POV: Aurora
I slept fitfully.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the same word, written in large letters inside my head.
Omega.
It's no longer a distant concept. Yesterday, a doctor said it while looking at my test results, and later, on the street, Dante repeated it as if he knew exactly what it meant to me.
I wake up feeling like I'm carrying an invisible stamp. The dizziness continues, mildly. The smells are still strong. The difference is that now I know something in my body has shifted gears.
On the bus, the air is thick: cheap perfume, grease, smoke. I've smelled it a thousand times, but now my body reacts as if it's searching for something among all that. It finds no storm or amber, and for some reason that relieves me.
I swipe my card in the lobby. I go up to the thirty-first floor.
Lina leaves a coffee on my desk.
"You seem less dead today," she says. "Progress."
"Maybe I've fused with the keyboard," I reply, turning on the computer.
"What did the doctor say?" she asks.
I'm not going to tell her "I'm omega" in the middle of the floor.
"Stress, adjustment, check-up in a few months," I summarize.
Lina purses her lips.
"Classic. 'Keep breathing, come back later,'" she says. "Anyway, if you're going to faint, do it on this side so I can keep your chair."
I smile a little. I open Seraphim.
I cling to the tables. Numbers, dates, amounts. Something I do know how to read.
The day passes between emails and reviews. Andrade asks for a short summary, mentions that there will be an "upstairs review." Everything sounds normal, but nothing seems neutral to me anymore.
Near the end of the day, the email arrives.
"Subject: Brief meeting – Management. Vega, please come to the 40th floor at the end of your shift."
40th floor.
Until today, the tower ended much lower for me.
I save everything, log out.
"What's that face for?" Lina asks.
"Management," I reply, turning the screen around.
She whistles.
"Well, well. If you get promoted, let me know. If you get fired, I'm keeping your mug."
"Deal," I say.
The elevator is empty on its way up to the 40th floor.
The lights change color as we ascend. When the doors open, the air smells of expensive coffee and something floral. No greasy food or printer fumes.
A perfect receptionist smiles.
"Aurora Vega," I introduce myself. "I have an appointment."
"Mr. Noir is expecting you," she replies. "At the end of the hall, on the right."
I walk down a quiet corridor. The city unfolds behind the glass like a model. I knock on the half-open door.
"Come in," says Dante.
I enter.
The office is spacious and tidy. Dante stands up. Up close, his impeccable suit can't hide the smell that I now recognize as his.
"Sit down," he says. "Thanks for coming up."
I sit down across from him.
"I guess this isn't to repeat 'stress and adaptation,'" I say.
"No," he replies. "This is something else."
He leans on the edge of the desk, close, but not intrusive.
"Yesterday I told you that you were under my protection," he continues. "Today I want to explain what that means here, and what I need from you."
"Okay," I reply. "Go ahead."
He nods.
"Inside Noir Tower, you're more visible than you think," he says.
Your exams, Seraphim, your label... There are people who can read those signs. I don't want you to be their project.
He speaks as if it were a report.
"No one can ask you for 'informal' meetings, mentoring, or interviews about your scholarship or Seraphim without going through me," he lists. "If anyone tries, you tell me. You don't decide on your own whether it's dangerous or not. You let me know."
He says it bluntly.
"And I want to see your reports," he adds. "Whatever you prepare for Andrade, I want it on my desk too. That way I'll know exactly what you know and what might be of interest to others.
I listen to him with a knot in my stomach.
"That sounds like control," I say.
"It is," he admits. "Control of access to you. You're already a pawn on this board. I'd rather see who gets close to you.
I fold my hands.
"And the price?" I ask.
He opens a drawer and places a folder in front of me.
"Loyalty," he says. "When there's noise, your reflex should be to believe me over others. If I tell you 'don't go in,' you stay out. If I say 'don't sign,' you don't sign. I'll explain later. But right now, I need you to trust me."
I look at the folder.
It's an internal form.
"Designation of primary contact in case of medical or security incidents within Noir Tower."
My name is at the top. Further down, already written:
"Designated primary contact: Dante Noir."
I read the clause: in the event of an emergency affecting my safety within the tower, immediate decisions can be channeled through that contact.
"It's basically saying, 'if anything happens, he's in charge first,'" I say.
"It's telling the system that if something happens to you here, I want to be the first to know and the only one to decide what to do with you," he replies. Not some random boss. Not the foundation. Not Valcourt. Me.
His "me" sticks with me.
"If you don't sign," he adds, "the system assigns any name. It could be someone very interested in omegas. Think about it: if your body goes out of control in a hallway, who would you rather the building obey first?"
The pen is next to the paper. He doesn't push it toward me. He just waits.
I think about the results I didn't see. About the doctor saying they were "going straight up." About Seraphim. About him downstairs from my apartment last night.
I look at the signature line.
To sign is to accept in writing something that is already happening in practice: my life in this tower is linked to his name.
I pick up the pen. My hand trembles a little, but the signature comes out clear.
When I look up, my name and his are on the same form.
I have just accepted more than an emergency protocol. I have just told the building, in its language, that if something breaks me in here, it will be the first to decide what happens to me.