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The neon outside my office didn’t glow so much as struggle.

It flickered and buzzed like it had something left to say but no lungs to push it out. Sickly violet light bled through the slats of my blinds, striping the room in uneven bars that crawled across the chrome desk, the empty glass, the revolver I didn’t remember buying. Out here in the rings, even light had a habit of losing itself.

The Silence Between Chords

The walls of the chamber never stay the same color for long.

They drink the light of the methane sky outside and return it in trembling fragments—thin ribbons, drifting prisms, wandering constellations of hue that ripple across the smooth alloy surfaces. Every few seconds the patterns shift again, refracting through the thick amber windows and sliding across the floor like living things.

Kaleidoscopic patterns of light drift over the long negotiation table.

The alarm screamed three seconds before Kira even registered the red pulse flooding Bay 7. She was already moving—muscle memory from two years of courier work—but her mind lagged behind, still cataloging the morning’s deliveries: Edison, 1879. Curie, 1898. Turing, 1936. All green. All signed. All perfect.

Until now.