STARLIGHT UNBOUND by Deus Ex Machina - HTML preview

STARLIGHT UNBOUND

He forced himself to eat, the bland texture and taste doing nothing to satisfy him. Still, he pushed through, his mind elsewhere as he focused on the counter. He set the empty package aside, the ache in his stomach had eased a bit.

Lucien returned to the dining table as his eyes drifted back to the thumb drive. This is it. This is the moment where everything changes. The thought made his stomach twist again, though this time it had nothing to do with hunger. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as he stared at the drive daring him to pick it up. I need answers. And she ’s the only one who is going to help with that.

He reached for the drive, pausing his hand above it before he picked it up, slipping it into his coat pocket. Standing, he grabbed his coat from the back of the chair and slung it over his shoulders. As he headed for the door, his steps slowed, his hand hovering over the scanner.

Is this the last time I’ll leave this apartment? His stomach fluttered. No. Don’t be dramatic. But the thought lingered, settling in the back of his mind like an unwelcome guest. He pressed his wrist device to the scanner, the door sliding open. The hallway beyond was quiet. Lucien hesitated, his heart pounding. He stepped through the doorway as the door slid shut behind him.

***

Lyra pulled on her boots as the early light of the city filtered through the window.

She paused, hands resting on her knees, eyes drifting to the wrist device on her bedside table. The display pulsed softly, a constant reminder of her schedule, her obligations—her ordered life.

In the small mirror above the dresser, her reflection stared back, unfamiliar and distant. Hair pinned back, hands scrubbed clean of paint, dressed in the sleek, minimalistic pencil dress approved by AstroSYS. No sharp edges. No bold colors. The perfect representation of harmony.

And yet, beneath the polished exterior, she felt anything but.

Lyra stood, crossing the room with slow, deliberate steps. Her fingers swept along the scattered remnants of her real self—the tiny starburst model she had carved years ago, a sketch of an unfinished mural, a collection of paints and brushes huddled in a chipped ceramic jar.

Everything felt distant now, fragments of a life she was struggling to hold onto.

How much longer can I keep this up?

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