Amara Fitriyaningrum Wicaksono did not plan to stay long.
She had told herself that as she stood outside the Oneiro Reworks building, fingers clasped tightly around a worn canvas bag. The structure looked unremarkable—two floors, glass windows framed by old brick, a small sign with the Oneiro logo hanging quietly above the door.
Nothing about it looked legendary.
That made her nervous.
She took a breath and stepped inside.
The air smelled faintly of fabric, wood polish, and coffee that had been reheated one time too many. The workspace was alive in a restrained way—machines humming softly, screens glowing with design interfaces, bolts of recycled cloth stacked neatly along the walls.
Someone would tell her she was in the wrong place.
That was what usually happened.
"Can I help you?"
Amara turned to see a woman about ten years older than her, hair tied back neatly, eyes sharp but kind.
"I—um," Amara straightened. "I'm here about the assistant position."
The woman studied her for a moment, then nodded. "Operations. Follow me."
They walked past worktables and discussion corners until they reached a small office. Inside, Melati Iryani Wiraputri sat behind a desk stacked with schedules, shipment logs, and handwritten notes.
"You're early," Melati said, glancing up.
"I didn't want to be late," Amara replied quickly.
A hint of a smile appeared.
"Good. Sit."
Amara did, folding her hands in her lap.
"Why Oneiro?" Melati asked.
Amara hesitated. She had practiced answers, but none of them felt honest enough.
"…Because things deserve second chances," she said finally. "Including people."
Melati's gaze softened.
"That'll make this job harder," she said. "And more meaningful."
---
By noon, Amara had already been assigned three tasks she barely understood, two meetings she was only meant to observe, and one errand involving fabric labels that turned out to be more complicated than expected.
She didn't complain.
She listened.
She watched how people moved—how Aulia Zahra Maheswari spoke with warmth even while correcting mistakes, how Jayantara Dwi Wicaksana checked numbers twice before approving anything, how Tita Indrayani Adiprana barely spoke at all but seemed to know everything.
And then there was Danindra.
He stood apart from the others, eyes often distant, attention split between the present and something no one else could see.
Amara noticed.
Most people didn't.
During a lull in activity, she approached him carefully.
"Sir?" she said.
He looked up. "You don't have to call me that."
"Oh—sorry. Danindra."
"Yes?"
"I was told to deliver these," she said, handing him a stack of fabric tags.
He accepted them, then paused.
"You're new."
"Yes."
"Do you always look at fabric like it might speak back?"
Amara blinked. "Is that… not normal?"
For the first time that day, Danindra smiled.
---
Across GarudaCity, in a narrow street softened by overhanging trees, Wirasmi Ratnawijaya sat across from Yunitra Ayu Kartikasari in a quiet tea house.
Steam curled gently from their cups.
"You don't use enhancement threads," Yunitra said calmly.
"No," Wirasmi replied.
"You don't market yourself."
"No."
"And yet," Yunitra continued, "people come to you when nothing else works."
Wirasmi looked down at her hands. "I just fix what wants to be fixed."
Yunitra studied her.
"Would you consider working with us?"
Wirasmi's fingers tightened slightly around her cup.
"I don't belong in systems," she said softly.
Yunitra smiled faintly. "Neither do we. That's why we build them carefully."
---
That evening, in LionCity Raya, Ace Aznur Pratama Wiraraja reviewed a silent feed of GarudaCity's data.
Threads of light overlaid the city map, faint and restrained.
One new point pulsed gently.
Wirasmi.
Another blinked into existence moments later.
Amara.
Ace leaned back in his chair.
"The circle is forming," he murmured.
And far below, in a small workshop and a growing company, two women—one who listened, and one who learned—stepped quietly onto the same path.
Neither of them knew it yet.
But GarudaCity did.