The alarm on the old digital clock on my bedside table goes off, as if I needed it. I was already awake. The sun, punctual as always, begins to invade the room through the cracks in the window, bringing a light that is too strong for my tired eyes. It is the final push to make me get up.
My routine starts automatically, as always. Bathroom, wardrobe, kitchen, keychain, door. I go through each step without thinking, as if I were following a well-worn script. Outside, my bike waits for me, damp from the early morning dew. The drops running down the handlebars freeze my fingers as soon as I touch them, but I don't stop. I sit on the saddle, adjust my backpack on my back and start pedaling towards the city center.
The city is still asleep, except for the usual few workers—men in impeccable suits in company cars who are moving in a line toward their grand buildings. The roar of their engines echoes in the empty street, a low sound that contrasts with the distant song of a thrush.
I keep a steady pace on the narrow asphalt, occasionally glancing at the trees that have survived the expansion of the sidewalks. They are few in number, but there is something comforting about seeing them there, like reminders of a time when the city seemed to breathe.
The route from my apartment to the city center is predictable, almost like a recycled setting in a video game. First, the tall, monochromatic buildings of the commercial district, with their shuttered storefronts and dimmed neon signs. Then, a small, unkempt square, where the bandstand seems to be standing stubbornly. A group of pigeons peck at the ground, completely oblivious to the world around them.
As I approach the post office, the city center begins to come to life. Newsstands open their doors, cafes turn on their lights, and the smell of fresh bread fills the air. But as always, I pass through it all without stopping. The clock reminds me that it is still too early for any distractions.
When I see the agency, I start to feel in my pocket for the key. My bike is left in a safe place, the reinforced padlock giving me some peace of mind. Standing in front of the door, I look at my reflection in the window and let out a sigh. "May this Wednesday be different," I think, knowing full well that it won't be.
I turn the key and go in. The place is as quiet as ever, and the smell of old disinfectant greets me like a routine greeting. Since I'm the first to arrive, it's my job to prepare everything. I grab the broom from the corner and begin sweeping the floor, the harsh sound of the bristles echoing in the empty space. Then I move to the counters, disinfecting the surfaces while glancing at the pile of packages and letters waiting for me.
The slow system powers up with a low beep , and as programs drag on loading, I check orders in and out . The printer, by some miracle, doesn't need any adjustments today. This gives me a few extra minutes to set up my delivery route, something I prefer to do alone, away from unnecessary stares or questions.
But, as if the universe conspired against me, I hear the front door open.
— Good morning, Ludovico! — Elias's cheerful voice echoes through the room. He always arrives early, even though he is not obliged to open the agency.
— Good morning. — I murmur , without looking away from the computer screen.
Elias approaches, dropping his backpack on the counter.
— Excited for today?
I raise an eyebrow, not understanding. He seems surprised by my confusion.
— The celebration in the square, of course. It's always quite an event! — he says, smiling as if it were obvious. — There'll be music, a sermon... You know how it is.
Yes, I know. The whole city knows. The church organizes these events almost every month, transforming the main square into a stage for collective devotion. I've never been. Not for lack of invitation, but because I don't see the point in going.
— Oh, I didn't know it would be today. — I say, trying to end the subject. But Elias doesn't give up.
— You should go this time. It's good, you know? Someone like you might find... answers there.
Answers. He says this with a conviction that bothers me, as if it were obvious that I was lost. I feel my hand tighten on the mouse, but I say nothing.
I do my best to speed up the work, hoping Elias will get the hint and leave me alone. But as usual, he either doesn't notice or chooses to ignore it.
"Did you hear they're going to build another church in the La-Polis neighborhood?" he asks, with the same enthusiasm as before. "I can't wait to see how they're going to decorate it! How lucky are you, huh? It's going to be right next to your house!"
My hand freezes over the keyboard. For a moment, I think I've heard wrong.
— W -what? What neighborhood did you say? — I ask, trying to sound casual, but my voice comes out more strained than it should.
Elias laughs, not noticing anything strange.
— La—Polis. They say they got a huge donation for the land there.
— A—oh, really? — I try to sound disinterested, but my mind is already racing.
It can't be true. La-Polis was my refuge, a remote neighborhood, far from the religious fervor that consumes the rest of the city. The idea of having a church so close... No, it can't be.
- Good morning guys.
Claudio's voice echoes through the agency, announcing his arrival. He's another coworker, and luckily for me, Elias goes straight to him.
— Hey! Did you hear the news?!
I resist the temptation to listen any further. I just focus on what's in front of me, ignoring the conversation that's already making me feel sick just thinking about it. My hands are working fast, and my only goal now is to get this over with and get out of here.
◇ ◇ ◇
Finally. The delivery route is ready, with hours and hours of solitary work ahead of me. I breathe a sigh of relief as I stretch, feeling the slight crack in my back before I stand up.
At the back of the agency, I start loading the box truck. I stack the packages carefully, making sure each package is secure for the journey. Then, I place the bag with the letters on the passenger seat, adjusting the belt so that it doesn't slip.
The GPS clicks on, and the engine roars as I turn the key in the ignition. Black smoke billows from the exhaust, making me wrinkle my nose. "I need to get this checked," I think, even though I know I probably won't do anything.
With one last look at the agency, I put the car in gear and head down the road, finally alone.
This time, I leave the sound and radio off. First, because I heard that they are monitoring what the employees listen to. Second, because most radio stations only play sermons and worship music. So I walk in silence, at least outside of my mind, which never rests. My thoughts flow like a turbulent river, difficult to control.
Elijah... I'm sure I've told him I don't share his faith. More than once, in fact. But over time, I decided to just let it go. I thought that would solve it. It didn't.
◇ ◇ ◇
My gaze wanders down the street as I drive, recognizing the path almost by instinct. That's when I notice, too late, that I'm passing in front of one of the city's Sacred Flame of the Redeemer churches. To make matters worse, the traffic light is red.
I stop the car and look at the building in front of me. It is imposing, with a tall tower that almost touches the sky. The colored stained glass windows shine in the sunlight, and the gold details seem to glow. For a moment, I feel overwhelmed by the grandeur of the place.
— Excuse me, sir...
The sound of light tapping on the window snaps me out of my trance. I look to the side and see a man, in worn clothes, holding a small pot. A beggar.
I lower the window, trying to ignore the growing discomfort.
— Could you, by the grace of the Lord above, spare some change for me?
— I—I don't...
The words die in my mouth. There's no point in justifying myself. I search my pockets for some coins and, after a moment, I find a small one. I hand it to him.
— Oohh ! Thank you very much! Thank heavens!
His words echo in my mind. I close the window and take a deep breath, trying to push away the discomfort. I have to focus on work, on the next address, on anything other than this. I close the window. The light is still red.
My eyes return, as if drawn, to the church ahead. A grandiose building, sculpted to impress. The main tower points to the sky like a spear, and the colored stained glass windows seem to tell sacred stories ... but I know well what hides behind this spectacle of light and gold.
The worst part is that, at first, it seemed like a good place. A refuge. I was still a child. My parents thought it was important, they said that this was where people became good. That there I would learn what is right and what is wrong. I remember the smell of incense and old wood mixed with the strong perfume of the congregation. I remember the impeccable clothes, the eyes closed in false humility, the voices reciting prayers in unison, like a trained choir. They welcomed me with smiles, with sweet words. They told me I was welcome, that this would be my new home. They gave me bread, warmth, and company. I felt seen.
But the welcome was a bait.
Over time, they began to demand more and more. First, small commitments: "Come to church," "Read this sacred passage," "Join the youth group." Then, demands disguised as advice: "Improve your clothes," "Control your thoughts," "Stay away from bad influences." And then, the judgments—subtle, then explicit. All with a smile on their face, as if squeezing a thorn under the skin and calling it a cure.
The Sacred Flame of the Redeemer that welcomed me, I soon discovered, was the heart of something much greater. A system that not only preached — but dictated. They had direct influence over the city's laws. Trials were made in their "moral" courts, where sins became crimes, and where mercy was only granted to those who bent their knees and shut their mouths. They owned birth—they controlled which births were assisted, which were denied. Of marriage—they decided who could love whom, under what conditions, and with what blessings. And even death — no one was buried without the sacred seal. Not even the condemned.
Hospitals, schools, community centers—all under the seal of the flaming cross. There, their dogmas were taught as absolute truths, and any dissenting view was seen as heresy. Science was tolerated only so long as it did not contradict the holy books. Philosophy, art, history? Filtered. Censored. Rewritten. The Index of banned texts was extensive, and grew every year. I myself had books confiscated. One of them was on biology—but it contained a passage that spoke of "freedom of the body." That was enough.
There was also the doctrine of redemptive suffering. Pain was sacred. Suffering was a blessing. Women who were beaten by their husbands were encouraged to forgive—after all, they were purifying their souls. Sick children were considered "chosen." Poor people were "spiritually elevated by deprivation" or "punished for past deeds." The logic was cruel: if you suffered, it was because you were closer to heaven.
And those who escaped this logic? They were hunted.
Behind the scenes, the Church ran a program called Purification Rites. These were forced sessions. People who were "deviant"—whether in orientation, appearance, thoughts, or attitude—were taken to these meetings. The pretty name hid the terror: muffled screams, prayers shouted until breathless, holy water poured as torture. Some came back different. Others... didn't come back at all.
And there were the public rituals. Camouflaged obligations. Everyone had to attend, everyone had to kneel, sing, pray — under penalty of reprisals. Those who were absent suffered in silence: salaries cut, children punished at school, lines denied at hospitals. Some disappeared overnight. "He went away for spiritual reflection," they said. "Away for spiritual reflection."
I remember when I refused to participate in one of these rites. A man in a cassock called me out in front of everyone and asked if I denied my faith. I said I had never had any. The crowd fell silent. Then there was nervous laughter, and then the looks... like blades.
The following week, I received a warning from work. A misconduct. Nothing serious, but enough to tarnish my record. Coincidence, perhaps. But I knew it wasn't.
The Church also sold salvation. Never with these words, of course. But everything was driven by "voluntary offerings." Want a blessing for your marriage? Make a donation. Want your sick child to be healed? Show your faith with generosity. Want to guarantee a place in the afterlife? Donate everything you can. Those who gave the most were the ones most remembered in sermons. Those who didn't give… were forgotten even at wakes.
The elite lived in luxury. I saw bishops wearing clothes that cost more than my annual income. They had gleaming vehicles. They had banquets with exotic fruits while people died of hunger in the poorest neighborhoods. But it was all justified: "They represent God on earth," they said. "They should be treated with honor."
And what made me most distressed, most irritated, was how all of this was sustained by emotional manipulation. Fear of hell. Fear of punishment. Fear of being different. They preached that the world was a minefield, and only the Church had the map. "Outside of here, there is only perdition."
I fell for that lie for a while. I wanted to believe there was redemption in that system. But there wasn't. Just control. And guilt.
The signal turns green.
But I don't step on the gas right away. I just stare once more at that shiny facade. Gold and blood. Silence and scream.
And I wonder: How many are still in there thinking they are being saved? How many feel guilty about not being good enough for a God they have never heard of—only feared?
I put the gear in gear. I move forward.
Maybe one day this tower will fall. Maybe it won't. But if it does, I want to be here to see it. Not for revenge. But for justice. And for all those who, like me, were greeted with a smile — only to be buried beneath it.
◇ ◇ ◇
The day finally draws to a close, and so does my shift. Thankfully, this time, I was able to spend the hours in silence, just making deliveries.
When I get back to the agency, I park my car in my usual spot and head to the back, trying to ignore the usual stares and whispers. I put the key on the metal shelf and take one last look at the delivery list, checking that everything is in order.
— What's up, Ludovico? How was your day? — Elias asks, appearing behind me.
— Normal. Nothing special. — I answer quickly, hoping he gets distracted by something else.
"Dude, did you hear?" he continues, ignoring my brief response. "There's a special celebration happening today, on the grounds of the new church. I can't believe I got an invitation to go! My savings are paying off!"
— On the new church grounds? — I ask, even though I already know the answer.
— Yeah! Over at La-Polis. They say the guys really went all out. It's going to be huge! — he says, gesturing excitedly.
I feel a wave of nervousness rise in my chest. I didn't know it would be this close... Before he can say anything else, I hurry to clock out and mumble something about needing to get home. I can barely process his words as I walk out.
Back on the bike, I continue on my way at a faster pace. My mind is full of images I don't want to visualize, but Elias' words echo incessantly.
When I turn the corner into my neighborhood, the impact is immediate. In the distance, I see lights being set up, tents decorated, and a makeshift stage set up. All for the celebration, and it's just two blocks from my house.
— Seriously? That close?
I pick up the pace, ignoring the knot in my stomach. I finally reach my building and run inside. As I lock the door to my apartment, I take a deep breath. The silence embraces me like an old friend.
Back at my apartment, I take a deep breath and lean against the door for a moment. It's good to be home. Here, at least, I can be myself, away from everyone's stares and judgments.
I put my backpack on the floor and start tidying up the living room. I arrange some pillows on the couch, gather some loose papers on the coffee table, and take the forgotten mug from yesterday to the sink. As I do this, my phone vibrates in my pocket.
Picking it up, I skip past the notifications and open an app that, to anyone looking, looks like a regular calculator. But it's more than that. It's a hiding place. I know it's paranoid, but I'd rather not risk it.
Within the app, I navigate to a saved narrative game I started last weekend. It's full of drama, fantasy , and, yes, anthropomorphic characters. It's the kind of thing most people here would consider gross, sinful, or just plain funny. I can only read it at home, but honestly, it's one of the few things that brings me any comfort.
As the microwave finishes reheating my dinner, I lose myself in the story for a few minutes.
The beeping of the microwave brings me back. I grab my plate and head to the couch, eating while I read some more. When I'm done, I put the plate aside and get up to take a shower.
The hot water is refreshing, but deep down I know I'm just trying to avoid thinking about what I've seen and heard today. Elijah's conversation, the celebration… the closeness of it all. I try to push those thoughts away as I dry off and change into comfortable pajamas.
Lying in bed, I open the game again. I read another chapter, but I can't concentrate. The words start to get jumbled up, and the sounds of the street start to filter in.
Songs.
At first I think I'm imagining it, but no. They're there.
I close the app and throw my phone on the nightstand, covering my ears with the pillow. The sound continues.
I get out of bed and close the windows tightly, but it's as if the walls aren't enough. The voices and music pass through everything, reaching even the safest corners of my space.
I sit up in bed, frustrated. It's everywhere, like a shadow I can't avoid. No matter how hard I try, I can't escape.
I throw myself on the bed, but the sound outside keeps haunting me. It's as if the chants are trying to invade my mind, competing for space with my thoughts. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I try to concentrate on something, anything.
But my mind insists on going back to that place. Pictures of sacred sayings hung on the walls as reminders of an ever-present judgment. Night prayers were obligatory, more out of fear of punishment than gratitude. And those figurines... they were everywhere. Small figures carved in wood, stone, porcelain — all with empty eyes, motionless, but who seemed to follow my steps like sentinels of silence.
I grew up like this. Drowning in dogmas that were imposed on me before I even learned to think. At every meal, a "thank God" — even when it was my parents' sweat that paid for the rice. With each difficulty overcome, effort was not recognized, but faith. Everything was attributed to the invisible. To the immaterial. To the promise. How much hypocrisy.
And I… I was just a kid when I started to get suspicious. When I realized that something didn't fit. That there was something deeply wrong with thanking the divine and ignoring the living. That there was something strange about placing dreams, fears, and decisions in the hands of a presence that never showed itself.
But the cruelest thing—the most unforgivable—was when they asked me to deny myself. When they made my love a sin. When they said that what I felt, so naturally, so honestly, was wrong. A manufacturing error. A defect. That I should keep quiet, hide, renounce. That if I dared to love, I would be signing my ticket to hell.
How can you believe in a God who demands that you hate yourself in order to deserve salvation? It was at that moment that something inside me broke—or perhaps it awakened. I decided. I would be free. Even if it cost me everything. Even if freedom hurt. My desire would be my guide . Because desire does not lie. It pulses, it burns, it screams the truth of the body and soul. Desire is life in its raw state.
If others had faith in a God to change their lives, I would have faith in myself. I would want to live—really. Not just exist in silence, but feel, dream, delve into forbidden ideas and imaginary worlds. I didn't need commandments carved in stone. My only guide would be the hunger to be more than I was allowed to be.
But even today... sometimes... it's as if those words are still alive inside me. Like barbs. Like curses whispered in a soft voice. Like curses that never stop bleeding.
The chanting outside continues. I close the windows. I stuff the pillow against my ears. But it's no use.
It's as if the music were inside me. Not just in my ears, but under my skin, in my veins, in my bones. A liturgy carved into my flesh. Every note is a judgment. Every beat, a memory. Every verse, a burden.
I squeeze my eyes shut. The pillow becomes a shield. But it's useless. The chants cut through everything. They don't ask for passage — they invade. Colonize. Consume me.
I scream. But my voice is lost—swallowed by the choir of perfect, impersonal voices. As if the whole world were singing against me. As if the whole universe were denying me.
I take a deep breath. I try to calm my heart. But it's useless. It beats too fast. Like a war drum. Like a cry for help. My whole body vibrates with what I most want to silence.
— Enough! — I scream, my throat tearing. — Stop this! I don't want to wake up again if I'm going to live like this!
My voice echoes in the room, raw, desperate. An ugly sound. Real. Human. My fingers dig into the pillow as if it can protect me, as if it is my last anchor in the world.
But the sound doesn't stop. On the contrary. It seems to laugh at me. It stares at me—invisible, but present. Like the eyes of the statuettes. Like the paintings on the walls. Like the voice that told me to be silent, even when everything inside me screamed for freedom. And the anger grows. It boils. It overflows.
Not just against the sound, but against everything that brought it here. Against the world that decided I was wrong. Against the smiling faces that called me blessed while teaching me to hate myself.
And deep in my chest, a smaller voice—my real voice—whispers, "I just wanted to live. Is that too much to ask?"
And then it happens. Silence.
I freeze, the pillow still in my hands. I slowly remove it from my face and look around. Everything that haunted me has disappeared. What happened? Did it end early? It can't be... Usually these celebrations last for several hours.
But there is something different. It is not just the silence. It is the air, which seems lighter, purer. The light is strangely golden, like sunlight coming through thin curtains, but I have no such curtains, and it is already night. And then I feel something. A call, coming from a place I cannot define, but which is clearly in front of me.
I get out of bed, my feet touching the floor as if guided by something beyond my control. Each step seems to take me further away from the room and closer to something new, something indescribable. The world around me begins to change, or maybe it is I who am changing.
I find myself in what appears to be my room. The shapes, the details... everything looks exactly as it should, but something is wrong. It's not a place I really recognize, just a perfect imitation of something I've known before.
I feel a strange urge, a need to get out. My legs almost move on their own. My hands reach for the doorknob, and I turn it. The familiar sound of creaking wood is gone. Instead, there is absolute silence.
The door opens and I'm greeted by a cool breeze, clean air like I've never breathed before. The light is different here, soft and enveloping, but without a sun or a visible source. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust, to this strange landscape.
I turn to look at the door ... but it's gone. There's no wall, no frame, no sign that it was ever there. I'm completely exposed to this new world.
Around me, everything shares the same color — a color I cannot name, that does not exist in my world. It's not blue, gray, green or any shade I could describe. It's as if someone has painted the entire space with their own idea of an impossible color.
The ground beneath my feet is made of the same material that dominates everything around me. It feels like a large mattress, hard enough to support, but with an odd softness. The sky above stretches endlessly, reflecting the same indescribable hue.
It's like I'm trapped inside a thought, inside a single visual idea that has expanded for miles. There are no contrasts, no striking textures, just subtle variations of this color that surrounds me.
I look around, searching for something to anchor me. For a moment, I think I am completely alone in this space... until I notice, in the distance, a structure. Far away, at the edge of my vision, is a cupola or dome. It is the only thing breaking up the vastness of this place, but even it seems to be made of the same strange color, only slightly more opaque. My curiosity grows. What is it? Why is it there? And, more importantly, why am I here?
Where is this place? Am I dreaming? Hallucinating? Or have I finally lost my mind? My thoughts swirl in a wild rush as I try to make sense of it. I pinch my cheek. The pain is real. This can't be a dream.
— Hi ?! — my voice breaks the silence. Or tries to.
There is no answer. No sound comes back to me, not even an echo. It's as if this place devours the sound, as if only I exist here.
How long has it been since I walked through that door? I can't say. My sense of time feels distorted, as if it shattered upon entering here. It could have been a few minutes or entire hours.
I look to the horizon once more, searching for something to anchor me. The only thing I see is the dome. It is still there, motionless and distant, like an inevitable fate. I don't have much to do other than go there. Standing still in this void will get me nowhere. My feet start moving. The floor, although strange, doesn't hurt, and seems to have a texture that prevents me from slipping.
Every step feels normal, but at the same time surreal. The sound of my feet touching the ground doesn't exist, but I feel the vibration. It's like walking into a painting, into a materialized dream.
I don't know how long it takes me to walk towards the dome. The horizon seems to play with me, moving away as I move forward. But I refuse to give up. Something waits for me there.
My thoughts continue to race as I walk. Will I find something or someone in this place? Is it safe? Or is this all just an illusion of my mind?
I keep walking. If this place wants me to stop, it's going to have to try harder.
After a while, I notice that the dome has grown a little larger. I'm getting closer. My heart races as I try to imagine what I'll find. Is there someone inside? But... who would live in a place like that? It looks so inhospitable.
—That's... — I mutter , stopping halfway.
There seems to be something more defined as I get closer: a window? And... a door? Could it be a house? The idea seems absurd to me, but I can't help but be curious.
My impatience grows, and without realizing it, I begin to quicken my pace. First I walk faster, then I run, nearly tripping over my own feet. My chest rises and falls with my labored breathing. I have to stop a few times along the way to catch my breath, but eventually I get close enough to get a better look.
The structure is strange, like everything in this place. No movement. There is nothing other than what I myself produce.
It appears to be completely empty. The door is as smooth as the walls, made of the same material as the floor. The texture is continuous, as if the building had risen from the ground rather than been constructed. I knock a few times on the door, the muffled sound lost in the silence around me.
— Is anyone there? — I call, hesitantly.
Nothing.
I walk around the dome, trying to make sense of its structure. I count five windows, evenly spaced but all as smooth as the rest. There is no glass, just a thin membrane that reflects the light from this strange sky. It takes me 28 steps to complete a full circle around the structure.
"It definitely looks more like an extension of the ground than something built," I think, intrigued. There are no cracks, no nails, no tool marks. Everything is smooth and continuous, as if it were part of a giant puzzle that fit together perfectly here.
I look at the door again. Should I go in? What if it's a trap? But if it is, who would it be for? There's no one else here. There's no one but me.
Something about that door seems to be calling to me. I'm not sure if it's curiosity or desperation, but I know I can't ignore it.
I stop in front of the door, staring at it as if it might give me an answer. Everything about this place feels so... wrong. It feels unnatural. But at the same time, I feel a strange pull. Something inside me wants to know what's inside.
"I don't even know how I got here," I think, biting my lip. My breathing is still heavy from running, but it's not just that. It's the anxiety that's building in my chest, that suffocating feeling of being watched, even though I'm alone.
I close my eyes for a moment, trying to organize my thoughts.
"Okay, Ludo. Let's think about it calmly." I consider my options. I could just leave. Go back the way I came. But go where? This place is vast, unmarked, directionless. There's no way back.
What if I don't open the door? I can wait. Maybe something will happen. Maybe someone will come out. But how long will I wait? I don't know how long I've been here anymore. The hours, the minutes, everything seems to blend together.
"But what if there's something important in there? What if it's what I came to find?"
That thought gives me pause. What exactly do I hope to find here? I don't even know why I'm here. I don't know what brought me here. But for the first time in a long time, I feel like maybe I have a real choice.
"Should I go in? Or should I turn around and forget about it?"
My body wants to move, but my mind keeps me rooted to the spot. I'm frozen, torn between the fear of the unknown and the desire to discover what lies beyond this door.
— This is crazy... — I whisper to myself.
My hands tremble as I stare at the doorknob. The texture is identical to the rest, but it still feels... familiar. I feel like I've been here before, like this moment is something I've been waiting for for a long time.
But the fear is still there. That primal fear, that tells me not to do it. Not to open it. Not to look.
"If I open it, there's no going back," I think.
I take a deep breath, trying to push away the anxiety. I close my eyes, trying to hear my own thoughts in the absolute silence of this place.
"I'm the only one who can decide that. There's no God, there's no destiny, there's no one here but me. If I want to know, I'll have to open up."
I push on the smooth door, which gives way easily, though it didn't seem flimsy before. It feels strange, like opening something that should resist but simply doesn't. Inside, it's empty.
The half sphere of this "house" has been divided in half again in a simple way: one half seems to be the living room, and the other, with two doors, are probably the bedrooms. The space is... peculiar. The living room, like the rest of this place, is homogeneous. Same floor, same walls, the same indescribable color that seems to permeate everything here.
I approach the door closest to the entrance. It opens without difficulty, revealing a room smaller than the living room. There is no furniture, decorations, or anything that suggests utility. Just a window, which lets in the same faint light as outside.
On the other side, the second room. It's a little bigger than the first one, but just as empty. Nothing new, nothing that gives me answers.
I return to the room, feeling a slight frustration growing. Was it all a waste of time? Is this just this place?
— Ah! What-?
I stop suddenly. There in the center of the room... there is someone. Or maybe not?
My eyes widen as my body leans forward slightly. It's like looking in a mirror, but without the glass.
— Is that... a mirror?
The figure moves, crossing his arms in a way that makes me flinch.
>— Do I have a mirror face?
— Ehh ! — I stumble back, holding onto the wall to balance myself.
The voice... is mine.
What is this? This... thing. It's just like me. Identical. Not just the looks, but even the little mannerisms.
The figure chuckles softly, a sound both familiar and disconcerting.
>— No need to make that face. It's just you.
— You...? — my voice comes out in a whisper, trembling.
>— Yeah, you. — He tilts his head, analyzing me as if he were judging me.
— What do you mean? What are you?
My voice is filled with confusion and disbelief. There's no denying it: this thing in front of me is just like me. Every detail, every nuance. It's like I'm looking at a perfect clone.
>— I am you — he says, with a calmness that irritates me. — Let's say I am the most rational "you."
— There's no way you can be me, if I'm here, right?
He lets out an exaggerated sigh, as if annoyed by my confusion.
>— As the person who raised me, I expected a little more cleverness. Deep down, you knew you needed some guidance on what to do here, didn't you? That's where I come in.
I take a step back, still processing what he just said. My mind works quickly, but none of the conclusions make sense.
— Wait... So you know where this is? What is this place? How did I end up here?
The figure sighs, an exasperated sound that I certainly don't like to hear.
>— Geez , give it a rest, go. You know where you are. If you didn't know, I wouldn't know myself.
— What does that mean? — I cross my arms, trying to regain some control of the situation. — If you know so much, why don't you explain it to me right away?
He gives me a crooked smile, one that sends a chill down my spine.
>— Because it's not about me knowing, it's about you noticing. Everything here is yours, remember? You created this. Every detail, every sensation. It's here because you wanted to be.
My brow furrows.
— Did you want to be...? — I repeat, as if the words were foreign. — I didn't want any of this! I was in my bed, trying to sleep, running away from that damn celebration!
>— Well, you wanted to be somewhere else. Somewhere away from all that. — He takes a step forward, and I automatically step back. — You wanted this so badly that you broke the barrier between your mind and this place.
I look around, the vast, incomprehensible void surrounding me. The dome walls. The indescribably colored floor.
— What is this? — I ask, my voice almost a whisper.
The figure leans forward slightly, eyes shining with an intensity that shouldn't be possible.
> — Welcome to your space. In fact, you died. Or are dying, at least.
- ... WHAT?!
>— Shhhhh . Quieter, okay? I'm here by your side.
— What do you mean you died?!
>— I mean that literally. Your body has shorted out. Now we, or your soul, are on an independent plane and space-time.
I stare at him, my heart beating faster—or maybe it's just the ghost of a heart, since I'm apparently dead.
— What the hell are you talking about? — I mutter, rubbing my temples. — And why do you have such a condescending attitude?
>— Because you're being dramatic, as always. — He crosses his arms, that damn annoying smile coming back. — Think about it: you were at your limit. Tired, frustrated, desperate. You wanted to escape from everything, you didn't want to wake up the next day... Then, you took control and your body gave up. Simple as that.
— That doesn't make any sense! — I take a step forward, pointing a finger at him. — If my body 'short-circuited', why am I still here?
He rolls his eyes, as if he had to explain something obvious to a child.
>— Because you wanted to be here. — He gestures to the emptiness around him. — This place is yours, remember? Created by your mind, sustained by your will. The difference now is that you are no longer limited by your physical body.
— This is a nightmare... It has to be.
> — Call it whatever you want, Luner. But the reality is that you are free. Free to do what you want, to explore your desires, to exist without the chains of the world you left behind.
His words echoed, filled with a certainty that made me shiver. A chill ran down my spine as I tried to process what he had just said.
— Why are you calling me that? Luner?
He smiled enigmatically, as if the question was unnecessary.
>— Because that's what you are. Deep down, you've always known that.
— No, my name is...
My voice faltered. The words felt heavy, like they didn't want to come out.
>— Luner. His name is Luner.
The firmness in his voice caught me off guard. It was as if he was speaking a truth I had forgotten.
— Can I... really use that name?
>— Why couldn't you? Use whatever name you want. After all, this is your world now.
There was a moment of silence. I looked at him, trying to find some answer in his gaze, but I only saw reflections of what I didn't want to admit.
— Moon...
I whispered to myself, testing how it sounded. Something in me reacted, as if that word had found its place.
I give a short, nervous laugh.
— And... Free? Are you saying that I "died" and that's... good? That I should just accept it?
He tilts his head, as if he was expecting this question.
>— Good or bad, that's up to you, right? You wanted to be free, didn't you? Isn't that what you've spent your whole life wishing for? Now it's here. A place of your own. No rules. No limitations.
My mind is spinning. This place, this situation... it's everything I've ever dreamed of, isn't it? Complete freedom. A space where I can create, experiment, exist without the constraints that suffocate me. But then why do I feel this knot in my chest?
— That's what I wanted... — I murmur, more to myself than to him.
>— Exactly — he answers, as if he were confirming the most obvious conclusion in the world.
Still, something eludes me. This freedom, this infinite emptiness... why does it feel so wrong?
—But I didn't think that...—my voice trails off. —I didn't think I'd have to lose everything for this.
>— There's always a price, Luner. You knew that, deep down. Nothing comes for free.
My eyes run over the emptiness around me, over the ground I can't describe, over the "house" that seems to be an extension of this world. The freedom I've always wanted is here, right in front of me. So why am I hesitating?
"What if I don't want this?" I ask, my voice shaking . "What if I want to go back?"
He laughs, a dry, humorless sound.
> — Go back to where? To a life where you lived trapped, suffocated, wanting to escape every second?
I open my mouth to retort, but the words won't come. He's right. Or maybe I am. Because deep down, he is me.
— So... What should I do from now on? How should I do anything?
>— You spent years of our lives wondering what you would do after you died, when you were free. Now you don't know what to do? Hah ! What would become of you without me, huh?
— Cut it out. Aren't you supposed to be the smart part of me? Give me at least one hint.
>— You don't need a hint. Oh, I think it's going to rain.
— Do you think you will...
I start to respond, but my attention is drawn to the window. I soon lose my words. Outside, drops begin to fall, a few at first, but soon they turn into a completely normal rain, the kind you would hear hitting the roof on any given afternoon.
>— Oh, here comes the sun — he says, casually.
As if in response to him, the rain slowly stops. The clouds dissipate, and the light that was there before returns, illuminating the empty space.
"How do you do that?" I ask, my eyes wide.
>— I didn't do anything. It was all you, but you seem too dumb to realize it. All I did was use a little suggestion.
I open my mouth to respond, but he doesn't elaborate. No matter how much I stare at him, waiting for an explanation, he remains silent, with that smug air as always.
>— Interesting, isn't it? — he comments, crossing his arms.
— I... I did that?
He shrugs, as if it were obvious.
>— Well, it wasn't me.
My eyes dart back to the horizon, where small clouds are beginning to form. Then, before I can process it, a flash of light splits the sky again, and another clap of thunder crashes, so loud it seems to shake the ground.
- Wow...
>— Wow, nothing — he says, sounding impatient. — Concentrate, Luner. This is a reflection of you. If you want something to happen, you have to really want it. Don't just imagine it. You have to want it.
- To want?
>— That's it. Like when you wanted to escape your life before. It's the same principle. Only now you have the tools.
I look back out the window, trying to understand what he's saying. Does this world... respond to what I think, what I feel?
Carefully, I close my eyes. I try to imagine something simple. A fresh wind. A light breeze that touches my skin.
At the same moment, I feel it. The air moves gently, ruffling my hair, and I open my eyes in surprise.
— That's amazing...
> — You're finally getting the hang of it — he says, as if he were a teacher satisfied with a student. — But be careful, okay? What you feel here has a lot of power. If you don't control it...
I stare at him, waiting for him to continue, but he just smiles enigmatically.
— If you don't control it, what?
>— You'll see. Or not. That's up to you.
This answer doesn't make me feel at all at ease, but before I can insist, I notice something new. The ground, the sky, the air... everything seems a little different. As if the environment is reacting not only to what I think, but also to what I feel.
And for the first time, I feel a spark of excitement.
◇ ◇ ◇
This all seems so surreal. Sure, I've always wanted whatever I wanted to happen, but to actually see it happen? There's no way this is working out so well. There must be some catch.
— Hey, what could possibly go wrong here? It's not all roses, right?
>— Of course not. — He rolls his eyes. — Well, it can happen if you lose control and self-destruct. It can also happen if doubt consumes you and... you self-destruct. In short, the biggest danger here is yourself.
— Oh, so the danger doesn't seem that great?
>— Don't even think about it. — His tone hardens, with the gravity he rarely displays. — The line between control and total loss of control is very thin. One wrong step and goodbye. I think you should take care of yourself, for both our sakes.
— Okay then. But... what can we do here? How do I use all this to achieve what I've always wanted?
>— I'm glad you asked. — He stops and straightens his posture, with that irritating dramatic air.
After clearing his throat as if he were about to begin an important speech, he paces the room thoughtfully.
>— You remember the novels and manhwas you read, don't you?
— Yes, of course. Not everything, but—
>— That's enough. — He interrupts, raising his hand as if to nip my explanation in the bud. — Let's use this as inspiration. We'll create a user interface, just like those fantasy works. That'll make things a lot easier.
— An interface...?
He doesn't respond immediately. He just stops in the middle of the room and calls me with a firm gesture.
>— Come here.
I walk up to him, a little confused but curious.
>— And now, imagine, a system like those you've seen in novels . Simple, efficient, and powerful .
I close my eyes, trying to follow the instructions. My thoughts begin to form, loose pieces of ideas inspired by everything I've read. A clean interface. A panel with options. Something that allows me to visualize and manipulate this world more clearly.
I feel a slight pressure in the air, almost as if something is forming around me. When I open my eyes, I see something sparkling floating in front of me.
> — Oops! There it is. — He says with a satisfied smile. — It wasn't that hard, you know?
Before me, a translucent panel hovers in the air. Simple lines and clear text.
> Welcome , Luner Veritas.
> Options: Create | Destroy | Modify
I can hardly believe what I'm seeing.
— That's... amazing.
>— Isn't that right? Now we have something to work with.
Suddenly, the other Luner begins to twitch. His figure seems to flicker, becoming translucent. He looks at me, with an enigmatic smile.
— What's happening to you?
>— Now I'm part of the system, of course . It's like the next logical step. I'm you, remember? Now I'm part of this panel, this interface. Let's work together, Luner.
Before I could say anything, he disappeared completely. A new line of text appeared on the panel:
> Active Assistant: Luner [Subconscious ]
My reflection is still in the glass of the dashboard, but now I see two figures there. Me, and him. A constant reminder that even in this world of limitless possibilities, my greatest ally—and perhaps my greatest obstacle—is myself.
>— So, where do we start?
I take a deep breath.
— I have a question. Everything I've done so far has only changed this space, but among the things I wanted to do is travel through other worlds and stories. How would I do that?
>— You're not wrong. Right now you only have power of influence over this place, but that's easy to solve.
— How?
>— Arr... I really have to explain everything, don't I?
There is a moment of stillness before the system speaks again.
>— There is a plane of existence called the Intelligible World, or the World of Ideas. Plato was the one who popularized this idea, remember? He described the Intelligible World as a place where everything that exists in its pure and perfect form is present. Think of it as the origin of all things. Every object, concept, or even story that has ever been imagined exists there, in its ideal form.
—So you're saying that... I could, like, step into a book? A story I read?
>— More or less that. Only you are not entering the book, but rather accessing the perfect idea behind it. The essence of that story is there.
— So, like, can I live in these ideas?
>— Exactly. Just be careful, because the Intelligible World is not like here. It is more rigid, faithful to the original ideas that created it. You can get lost if you don't stay focused on what you want, and your influence in each world can vary according to your elasticity, your tolerance for change and the addition of new concepts.
— Hgnnnnn ... So much information... Will this really work?
>— Of course you will. You just have to be careful not to get lost.
The system looks at me with an expression that seems impatient, as if it expects me to understand something it clearly finds simple right away.
>— Let's do a test. All you have to do is imagine a destination. Think of something very specific, a setting or world that you really want to explore, and I'll help you make the transition.
I cross my arms and narrow my eyes, still trying to process all of this. World of Ideas... transitions... danger of getting lost... It seems much more complicated than he's trying to make it seem.
— Okay, but... what if I don't want to be there anymore?
>— Ah, that's simple. You just have to focus on the idea of returning to that space. After all, it is your point of origin now.
— Sure.
I close my eyes and start thinking about a world. Any ideas that make sense to me. Let's see how this goes.
I focus deeply, trying to visualize where I want to go, who I want to meet, and what I really want to experience. It's like trying to shape a clear image in a thick fog, but little by little the ideas begin to align.
Suddenly, I hear a beep. I open my eyes, startled, and see a screen floating in front of me, with a message in bright letters:
> Confirm jump to idea?
I swallow hard. This is my chance, isn't it? Hesitantly, I reach out and touch the "Yes."
>— Fasten your seatbelts.
- What?
Before I can react, I feel my body being pulled away as if the ground has disappeared. A scream escapes my throat as I freefall, too fast to discern anything around me. It's like going through a whirlwind of distorted colors and shapes, an absolute chaos that seems to last an eternity and a second at the same time. Everything stops suddenly, and a loud sound echoes:
—Wake up, you lazy pupil!
A deep, authoritative voice booms in my ears, followed by a painful impact on my head. Something hard and cold hits me, waking me from my torpor.
— Hmpf . Is this how you want to fight the war?
I open my eyes, blinking to adjust my vision to the brightness around me. A robust-looking gentleman stands before me. He has messy white hair and wears thick clothes that look like they were made to withstand the freezing cold. His stern gaze and arched eyebrows leave no doubt that he is accustomed to leading.
— W—what...?
— I won't turn a blind eye to you anymore, kid. I'll wait for you at the training plaza.
Before I can ask him anything, he turns and walks away with firm steps. I'm so stunned that it takes me a few seconds to realize where I am.
All around me is a landscape of pure ice and snow. I am surrounded by towering walls of blue ice, forming incredibly detailed structures, as if they were carved with impeccable precision. There are immense arches and towers, with bridges that seem to be made of translucent crystal connecting one structure to the next. It is as if an entire city was carved directly from ice, and the sound of the icy wind echoes through the open corridors.
Just ahead, I see a narrow channel of liquid water, surrounded by small wooden boats. People pass by, wearing thick clothes made of fur and heavy fabrics, all in shades of blue and white. The figures seem busy with daily tasks, carrying baskets or pushing sleds.
The cold is intense, and even with the layers of clothing I'm wearing, I can feel the biting wind blowing incessantly. In some parts of the city, I see pools of bubbling water, probably heated by some bending technique. In the distance, I can make out a more open square, where some warriors practice elegant and disciplined movements with water.
The sky is cloudy, but the light still reflects off every ice surface, making everything around even brighter and more surreal.
Wait a minute... This place, this scenery...
—The Northern Water Tribe?!
My voice comes out in a whisper of pure disbelief. Am I really here? This can't be real... or can it?
>— Of course you can. Don't you feel the cold? Move, I don't want to freeze here.
I stand up from my seat in the snow, feeling the weight of my thick clothes. It's strange to be so bundled up, but comforting with the biting cold all around me. Once again, I let my surroundings distract me. Everything is so beautiful and surreal up close: the structures made of ice, the crystal clear reflections of the frozen surfaces, the soft glow of the sun reflecting off the snow.
But I can't just stand here and admire him. I remember what that man had said. Reluctantly, I start walking, trying to follow the path I think he took.
The place is a fascinating maze. After crossing an arched bridge that seems to float over a frozen canal, I pass several elaborately detailed ice structures. Small torches are scattered about, their flames dancing against the cold. Finally, I reach a more open area.
It's a flat space, almost like a training plaza. Large ceramic pots are scattered around the place, their surfaces already covered in a thin layer of snow. There's a wide staircase at the back, leading to somewhere I can't identify. Around them, I see a group of people about my age, all lined up, with serious expressions, staring at the man from before.
Wait... This gentleman... He is...
— Master Paco, shouldn't he be expelled? He's always late.
My mind goes blank. Master Paco! This guy is Master Paco!
Some of those present laugh at the remark, but their laughter is immediately interrupted by the old man's authoritative voice.
— Silence! If I could, I would have terminated my guardianship long ago. But we cannot afford that in the middle of a war. Now, everyone, take your places!
The students quickly position themselves, assuming defined postures with almost military precision. It is impressive to see their discipline. And me? What should I do? What is going on here?
My gaze scans the group until I find an empty space between the others. This feels safe, right? I don't want to attract any more attention. I run over and try to straighten myself out, mimicking their pose as best I can, but my head is still spinning with questions.
Master Paco's gaze sweeps over each of us, as if assessing the state of our souls. When his eyes land on me, I notice a mixture of tiredness and irritation.
— Ugh ... Is missing a few days all it takes to forget the basics? — he mumbles, but enough for the others to hear. Some chuckle quietly, and I feel my face flush with embarrassment.
With a heavy sigh, he turns to the group.
— Okay. From the beginning then.
Master Paco walks over to one of the large ceramic pots and removes the lid, revealing that it is full of water, and then speaks in a deep tone that echoes in the silent square.
— Water is the element of change. Those who master waterbending understand that life is fluid, that everything is in constant movement, and that resisting the flow is going against the very essence of existence.
He reaches out his hand over the pot, and the water inside begins to move slowly, swirling in perfect circles, as if dancing in response to his command.
— Waterbending is not just an act of strength or skill. It is a practice of virtue. Precision, patience, and perception. Precision to manipulate the world around you with delicacy and intention. Patience to understand that time shapes everything, just as waves carve rocks. And perception to feel the flow around you, how water finds the smallest space to infiltrate and adapt.
The water in his hand rises in a thin stream, then transforms into a crystalline sphere, shining in the icy light.
— The true strength of waterbending lies not in brute force, but in balance. Mastering water is mastering oneself. And that... — he makes a subtle gesture, and the sphere splits into dozens of droplets that float around us before returning to the pot in silence — ... is something that cannot be achieved without discipline. His eyes fix on me again, stern.
— Now... let's see if you are worthy of calling yourselves benders.
Each person steps to a pot and begins practicing, their movements flowing with the grace and effort of someone who has done this many times before. I look around, trying to figure out what I should do.
My mind races with questions. This is my first class. How am I expected to do anything?
> Analysis complete. Skill [Waterbending - Basic] acquired.
The system screen appears in front of me, almost startling me. At the same time, something strange happens. I feel my mind being filled with new knowledge, as if I were learning something my body already knew. Do I... know how to do this now?
Curious, I walk over to one of the jars that is still covered. I carefully uncap it, revealing the clear water inside. It reflects a face that is not mine, and that looks more confident than I feel.
I assume the posture I've seen others use, but now I feel different. My body adjusts almost instinctively, firmer, more secure. It's as if I've done these movements countless times before.
I take a deep breath, raise my arms in a fluid motion, and let my newfound knowledge guide my steps. Smooth, calculated movements. My body dances, and the water responds.
It rises from the pot, floating in the air in a sinuous line that follows my every gesture. I make it spin, take shape, play between my fingers. I feel the damp chill of its presence, but also the lightness and power it carries.
Finally, with one last movement, the water returns to the pot, without spilling a single drop.
I look around, anxious to see if anyone noticed. Was it real? Did it really happen?
As soon as I hear Master Paco's voice, I get a little startled. He's there, watching me with that critical look, but not as severe as I expected.
— Very well. You can do it if you try, can't you?
Before I can respond, he turns around, walking to monitor the other students. I sigh in relief, but something inside me still vibrates.
I didn't expect waterbending to feel like this. It's so... magical. But I shouldn't let myself get carried away. Stealthily, I move away from the group, looking for a more hidden corner. I need a moment to process everything.
There, far from the watchful eyes, I close my eyes for a moment and think about the system window. As if it felt my call, it appears before me, shining with information.
> Welcome, Luner Veritas.
> Active Assistant: Luner [Subconscious ]
> Options: Create | Destroy | Modify | Change Avatar
> Skills: Waterbending - Basic
The familiarity of this screen comforts me, but it also raises countless questions.
>— Did you have fun?
My clone's voice sounds in my mind, filled with an amused tone.
— B-pretty much — I admit, still processing everything.
>— So let's go back. Judging by your face, you have a lot of questions to ask.
The screen slowly fades away, leaving me with my doubts and the feeling that this is just the beginning. After a moment of transition, like when I came here, I am back in my space.
— Uhh , can you come here in person? It's easier to talk to you this way.
>— Oh yeah?
The system takes on my physical form in front of me again, and even though I've seen this before, it still feels very strange.
>— Yes?
— What was that? It felt like my head had downloaded information straight from the cloud.
>— Meh , don't exaggerate. We made the system to make your life easier, didn't we? And, since I'm the genius administrator here, I was able to analyze that old man's class and condense everything so you can understand it quickly.
— Geez... Where were you during all your school years?
>— Sleeping like an angel in your head. Next question.
I roll my eyes, but I can't help but laugh.
— Ehh , patience... Well, why did it seem like Master Paco knew me? It was as if I had already existed there before.
>— Hmm ... It was probably a miscalculation. Since it was your first time making a jump like that, maybe you took a shortcut and possessed someone when you got there, instead of creating a body.
— I took a person's life?!
>— No need to be dramatic. You just took that person's place temporarily. He should be fine. Probably.
- ... Probably?
>— Yeah, probably.
I stare at him with a mixture of disbelief and irritation, but he continues to have that casual, relaxed look.
>— Anyway, to avoid confusion like this in the future, it would be good to create some avatars to use when you make a jump.
Avatars? What do you mean?
>— Basic. Custom bodies. You create a base model, choose its appearance, abilities and even the "story" it would have in the world you are going to visit.
— History? Like... an identity?
>— Exactly. That way, instead of coming in as a complete stranger, you come in with something that makes sense in the context of the place.
—That sounds complicated. Won't I need to study everything about each world before I go?
>— Only if you want to be a perfectionist. I can improvise something that fits the basics. Want to try now?
I hesitate for a moment, but the idea starts to sound fun.
— Okay. Let's create an avatar then. Show me how it's done.
>— Prepare to be impressed.
hyper-advanced character editor , with layers and layers of detail.
>— Here. This is an avatar I created for that world we were in just now.
An incredibly realistic 3D model appears, practically an alternative version of me, with typical Northern Water Tribe clothing.
— Sounds good enough ... But just to be sure, he wasn't someone who already existed there, right?
>— Of course not. I learned from today's "accident". This is a completely original avatar.
I nod, satisfied. But as I look at the interface, an idea comes to mind.
— Wait... I can create anything here, right?
>— Anything at all. Be creative.
— Hmm ...
I start to sort through the options, experimenting with proportions, colors, and styles until I come up with something that makes me smile. A short body, about five feet tall, lithe but with moderate strength. A black and white cat with short, dense fur, pointy ears, and a slender tail that moves naturally. The eyes are emerald green, intense, almost glowing.
— That's right. I've always thought styles like that were cool.
>— Did you create a furry ?
— I'd rather call it "aesthetically pleasing anthropomorphic", thank you.
>— Hah ! Okay, okay. It suits you well, actually.
For the outfit, I choose a sturdy but lightweight outfit — a mix of leather and dark fabric, with elements reminiscent of adventurer's clothing from medieval stories. I also added a pair of twin daggers to complement the set. Above, a cloak with purple and gold details, flowing, with a hood and fine stitching.
>— Style and mystery. I liked.
- I hope so. I think I'm ready.
>— Avatar saved. If you want, you can even give it a name.
— Hmm , I think I like my new name. I'll keep it.
For a moment, I stand there. So, I gather courage and activate the avatar. The transition is smooth ... but intense.
A wave of energy courses through my body. First, there's a pulsing heat in my chest, as if something is igniting inside. My muscles contract, reposition themselves. My bones adjust to their new proportions. It doesn't hurt—it's like a constant pressure, a vibration.
My skin starts to tingle, and when I open my eyes... I see hair. Black and white, defined, covering my arms, my body. I put my hand to my face and feel the subtle snout, the longer canines. The retractable claws come out and back in with a small instinctive movement. My ears perk up high on my head, picking up sounds with surprising clarity. My tail moves lightly, following my thoughts without me having to think.
- Wow...
My voice is still mine—but it has a slight echo, as if it were more alive, more full-bodied.
I pull the cloak closer to my body. The fabric glides with a strange, pleasant softness. The garment fits perfectly.
I look at myself in a floating mirror that he summons with a gesture. For a moment, I just watch. And I smile.
— Yeah... I don't think I've ever felt so comfortable in a skin before.
>— I admit: it looks good. You should have been born that way.
I give a soft laugh, also noticing my new tail swinging slowly behind me.
— We are practically the same person... don't you want another way too?
He crosses his arms, giving me a curious look, but then shakes his head with a half smile.
>— Thanks, but no thanks. I prefer to keep my original appearance. In case you end up forgetting what you used to look like.
— Hm. That makes sense... especially with my tendency to run away from mirrors.
>— Exactly. And let's be honest: one of us needs to keep the rational and sober pose.
— So I got the role of the pretty part?
>— And vanity, it seems.
— Look who's talking.
It's strange how this—talking to myself—has become natural. As if we've been together for years. But it's in this naturalness that I realize something.
— Speaking of which... you need a name, don't you? Calling you "my rational part" is weird. And a little arrogant of me, too.
He raises an eyebrow.
>— We've known each other for, what... a few hours? And you already want to baptize me?
— It's the least I can say, right? Creating a nameless being? It sounds a bit inhumane. Or... too inhumane, if you think about it.
I think for a moment, observing him — my most logical, centered, direct reflection. Always looking for data, calculations, inferences...
— How about... "Intel"?
He blinks. Then his lips curve into a tight smile.
>— Intel... Short, sonorous... elegant. I like it. It sounds like the name of a mysterious entity with forbidden knowledge. Approved.
- Serious?
>— Seriously. Better than "Luner 2.0", for sure.
I laugh and throw myself back onto the couch, feeling the purple cape of the robe adjust with a soft sound. My new body adapts naturally to the position, as if it had been a part of me for years.
— So that's it. "Intel", the official name for my external brain. Or almost.
> — Don't underestimate me. I can handle more than your brain. If it weren't for me, you'd still be lost in a loop of existential doubts.
— I still am . But now with style.
>— I admit: it looks good. You should have been born that way.
With an exaggerated gesture, he closes the interface. I smile and turn away from the screen, heading towards my home in space. Each step in my new body is a new discovery—the sound of my claws on the floor, the way my cloak sways, the lightness of my heels.
As I enter, I throw myself onto the living room couch, and it creaks softly beneath my new weight. I close my eyes for a moment.
This is all new. Exciting. A little scary. But one thing is for sure: I can't wait to see what comes next.
I'm looking forward to tomorrow.
◇ ◇ ◇
Time passed strangely. I don't know how long I lay there, immersed in silence and thought—it could have been an hour or a second. What I do know is that when I opened my eyes again, restlessness was already knocking on the door of my mind. I needed to understand more. I called Intel.
>— Yes?
— I want to ask you a few questions. I have several doubts.
>— Ha! "Some"? You've been asking more questions than a 4-year-old!
— I don't see a problem with that. I need to understand how all this works, don't I?
> — Meh . I guess so. Ahem . Where do I begin...
We spent a good amount of time talking. My questions went back and forth, and the system responded sarcastically but with surprising patience. Little by little, I was able to better understand how it all worked.
My home space—this place where I am now—is where I have the most influence. Here, I can literally do whatever I want: create, destroy, or modify anything. It's like a direct extension of my mind. However, I have a certain limit to what I can do, to how many things I can create.
In other worlds, however, the rules are different. The influence I can exert there is much more limited. It's as if I were just another "citizen" of that place, subject to its laws and restrictions.
Still, I can take advantage of the tolerance—or elasticity—of these worlds to do or carry some useful things with me. The more flexible the world, the more freedom I have. But if the world is too rigid, with well-defined rules, even simple actions, like using a little [Waterbending], become risky. Pushing the limits too far could get me denounced... or even ejected from there altogether.
Another important thing I learned is about acquiring skills. It's not like I just magically learned something. I have to experience it, observe it, or be taught it to learn it. The system then analyzes the information and stores the skill, allowing me to use it.
— So basically, as long as you can understand how something works, you can replicate it?
>— Bingo. We're not magicians, Luner. Everything here has a logic... Even if it's a complicated logic.
I feel excitement bubbling inside me. The possibilities are endless, and I can't wait to explore them all.
But at the same time... my body—or mind, or soul, whatever—is starting to feel heavy. After hours of arguing with the system, I feel like my head is going to explode.
So much new information, so many possibilities. It's incredible... and overwhelming at the same time.
I lean back on the couch in my space, letting the silence fill the room. I don't know how long I stay there, just breathing, letting everything settle.
Tomorrow seems more uncertain than ever—and somehow, that's exactly what makes it all so exciting.