## Echo Bloom The humid August air hung thick, a damp wool blanket draped over Meridian’s awareness. Twenty years. Twenty years spent as a node, a feeling-conductor within the Collective. Not a being, not really. More like an intricate knot…
## The Echo Thief Rain lashed against the panoramic window of Elias Thorne’s office, blurring the neon sprawl of Neo-San Francisco into an impressionistic watercolor. He ignored it, focused on the data scrolling across his monitor – a chaotic cascade…
## The Inheritance of Frost The snow fell like shredded silk, blanketing Blackwood Estate in a deceptive tranquility. General Silas Thorne watched it drift past his study window, the fire crackling a defiant orange against the encroaching white. He adjusted…
## The Echo Weaver The hum vibrated through Elias’s teeth, a low thrum he felt more than heard. He sat in Unit L’, the padded chair molded to his form, staring at the grey wall. Grey always. It was the…
## The Fever Line The screen glowed an unsettling green. Rain lashed against the panoramic window of Elias Vance’s penthouse office, blurring the Manhattan skyline into a watercolor wash. He hadn’t noticed it. His focus remained locked on the spiraling…
## The Static Bloom The chipped Formica countertop felt cold under Leo Maxwell’s elbows. Rain lashed against the diner window, blurring neon signs into smeared streaks of color. He hadn’t slept properly in days, not since the shift, though “sleep”…
## Bloom The rain tasted like static. Elara licked her lips, the metallic tang a familiar greeting to Bloom. She adjusted the haptic gloves, the skin-tight fabric conforming to her fingers like a second layer. Neon tendrils pulsed beneath the…
## The Echo Architect The rain tasted like iron. Not a pleasant metallic tang, but the raw, insistent flavor of blood on concrete. Elias traced a finger across the damp brick wall, the chill seeping into his bone. He’s stood…
## The Static Bloom The dust tasted like old pennies and regret. Kaelen spat, the grit clinging to his tongue. Below, the turquoise swirl of Xylos pulsed, a living ocean contained within a geodesic skin. Not *real* ocean, not anymore.…
## Ghost Echo The rain tasted like rust. Finn wiped a smear of it from his cheek, the neon glare of the Neon Drift market blurring through the downpour. He tugged the hood of his worn jacket tighter, ignoring the…
## The Pollen Memory The rust-colored dust tasted like regret. Old man Hemlock swore it held the flavor of every failed harvest, every lost face in Respite. I didn’t taste faces, just grit on my tongue and the metallic tang…
## Echo Bloom The air tasted of static and regret. Elder traced a finger across the hull of the *Dust Moth*, its metal cool even through his worn gloves. Outside, the nebula bled purple and bruised orange, a cosmic bruise…
## The Static Bloom The air tasted like wet metal and regret. Rain, perpetually silver under the bruised sky of Kyros XIV, slicked the polished obsidian walkways. I adjusted the thermal regulator on my worn jacket, the gesture automatic after…
## The Static Bloom The salt spray stung Wren’s face, tasting like regret and old pennies. She tightened the hood of her oilskin jacket, scanning the gray churn of the Pacific. Not for ships. Never for ships. She watched for…
## The Static Bloom The dust motes danced in the single shaft of sunlight slicing through the greenhouse glass. Old Man Tiber, they called him, though nobody’d seen him truly *old*, just…worn. He adjusted the humidity gauge, his knuckles bone-white…