The sky was heavy with color, opalescent and layered, as the Silver Sun lowered itself toward the horizon.
"Coming to work twice is quite the toll," I muttered as we made our way back to the dormitory.
"It is rather annoying," Min agreed, tugging off her gloves and shoving them into her satchel. "But since it's the twenty-ninth, we should receive our first pay tomorrow."
"And tomorrow is an off day," Amihan added, adjusting her glasses with faint satisfaction.
The sky shifted — soft pink bleeding into deep crimson as the second sun followed the first.
"Silver dusk," Etsuko murmured, watching it sink.
"Pretty," I said, though my feet ached.
The streets were full of a particular kind of people at that hour — bankers, clerks, the polished sort. The laborers had already finished. The night workers had not yet begun. We moved with the in-between.
"I see the Gold rise while my bed is warm," Heiwa said quietly, "and the Silver set while my eyes are heavy."
"One of the senior clerks said that," Amihan explained. "It means clerks are always transitioning just as everyone else is settling into their main sleep."
Perpetually misaligned with the world.
That sounded accurate.
"We could go to the beach tomorrow," Min suggested lightly, glancing at Heiwa.
Heiwa's brow furrowed — brief calculation — then she looked at me.
"You wanted to go to the beach," Amihan said.
"I did mention it," I replied as we reached the dormitory steps.
We split toward our respective rooms.
I collapsed onto my bed and kicked off my boots with the last of my strength.
"You should take a bath," Etsuko said, already undoing her sleeves.
"That will ruin the nap."
"It will make the sleep better when it comes back," she countered.
Annoyingly logical.
I sighed and rolled off the bed.
When I returned, clean and slightly less resentful, the sheets felt cool and forgiving. The faint scent of soap lingered in the air.
"Hey," I said, staring at the ceiling, "in my reports I reference Alpha, Pi, and the others. What are they, exactly?"
Etsuko paused mid-motion, gathering her hair into a loose bun.
"Oh. They're operatives. The ones deployed after we finish filing and classification."
She lay down, facing me.
"There's usually one for each letter."
"So… twenty-two? Twenty-three?"
"Twenty-four," she corrected softly. "And they don't operate publicly."
I frowned.
"How have I never seen them?"
"You probably have," she said. "They show up here sometimes. Cafeteria. Corridors. But they dress like us."
That unsettled me more than it should have.
"You said 'this region.' That means another sign operates elsewhere?"
"Yes," she replied. "But not Aries."
"Why not?"
She considered, eyes half-lidded.
"Too many cooks spoil the pot. Different signs approach anomalies differently. Some situations require… other philosophies."
She turned onto her side.
"For example, Scorpio's creed is: Two exist for every one. If you see us, you're already outnumbered by yourself."
A chill crept up my spine.
"Like assassins," I murmured.
"Not assassins," she said quietly. "Precision."
The red light filtering through the cyan windowpanes cast strange shadows across the walls.
"And us?" I asked.
She didn't answer immediately.
I reached over and switched off the main lamp, leaving only the small night light glowing.
"First in. Last remembered," I whispered.
Aries' line.
Direct.
Visible.
Accountable.
We arrive first.
We leave the paperwork, the seal, the certainty that something stood there between catastrophe and survival.
"I wonder what the others are like," I said, biting back a yawn.
"If you mean their creeds, they're in the manual," Etsuko replied, already drifting. "We're supposed to know them. It could save your life."
That was not comforting.
Twenty-four operatives.
Different regions.
Different methods.
And somewhere beyond clerks and security drills and tide anomalies, a wider machinery turning.
The Silver Sun had fully set now.
The dormitory quieted.
And before I could ask another question, sleep claimed me — swift and absolute.
First in.
Last remembered.