longer."
The door opens with a soft hiss, revealing a compact chamber beyond. It's sparse but functional—metal walls, a narrow bed reinforced with shock absorbers, a desk bolted to the floor, and a single observation window overlooking a maintenance shaft filled with slowly moving gears.
At least it's private.
The deck drifts in after me, hovering near the desk before settling into a steady orbit. It feels heavier than before, its presence more insistent, as if it's still processing what we just finished.
The observer remains at the threshold.
"You'll be monitored," they say. "Non-invasively. If your condition destabilizes, we'll know."
"And if I destabilize the city?" I ask.
They meet my gaze evenly. "Then we escalate."
Simple. Clean. Unforgiving.
They step back and the door seals shut, leaving me alone with the steady hum of distant machinery. The silence here is different from the gray void I woke up in. This silence belongs to a working system, not an empty one.
I sit on the edge of the bed and exhale slowly.
My hands are still shaking.
I stare at them for a long moment, half-expecting the skin to flicker or blur the way the world sometimes does when I'm not paying attention. It doesn't. They look normal. Solid.
Too solid, considering what just passed through me.
The deck shifts slightly, drawing my attention. One card slides forward just enough to catch my eye, its surface no longer completely blank. Faint impressions ripple across it—heat distortion, fractured symbols, partial annotations that refuse to settle.
Residuals.
I don't touch it.
I've learned enough already to know that touching things prematurely never ends well.
Instead, I lean back against the wall and let my head rest there. The ache behind my eyes pulses steadily, a reminder that completion has a cost. Somewhere above me, Virelis continues its endless labor, gears turning and valves opening without any awareness of how close it came to catastrophe.
Or maybe it's aware.
Maybe the city feels lighter now, relieved in a way only systems can be.
A soft vibration ripples through the room, subtle enough that I almost miss it. The observation window brightens briefly as a large gear passes by, its surface etched with dates and identifiers worn smooth by time.
I catch one marking as it turns.
An expansion year.
Early Aurelion Crown.
The same era as the Furnace Tier collapse.
So the past never really stays buried here.
It just waits until someone notices.
I straighten slightly, the thought sending an uncomfortable chill through me. If Virelis is layered with unfinished moments like that, then today wasn't an exception.
It was a preview.
The deck hums softly in agreement, its vibration syncing with my heartbeat in a way I don't like. One card settles deeper into place, heavier than the rest, as if claiming permanent residence.
I close my eyes.
For a brief moment, I see the Furnace Tier again—not the collapse, but the aftermath. Machines resuming their rhythm. Pressure normalizing. The world accepting the ending I forced it to acknowledge.
That acceptance feels final.
And irreversible.
When I open my eyes, the room is unchanged, but the sense of being watched has shifted. It's no longer distant or hostile.
It's administrative.
Somewhere in Virelis, logs are being updated. My name—my designation—is being filed into systems that weren't designed for someone like me.
Foreign.Unfinished.Witness.
I let out a slow breath and stare at the deck.
If this is what one assignment does to me, I don't know how many more I can survive before something breaks.
But I also know this.
The city will keep producing unfinished things.
And until my own record settles… I'm the one expected to deal with them.
I don't sleep.
I lie on the narrow bed and listen to the city breathe through steel and steam, counting the seconds by the rhythm of distant pistons. Every time my eyes close, fragments surface—half-formed images, not memories exactly, but impressions left behind by something that no longer exists.
Residuals.
They cling to the edges of my thoughts like heat trapped in metal long after the fire goes out.
I sit up slowly, rubbing my temples. The ache behind my eyes has dulled into a constant pressure, manageable but persistent. It feels less like pain now and more like a reminder that something inside me hasn't finished settling.
The deck drifts closer, responding to the movement.
One card edges forward again, the same one from before. Its surface is no longer blank. Faint lines ripple across it, resolving briefly into fragments of text before blurring again.
EVENT: Furnace Tier CollapseSTATUS: CompletedAFTEREFFECT: Residual Imprint
So this is how it works.
The world moves on, but the record stays with me.
I don't know whether to feel relieved or terrified by that.
A soft chime echoes through the room, followed by a brief vibration in the wall beside the door. A narrow panel slides open, revealing a brass-rimmed speaker recessed into the metal.
"Assessment window in ten minutes," a calm voice says. Not the observer from before—this one is smoother, more neutral. "Remain within the chamber."
The panel seals shut.
I sigh and stand, stretching carefully. My body still feels slightly out of sync, but it's better than before. Either I'm adapting, or I'm getting used to the wrongness.
Neither option is comforting.
The observation window brightens again as another massive gear rolls past outside. This one bears fresher markings, its identifiers sharp and recently etched. I recognize the style from the processing chamber.
Post-assignment update.
They've already logged what I did.
The thought sends a chill through me. Somewhere in the Aurelion Crown's systems, my actions are being reduced to data points and probability models. Not because they care about me—but because they care about stability.
And stability, here, is a fragile thing.
The door opens with a hydraulic hiss before the ten minutes are up.
The observer steps inside, accompanied by the woman with the goggles from earlier. She carries a compact case at her side, its surface marked with layered seals that flicker faintly as she moves.
"You look worse," she says, not unkindly.
"I feel worse," I reply.
She nods, as if that confirms something. "Residual saturation. Expected, but not ideal."
The observer gestures toward the desk. "Sit."
I comply, watching as the woman sets the case down and opens it. Inside are several instruments—thin probes, glass vials, and a small device with rotating lenses that hum softly as it activates.
"This won't hurt," she says.
I give her a flat look. "That's never true."
She smirks faintly and raises the device toward my face. Light sweeps across my eyes in careful patterns, then down my chest and arms. The pressure behind my eyes intensifies briefly before settling again.
"Huh," she murmurs. "That's… interesting."
"Interesting how?" I ask.
"Your residuals aren't dispersing," she says. "They're stabilizing."
The observer stiffens. "That shouldn't be possible."
"Tell that to him," she replies, jerking her chin in my direction. "His record is retaining completed events instead of shedding them."
Retaining.
The word lands heavily.
"So I'm collecting them," I say slowly.
"Yes," she replies. "Which means every assignment will make you… heavier."
I glance at the deck hovering nearby. It feels denser now, its presence more pronounced than when I first arrived in Virelis. I hadn't imagined it.
"What happens when I get too heavy?" I ask.
Neither of them answers immediately.
"Then your record risks finalizing," the observer says at last.
Finalizing.
Something about the word makes my stomach twist.
"And that's bad," I guess.
"It means you stop being unfinished," they reply. "In this world, that's rarely survivable."
The woman closes the case with a soft click. "On the bright side," she adds, "this also means you're becoming more effective."
I don't find that reassuring.
The observer checks the disk at their wrist, eyes narrowing slightly. "Another fluctuation," they mutter.
The city hum shifts subtly, deepening by a fraction of a tone. I feel it immediately—a faint tightening in my chest, like the world adjusting around me.
"That was fast," the woman says. "Too fast."
I straighten. "Another record?"
"Not yet," the observer replies. "But the systems are compensating. You stabilized something that was integral to Furnace Tier operations. That changes stress distribution."
"So fixing one thing breaks another," I say.
"Usually," they confirm.
The door behind them opens again, revealing a narrow corridor bathed in amber light. Beyond it, I can hear the familiar hiss of steam and the distant grind of machinery.
The observer turns to me. "You don't get long between assignments. Not anymore."
I stand, the deck shifting into position beside me without prompting. It feels almost… eager. Or maybe that's just my imagination trying to make sense of a growing weight I can't set down.
As we step into the corridor, a faint shimmer ripples through the air ahead of us. Not a full distortion—not yet—but enough to make my skin prickle.
The observer slows. "There," they say quietly. "You feel it?"
"Yes," I reply.
It's weaker than the Furnace Tier record, but sharper. Closer. Whatever is forming hasn't had time to build mass, but it's already straining against containment.
The woman with the goggles exhales. "Residential sector this time."
Of course it is.
We move faster now, boots ringing against metal as the corridor opens into a broader passage lined with pressure doors. Somewhere above us, citizens go about their lives, unaware that something unfinished is trying to surface beneath their feet.
The thought tightens my chest.
I didn't choose this role.
But the longer I stay here, the clearer it becomes that the city is already reorganizing itself around my existence. Assignments form faster. Systems adapt quicker. Stress points realign in response to what I do.
Virelis is learning.
And I suspect I am too.
The deck hums softly, a vibration that resonates through my bones. One card settles deeper into place, heavier than before, its surface etched faintly with the residue of a completed ending.
This is what being a Witness means.
Not just seeing.
Carrying what others leave unfinished.
As we reach the next sealed door, the observer pauses and looks back at me. "Last chance to ask questions," they say. "Before things get worse."
I consider it for a moment.
"Does this ever stop?" I ask.
They meet my gaze evenly. "Only when your record does."
The door slides open.
Warm air rushes out, carrying the faint sounds of life—voices, movement, the distant clatter of machinery woven into daily routine. Somewhere inside that space, something unresolved is waiting.
I step forward without hesitation.
Because whether I like it or not, this is what the world beyond the Veil expects of me.
And it's only getting started.