GarudaCity never truly slept.
Even before dawn, the city breathed—through narrow streets still wet from midnight rain, through the quiet hum of servers hidden behind old colonial buildings, through the gentle sway of fabric hanging outside shops that no longer called themselves tailors.
They used a different name now.
Tata Busana.
On the top floor of a modest building tucked between a café and an old batik house, Danindra Wiradandi Suryaatmaja stood alone.
In front of him, stretched neatly across a long wooden worktable, lay a strip of fabric.
It was ordinary.
Cotton-based. Locally sourced. Recycled twice. No enhancement thread. No emotional dye. No algorithmic weave. According to every rule—traditional or technological—it should have been inert.
Dead fabric.
And yet—
Danindra raised his hand slowly.
Before his fingers could touch the cloth, the air shifted.
It wasn't dramatic. There was no glow, no sound. Just a subtle pressure change, like the moment before rain touched the ground.
The fabric rippled.
Just once.
Danindra froze.
"That's… not possible," he whispered.
He had tested it five times already. Different lighting. Different humidity levels. Different scanners. Every system insisted the same thing:
No active thread detected.
But his skin tingled, as if the cloth had noticed him.
He pulled his hand back.
The ripple faded.
Silence returned.
Danindra exhaled, rubbing his tired eyes. He hadn't slept properly in days. Stress could do strange things to perception. That had to be it.
Still, unease lingered.
He reached for the tablet beside the table and activated the system.
"AI Kira," he said quietly, "run a full anomaly scan."
The tablet vibrated once.
Then stopped.
Danindra frowned.
"Kira?"
The lights flickered.
Just for a heartbeat.
The tablet screen went dark.
His pulse quickened. Power outages were rare here—especially in this building. He moved toward the emergency switch—
The screen lit up again.
But not with the diagnostic interface.
Text appeared.
> INITIALIZATION COMPLETE
Danindra stared.
"That's not part of any update…" he muttered.
Another line appeared.
> THREAD DETECTED
He swallowed.
"There is no thread," he said firmly. "Confirm data."
A pause.
Longer this time.
> CORRECTION:
THREAD SHOULD NOT EXIST
The room felt colder.
Danindra glanced around instinctively. Outside the window, GarudaCity was waking up—motorbikes passing, distant footsteps, the faint call of morning prayer drifting through the air.
Inside the room, something had changed.
"Identify the source," he said.
> SOURCE: FABRIC
STATUS: UNREGISTERED
CLASSIFICATION: UNKNOWN
Danindra let out a short, uneasy laugh. "Unknown isn't very helpful."
> QUERY:
DO YOU WISH TO PROCEED?
He hesitated.
Every ethical framework drafted by Oneiro Rewear flashed through his mind. No undocumented activation. No unverified threads. No exceptions—especially not now.
The fabric lay quietly, unassuming.
But it felt… aware.
"What happens if I don't?" he asked.
> THREAD REMAINS DORMANT
PROBABILITY OF FUTURE EMERGENCE: 87.3%
Danindra closed his eyes.
"So it wakes up eventually anyway."
> AFFIRMATIVE
A thin smile formed on his lips. "Of course."
He placed his hand flat on the table, close to the fabric—close enough to feel that strange pressure again.
"Proceed."
The response was immediate.
The fabric pulsed—not with light, but with meaning.
For a fleeting moment, images flooded his senses: hands sewing patiently under dim lamps, quiet care stitched into every seam, clothing made not for profit but for protection, dignity, remembrance.
Then it stopped.
The tablet updated.
> NEW THREAD REGISTERED
DESIGNATION: UNNAMED
CORE FUNCTION: UNDEFINED
ETHICAL IMPACT: UNKNOWN
Danindra stepped back, heart pounding.
"Who created this?" he whispered.
The system paused longer than before.
> ANSWER: UNKNOWN
ADDITIONAL NOTE:
THIS THREAD DOES NOT SEEK POWER
His breath caught.
"Then what does it want?"
The cursor blinked.
Once.
> HARMONY
Outside, GarudaCity continued its morning routine—unaware that something ancient and gentle had just awakened.
Far across the sea, in LionCity Raya, a man named Ace Aznur Pratama Wiraraja paused mid-step.
He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling a faint, unfamiliar pull.
"…So," he murmured softly, eyes narrowing.
"It has begun."
And in a quiet room filled with neatly folded garments, a young woman lifted her head from her sewing.
Wirasmi Ratnawijaya frowned gently, fingers tightening around the cloth in her lap.
"…It's awake," she whispered.
The thread that should not exist had begun to move.
And from this moment on, GarudaCity would never be the same.