The first rule at Oneiro Reworks was simple:
If something feels wrong, stop.
Amara learned that rule before she learned where the extra storage keys were kept.
She stood beside a worktable in the main studio, watching Danindra examine a newly delivered batch of reclaimed fabric. The material looked fine—clean, well-sorted, properly labeled.
And yet Danindra hadn't touched it.
"Is there a problem?" Amara asked carefully.
He didn't answer right away.
"Does anything feel… off to you?" he asked instead.
Amara hesitated, then stepped closer. She reached out, stopping just short of touching the fabric.
"I don't know why," she said slowly, "but it feels heavy. Like it's tired."
Danindra's shoulders stiffened.
"That's exactly it."
He turned to the rest of the room. "Pause processing on this batch."
A few heads turned, but no one questioned him.
Amara felt a small spark of relief.
---
By afternoon, the pause had become a problem.
Jayantara stood at the edge of the office, tablet in hand, brows drawn together.
"Delaying this shipment costs us," he said quietly. "Not disastrously—but enough to notice."
"I know," Danindra replied.
"Is this about the anomaly?" Jayantara asked.
Danindra hesitated.
"Yes."
Jayantara sighed. "Then we need Yunitra involved."
"I already called her."
---
They met in the same tea house where Wirasmi had sat the day before.
Yunitra listened as Danindra explained the situation: the unnamed thread, the stabilizing effect, the growing sensitivity among certain people in the system.
When he finished, she asked only one question.
"Has it caused harm?"
"No."
"Has it tempted you?"
Danindra met her gaze. "Yes."
Yunitra nodded. "Then it's dangerous—but not forbidden."
She turned to Amara, who had remained quiet.
"You sensed it too."
Amara swallowed. "I didn't want to assume."
Yunitra smiled gently. "Never apologize for listening."
---
That evening, Wirasmi sat alone in her workshop, hands resting in her lap.
The unnamed thread was not with her—but she could feel its echo.
Like a hum beneath the city.
She pressed her palm against the table.
"You don't belong to anyone," she murmured. "So don't let them own you."
The fabric on the table shifted slightly.
As if agreeing.
---
In LionCity Raya, Ace Aznur Pratama Wiraraja closed a report without finishing it.
Too many metrics. Too many projections.
None of them measured restraint.
He stood and walked to the window, looking out at the distant lights.
"If they rush this," he said to the empty room, "it will break."
He activated a secure channel.
"Delay the investor briefing," he instructed calmly. "Indefinitely."
A pause.
"That includes me."
He ended the call.
---
Back in GarudaCity, a decision was made without ceremony.
The batch of fabric was returned—not rejected, but rested.
Amara watched as the shipment was sealed, not with frustration, but with care.
"Is that normal?" she asked Danindra.
"No," he said. "But it should be."
As night fell, the city settled.
The unnamed thread remained quiet.
Not because it was constrained—
—but because, for the first time, someone had chosen to wait.