Nyxara Rising
A woman leaned forward, her eyes fathomless, shadows flickering in their depths—something ancient and hungry peered from behind her human face.
“We don’t just erase anomalies,” she said, her voice silk on steel. “We curate outcomes.”
Nyxara snorted, the sound harsh, raw. “You screwed up.”
“We postponed,” the woman fired back, tone clipped. There was no regret in her words—only calculation. Every mistake was simply a delay, an inconvenience to be managed.
A third twist, and the room seemed to tighten.
The man lifted a hand. A projection shimmered to life above the table—digital and spectral, a cascade of files, timelines, faces flickering in rapid succession. Nyxara’s breath hitched.