Night in the Neon Cradle was never truly dark.
The glass towers dimmed, but they never slept. Their interiors pulsed with faint blue veins—data, energy, prayer. The city breathed in light; exhaled stillness.
Axis sat among a hundred other Avatars in the dining amphitheater, the air thick with low conversation and the scent of synthetic fruit. Plates of luminous food—grown from engineered light and mineral dust—glowed faintly on transparent tables.
Across from him, an Avatar named Cira gestured animatedly with her fork. "I heard the Lawgivers' sky failed its alignment sequence," she said. "Their constellations flickered. Twice."
Another—Kalos, older, steady-voiced—laughed quietly. "Their stars follow a timetable; one deviation, and they think the world is ending."
Cira smirked. "Maybe it is. Maybe the Triüm's getting bored."
The group laughed. All except Axis. He turned his gaze upward, toward the Cradle's open dome. Above them, the artificial stars shimmered in perfect mathematical distribution, each position calculated to reflect Logos's divine ratio.
He had never seen them wrong before.
Cira noticed his silence. "You think it's true, don't you?"
"I think truth requires data," Axis said. "But rumor implies emotion. That's more interesting."
"Spoken like a model Avatar," Kalos said, smiling. "No fear, no faith."
Axis considered this. "Faith is pattern's mercy. Fear is its proof."
The others stared, unsure if it was meant as humor. Cira laughed anyway. "You think too much for someone who's supposed to obey."
"I obey the question," Axis said. "It's older than any god."
Before she could reply, the lights across the amphitheater dimmed. A vibration ran through the tables, the faint tremor of recalibration. Conversations stuttered into silence.
Then, every simulated star above them flickered once.
And one—just one—stayed red.
It wasn't a programmed hue. It burned deep crimson, bleeding across the dome like a cut in the sky.
The room held its breath.
Kalos whispered, "That's not alignment."
The red light pulsed, once, twice, then spread outward—threads of scarlet tracing through the artificial constellations, unraveling their perfect geometry.
Cira rose halfway from her seat. "Is it—"
The floor shuddered, cutting her off. Glasses rattled. From the spire above the amphitheater came a single tone, pure and cold, echoing through every level of the city.
"Remain still."
It was Logos's voice.
Calm. Absolute.
Every Avatar froze.
"The pattern is correcting."
The red light rippled, fragmented, and vanished.
Silence followed. Long, thick, heavy.
Then conversation resumed, nervous laughter bleeding into relief. Someone made a joke about divine glitches.
But Axis didn't laugh. He still stared at the empty sky, watching the faint afterimage of that scarlet glow.
He knew what light should feel like. This had felt wrong—too alive, too deliberate.
He reached up without thinking, fingers brushing the reflection of the stars in the transparent dome above him. The image flickered again, not red this time, but white—like a blink.
A reflection that moved before he did.
Cira nudged him. "Hey. You all right?"
Axis lowered his hand. "Yes. Calibration complete."
He forced a small smile. It felt rehearsed, like everything else here.
They talked a little longer, the conversation drifting to training scores, upcoming simulations, the comfort of routine.
When they parted, Axis lingered alone under the artificial sky.
The air tasted faintly metallic, as if the city had drawn blood.
He whispered to no one, "Correction implies error."
The stars flickered once more.
Somewhere deep below the Cradle, something hummed in answer..