STARLIGHT UNBOUND by Deus Ex Machina - HTML preview

STARLIGHT UNBOUND

her work had left behind.

She focused on the glowing orbits, their gentle motion hypnotic. No imperfections. The raw streaks of color were already fading into memory, replaced by cold, calculated precision.

Her fingers twitched around the empty coffee cup, as though longing for a brush, for a spray can —anything to break the monotony. She sighed, tossing the cup into a nearby waste receptacle and rubbing her palm against her thigh as if to wipe away the itch.

She took one last look at the pristine display before turning toward the conference rooms for her first meeting.

“Just shoot me, please.”

***

By early afternoon, Lyra had slipped out of the gallery unnoticed, her public obligations complete. The city’s order sinking in around her, but she moved through it like a shadow, her blazer discarded in favor of a simple jacket that let her blend into the crowd. The further she moved from the polished heart of Sector 6, the more the world began to shift.

The smooth, orderly facades gave way to cracked sidewalks and rusted edges, where the air smelled of damp concrete and something metallic. Here, the veneer of perfection thinned, revealing a city that didn ’t quite fit the AstroSYS ideal.

She turned down a narrow alley, her boots scuffing against the uneven pavement. Pausing for a breath, she glanced over her shoulder—an old habit she could never quite shake —before tapping a pattern against an unmarked door. A pause, then the door creaked open, the familiar scent of paint and solvent spilling out to greet her.

Inside, the air felt richer—alive. The walls were lined with canvases, their surfaces raw and unpolished, while shelves overflowed with brushes, jars of pigment, and scraps of paper covered in half-finished sketches. A few drops of paint dotted the floor, chaotic bursts of color marring the gray concrete.

This was her real studio, the one no one knew about. No polished harmony. No calculated symmetry. Just her.

Her shoulders eased as she moved to one of the workbenches. A half-finished painting sat on the easel, its bold strokes and chaotic colors a stark contrast to the safe, sterile pieces she displayed at the gallery. She ran her fingers over the surface, tracing the swirling patterns with a touch both reverent

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