The waiting room smelled like antiseptic and old coffee.
Shivis sat on a gray plastic chair fixed to the floor. The chair was narrow, pressing slightly into his thighs, forcing him to sit straight. His elbows rested on his knees, fingers loosely joined, relaxed on the surface but tight underneath.
The room was full of people, but no one felt truly calm.
A digital screen on the wall blinked quietly.
RESIDUE IMPLANTATION – INTAKE ZONE C
PLEASE REMAIN CALM
No one was.
To Shivis's left sat a thin man in a cheap blazer. His shoulders were narrow, his back slightly curved forward like he was trying to fold into himself. He kept rubbing his palms together, fast and nervous, breathing through his mouth. His lips moved in silent words—half prayers, half deals.
Every few seconds, his eyes lifted toward the ceiling.
Nothing answered.
To Shivis's right were two young women, close in age, sitting very close together. One had long hair falling over her shoulder, the soft curve of her arm pressing lightly against her friend. She leaned back comfortably, confident, legs crossed without care. The other leaned forward, elbows on her knees, energy buzzing through her posture.
"I swear," the confident one said, smiling wide, "if I get a warrior god, I'm quitting college and starting a channel."
Her friend laughed, nudging her. "Relax. You'll get a book god and spend your life correcting people."
A few people laughed.
The sound was quick and sharp, like it escaped before fear could catch it. Then silence returned.
Shivis didn't laugh. He watched.
People shifted in their seats. Some stretched their necks. Some checked reflections in dark glass. Everyone here had signed the papers. Everyone had agreed.
That was how the city liked to say it.
Shard hosts lived better. More money. More protection. More importance. Once a god spoke through you, people listened—whether they wanted to or not.
Across the room, a man sat with his wrist wrapped in a loose scarf. The cloth followed the shape of his arm, hiding something beneath. The pattern woven into it wasn't fashion. Simple lines. Repeating angles.
A symbol.
Shivis had seen the same mark sprayed under a bridge a few nights ago.
The man noticed Shivis looking.
A woman beside him turned and smiled.
She had a calm face, soft cheeks, eyes steady. Her posture was relaxed, but alert. Her smile was polite, controlled—meant to be seen, not felt.
Her lips moved without sound.
Soon.
Shivis looked away.
A side door slid open with a quiet hiss.
"Shivis Rao?"
He stood.
The voice belonged to a woman in a pale blue uniform. The fabric followed her form neatly—professional, clean, fitted just enough to show confidence without intention. Her hair was tied back tight, exposing her neck and jawline. She held a tablet close to her chest.
Her name badge read: Lina K.
Her eyes passed over Shivis once—quick, practiced—then lingered half a second longer than necessary.
"Nervous?" she asked casually as she turned and walked.
"Should I be?" Shivis replied, falling into step beside her.
She laughed softly. "Only if you believe stories."
They passed a glass wall. On the other side, someone screamed.
The sound was sharp, sudden—and then cut off.
Lina didn't react. Her walk didn't slow. Her shoulders didn't tense.
"You've completed your prep scans?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Any family history of rejection?"
"No."
"Ever hear voices?"
Shivis paused for a breath. "Depends who's asking."
She glanced at him again, this time openly. The corner of her mouth lifted, amused.
"Smart answer," she said. "You'll survive."
They stopped at a smaller waiting area. Fewer chairs. More cameras. The air felt heavier.
Before leaving, Lina leaned closer—not touching, just close enough that Shivis could smell her perfume. Light. Clean.
"Off the record," she said quietly, "if anything later feels… personal, don't panic. Gods have personalities."
She straightened, eyes meeting his.
"Some of them like attention," she added, teasing.
Then, with a small smile, "Try not to flirt back."
She turned and walked away.
Shivis sat.
The door sealed shut behind him with a soft click that echoed a little too long.
Above him, the lights flickered.
Just once.
No one else noticed.
The light flickered.
Just once.
The soft hum of the room returned immediately, like nothing had happened. Shivis remained seated for a moment, his eyes lifting toward the ceiling. The air felt the same, but something inside his chest tightened, slow and heavy, like a hand resting there without permission.
Footsteps approached.
The door slid open again with a low hiss.
"Mr. Rao," a man said calmly. "We're ready for you."
He stood and followed.
The hallway beyond was narrow and white, the floor polished to a dull shine. Each step echoed faintly, the sound of his shoes bouncing back at him from the walls. The air was cooler here, carrying a sharp, clean smell—metal, disinfectant, something faintly bitter underneath.
They entered a small room.
No windows. One table. Two chairs.
The man gestured. "Please sit."
Shivis sat.
The chair was softer than the waiting room ones, leather-like, cool against the back of his legs. The table surface was smooth and dark, reflecting his hands faintly when he rested them on it.
The man placed a thin tablet on the table and slid it forward.
"Standard consent documentation," he said, voice even, friendly. "You've seen versions of this before."
Shivis nodded and picked it up.
The screen lit up.
The text was long. Too long.
Paragraph after paragraph scrolled smoothly, the words neat and formal. Legal language. Clinical language. But as Shivis read, a strange feeling crept in—like the sentences were aimed at him, not written for everyone.
By agreeing, the subject acknowledges the possibility of identity overlap…
The air felt warmer.
He shifted in his seat.
…voluntary compliance with divine influence protocols…
The words seemed sharper the longer he looked at them. The faint hum in the room deepened, vibrating softly through the table, through his palms.
"Is this new?" Shivis asked, without looking up.
The man smiled politely. "Updated for clarity."
Shivis scrolled.
…loss of autonomy may occur in stages…
He paused.
The room smelled different now. Not bad. Just heavier. Like rain trapped indoors.
"I don't remember this part," Shivis said.
"You wouldn't," the man replied calmly. "Most people don't read that far."
Shivis looked up.
The man met his gaze without blinking. No hostility. No warmth either. Just patience—like he had all the time in the world.
"What happens if I don't sign?" Shivis asked.
The man folded his hands. "Then we document your refusal."
"And?"
"And you walk out," he said. "Without protection status. Without priority access. Without the benefits you applied for."
A pause.
"Also," he added gently, "your name stays on record."
Shivis looked back at the screen.
For a moment, the words blurred—not moving, not changing, just… pressing. As if the text carried weight. His fingers tingled slightly where they touched the tablet, a faint warmth spreading up his skin.
He scrolled again.
At the bottom, a single line waited.
SIGNATURE REQUIRED
The hum in the room deepened.
The lights did not flicker this time.
The man leaned back slightly, giving space—but not relief.
"Take your time," he said pleasantly. "But don't take too long."
Shivis held the tablet.
The surface felt warmer than before.
The tablet felt warm in Shivis's hands.
Not hot. Just warm enough to notice.
The man across the table waited without moving, his calm presence filling the room more than his body did. The hum beneath the floor stayed steady, vibrating lightly through Shivis's fingers, up his arms, into his chest.
Shivis lowered his eyes to the screen again.
Loss of autonomy may occur in stages.
He exhaled slowly through his nose.
This wasn't bravery. It wasn't ambition. It was math.
Shivis thought of his apartment—the cracked ceiling fan, the neighbor's television always too loud, the way rent notices arrived earlier every month. He thought of the job interview last week that ended the moment the word non-host came up. He remembered the look on the recruiter's face—polite, apologetic, final.
Shard-hosts mattered.
Everyone else waited.
His jaw tightened slightly.
He wasn't chasing gods. He didn't care about miracles or followers or being looked at like something special. He just wanted leverage. A little protection. A way to stop feeling like the ground could disappear under him at any moment.
The tablet vibrated faintly, like a heartbeat.
Shivis frowned.
The words on the screen stayed still, but the space around them felt… closer. The room seemed smaller, the air thicker, pressing gently against his skin. He became aware of his own breathing, the quiet sound of it inside his ears.
Identity overlap.
"What does that actually mean?" Shivis asked.
The man answered immediately. "It means adaptation."
"Whose?" Shivis asked.
A pause. Just a fraction of a second.
"Mutual," the man said.
Shivis's lips pressed together.
He thought of control. Of rules. Of how his life already bent around systems he never agreed to. Gods, at least, were honest about wanting something in return.
The tablet grew warmer again.
Not uncomfortable. Almost… encouraging.
Shivis lifted his finger.
For a brief moment—just a breath—he felt a strange pressure behind his eyes, like someone standing very close without touching him. No voice. No words. Just attention.
Then it faded.
The man across the table straightened slightly.
Shivis signed.
The moment his finger left the screen, the warmth vanished.
The hum beneath the floor softened.
"Good," the man said, standing. "We'll proceed."
The tablet went dark.
The door behind Shivis unlocked with a quiet click.