STARLIGHT UNBOUND by Deus Ex Machina - HTML preview

STARLIGHT UNBOUND

curators all wanted the same thing: alignment wrapped in a package that looked rebellious enough to intrigue, but not enough to threaten. They believed they were pushing the boundaries, ‘living on the edge’. They didn’t know what the edge even looked like.

As long as she kept feeding them harmony disguised as art, they ’d keep her in their orbit.

Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she planted her feet on the floor, stretching out the tension in her spine.

As she rose and crossed the room, she glanced back toward the bed, where a graffiti kit peeked out from beneath —a bundle of spray cans, well-worn stencils, and smudges of charcoal staining the fabric of an old blanket. A quiet rebellion waiting in the shadows.

Then she glanced at the neatly stacked canvases against the opposite wall, their clean, symmetrical lines glowing in the morning light.

Two worlds. She lived between them, but belonged to neither.

Lyra filtered her fingers through her hair, padding toward the kitchenette. The aroma of stale coffee from the night before still wafted faintly in the air, mixing with the metallic tang of paint and the sterile scent of the city seeping through the cracked window. She stared at the coffee machine, debating whether to make a fresh cup or crawl back into bed and let the day slip away.

Instead, she stood there, fingers idly tracing the edge of the countertop, the silence deafening. She should respond to the messages, should prepare for the next panel, should do everything expected of her. But the thought of it felt suffocating, like an iron band around her ribs.

Her fingers twitched toward the graffiti kit.

A familiar ache stirred inside her —an urge, a pull, a whisper that refused to stay buried. One day, it would push too hard, and she ’d lose control of the balance she maintained so carefully.

She stared at the window, where the towering skyline stretched beyond, flawless and unyielding. “Not today,” she murmured, pulling away from the counter and reaching for her cigarette tin instead. The metallic flick of her lighter filled the stillness, followed by the soft crackle of burning paper.

Smoke swirled lazily around her fingers as she leaned against the counter, her eyes locked on the blank canvas across the room.

The two worlds clashed here, in this room, but both of them lived inside her.

And sooner or later, something had to give.

Which will it be?

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