The rain started just as she reached the nondescript office building on Dearborn. It wasn't a storm, just a persistent, cold drizzle that beaded on the shoulders of her coat; the black wool one, not the suit. The suit was sealed in a garment bag, hanging in the back of a locked van three blocks away. Lyra's clothes...soft jeans, a dark sweatshirt—felt like a costume now. They smelled of bus exhaust and damp wool.
The lobby was empty. Faux-marble floors, a potted fern struggling for life under fluorescent lights. She took the elevator to the fourth floor. The doors opened onto a small reception area. "Aldren Consulting," the plaque on the wall read. The air smelled of stale coffee and lemon-scented disinfectant.
The door to the corner office was ajar.
"Come in, Lyra."
Graham's voice. It was always calm. A steady, mid-range baritone that never seemed to lift or fall. She pushed the door open.
He was sitting behind a broad, empty desk, the surface a blank expanse of polished oak. He wasn't doing paperwork. He was just… waiting. A mug of tea steamed gently at his elbow, the bag's tag dangling over the side. Earl Grey. He always drank Earl Grey.
"Sit, please."
She took the chair facing him. It was comfortable, but just enough. Not meant for lingering.
Graham looked like someone's kind uncle. Late fifties, maybe. Hair silvering at the temples, glasses with thin wire frames. A cable-knit sweater in a heather gray. He folded his hands on the desk. His eyes, a pale blue behind the lenses, assessed her. It wasn't a stare. It was a scan.
"Reykjavik," he said. No hello. No small talk. "The weather report was accurate."
"It was cold," she said. Her own voice sounded flat in the quiet room. "Thermal regulation was nominal."
He nodded once, a short, efficient dip of his chin. "The retrieval?"
"Complete. Data packet secured. No anomalies. Extraction was clean." The words were rote. A checklist.
"The secondary patrol?"
"He was bored. A visual sweep only. No deeper check. He didn't breach the nexus."
A small, almost-smile touched Graham's lips. It didn't warm his eyes. "Good. Predictable. Boredom is a better ally than any tech we could devise." He took a sip of his tea. "And you? Any complications? Physical or… otherwise."
This was the part he always circled back to. The you part.
"No complications," she said. "Heart rate and respiration remained within optimal thresholds throughout."
"I'm not asking for the biometric readout, Lyra." He put his mug down. The click was precise. "I'm asking you. How did it feel?"
The question hung in the air between them. The feel. It was the one variable his algorithms couldn't perfectly predict. The grit in the machine.
She looked past his shoulder, out the window to the fire escape and the dripping gray sky. How did it feel? The cold had been a fact. The silence in the server room had been an absence. The guard's flashlight beam had been a vector of light to be avoided.
"It was a task," she said, finally. "It was completed."
Graham watched her for a long moment. He picked up a pen, turned it over in his fingers. A habitual gesture, not a needed one. "Your mother called the office. Yesterday."
A different kind of cold, sudden and internal, locked her joints. She didn't move. She kept her eyes on the window. A single drop of water traced a crooked path down the glass.
"She was… concerned," Graham continued, his tone neutral, as if discussing a minor logistical hiccup. "Said you've been quiet. Distant. That there was an incident at school. With your glasses."
Lyra said nothing. The tape pinched.
"We provided our standard cover. Tutoring. Intensive college-prep seminars. She seemed… reluctantly reassured." He paused. "But it's a vulnerability. This… Lyra side of things. It needs to remain stable. Contained."
It needs to not be a problem, is what he meant.
"It's contained," she whispered.
"Is it?" He leaned forward, just an inch. The paternal facade didn't crack, but something firmer showed through. "Stress has a cumulative effect. Even on the best assets. It clouds judgment. It creates echoes where there should be silence."
Echoes. She thought of the newspaper in the cafeteria. The blank space where a photo should have been.
"My stress levels are nominal," she said, the words coming out by reflex. A system status report.
He didn't look away. "You're seventeen. You live in two worlds. One is… fraught with ordinary pains. The other demands extraordinary silence. The seam between them is the most dangerous place you can be." He finally broke his gaze, looking down at his pen. "I need you to monitor that seam, Lyra. Not as Nyx. And not as the girl in that school. But as the one who stands in the doorway between them. If that space feels like it's… widening. You report it. To me. Immediately."
It was the closest he ever came to showing concern. It wasn't warm. It was strategic. A good handler maintains his asset. He was checking for cracks in the foundation.
"I understand," she said.
"Good." He sat back. The moment passed. The paternal mask resettled. "The Chimera data is promising. Very promising. You've done excellent work." The praise was delivered like a fact. A rating. "Get some rest. The ordinary world will demand your presence tomorrow. See that it doesn't leave a mark."
Dismissed.
She stood. Her legs felt stiff, as if she'd been sitting for hours, not minutes. She turned to go.
"Lyra."
She stopped, hand on the doorknob.
"The glasses," he said. His voice was softer now, almost kind. "Get them properly fixed. It's a small thing. But small things matter. They're… noticeable."
She didn't turn around. She just nodded, once, and stepped out into the sterile reception area.
The elevator ride down was silent. The drizzle had picked up outside. She stood under the awning, watching the rain darken the pavement.
Nominal.
It was the right word. It meant within acceptable limits. It didn't mean fine. It didn't mean okay. It meant the system was functioning, the readings were green, the asset was operational.
She pulled up the hood of her sweatshirt and stepped out into the rain, heading for the bus stop. The tape pinched behind her ear, a small, persistent signal in the quiet static of her mind.
Report it to me.