The first time the word boundary surfaced, it was in a setting that appeared inconsequential.
A cross-departmental briefing, held in the Academy's main conference hall. Not a decision-making meeting, but formal enough. Not a public event, yet attended by enough people to matter.
Luna's seat had been arranged in advance.
Not at the head.
But directly facing the center.
As she took her place, several glances flicked toward the nameplate on her desk, then quickly away.
She noticed.
She did not correct it.
The meeting began smoothly.
Data, projects, evaluation procedures—everything progressed according to institutional logic. Until a senior coordinator mentioned her during the summary.
"Regarding Dr. Vale's research direction," he said, "we believe it will serve as an important reference for the Academy's next phase of strategic adjustment."
His tone was casual.
As if this were already consensus.
Luna raised her head.
She did not interrupt.
She simply looked at him.
"Of course," the coordinator continued, "at the operational level, we will remain aligned with Mr. Moreau's office."
This time, Luna spoke.
"I need to clarify one point."
Her voice was calm, not loud, but it carried.
The hall went quiet.
"My research may be cited," she said. "But my position is not to be synchronized by anyone else."
The coordinator hesitated.
Adrian sat several seats away, his expression unchanged.
"Dr. Vale," the coordinator adjusted quickly, "this is merely a matter of—"
"I understand," Luna cut in. "Which is precisely why it needs to be stated clearly."
Her gaze swept the table.
"To be referenced is not the same as being represented."
"To be positioned is not the same as being chosen."
A brief pause.
"If the Academy needs a spokesperson," she continued, "one can be appointed."
"If it needs a symbol," she paused slightly, "one can be selected."
"But if it is me," she looked up, "then I will stand for myself."
No one responded immediately.
Not in opposition.
In calculation.
At last, the moderator cleared his throat.
"Noted for the record," he said.
The moment the words were spoken, Luna knew—
the boundary had been written into the system.
The meeting dispersed faster than usual.
Some avoided her deliberately.
Others approached, then stopped short.
Adrian intercepted her at the far end of the corridor.
Not abruptly.
As if he had been waiting.
"What you said back there," he said, "complicated things."
"Complexity isn't the problem," Luna replied. "Ambiguity is."
He studied her steadily.
"You refused a position," he said.
"I refused someone deciding on my behalf," she corrected.
Adrian was silent for a beat.
"You know that if you stood there," he said, "a great deal of resistance would disappear."
"That would mean accepting the premise that it should exist in the first place," Luna said.
This time, he did not counter immediately.
"You're forcing everyone to take a stance," he said.
"No," she replied. "I'm refusing to be classified in advance."
They held each other's gaze.
"You won't always move this smoothly," Adrian said.
"I never assumed I would," Luna answered.
She stepped around him and continued down the corridor.
This time, he did not follow.
That evening, the Academy's western courtyard remained unlit.
It lay outside the official pathways—quiet, neglected, unused.
Lucien stood there.
As though he had known she would pass through.
"They've begun recording you," he said.
"I know."
"That's rarely a good thing."
"For most people," Luna replied.
He watched her closely, his gaze deeper than before.
"Do you want me to keep blocking?" he asked. "Or should I start clearing?"
It was the first time he had placed the choice openly before her.
No threat.
No implication.
Only a solution that was non-human in its efficiency.
Luna did not answer at once.
"If you say yes," Lucien continued, "many problems will disappear before you ever notice them."
"I know."
"And there will be no trace."
She finally looked at him.
"I don't want that," she said.
Lucien frowned slightly
"Why?"
"Because then," Luna replied, "I would be responsible for you."
That stopped him.
"I don't need anyone clearing the path for me," she went on. "I need the path to exist."
"Even if it's dangerous."
Lucien studied her for a long moment.
"You're drawing a line," he said.
"Yes."
"And that line," he said slowly, "will keep many people out."
"That's exactly its function."
He did not argue.
He simply nodded.
"Then I'll stand outside the line," he said.
"But if someone crosses—"
"I'll know first," Luna finished.
That was their understanding.
No promises required.
The night deepened.
Lights across the Academy dimmed one by one as the system entered low-frequency operation.
Luna walked alone along the return path.
She knew that from this moment on, things were no longer merely observed.
They were being recorded.
Flagged.
Filed away for potential future retrieval.
But she did not slow her steps.
Because she understood clearly—
once a boundary is drawn,
the ones who begin to fear
are never the ones who drew it.