Day 0

1:18 PM

Steve Jenkins hadn’t stopped smiling since 9:42 that morning.

The ruling came down exactly as he expected, fast, clean, unchallenged. The plaintiff’s lawyer barely made it ten minutes before the judge interrupted him with a sigh and turned to Steve for closing clarification.

He didn’t even stand to deliver it. Just nodded, slid forward a final exhibit, and said, “Your honor, the language is ironclad. The Grahams had the opportunity to pay, and they didn’t. It is just that simple.”

Case closed.

A property worth nearly $800,000 reclaimed on a $9,400 tax debt, and flipped to MillenPoint Capital by the following Monday.

The Grahams were probably still packing up when he left the courtroom.

He was in a good mood.

No, he was riding it.

He pulled off his tie in the elevator, humming some half-tuned baritone, ran his hands through his over-gelled hair, and decided to take a long lunch.

Not his usual soulless salad place.

Something celebratory. American.

He hit a hot dog cart on Michigan Avenue and loaded up a dog with everything, mustard, relish, sport peppers. Extra onions. No napkins. It didn’t matter. He felt bulletproof.

As he walked, the weight of the morning slid off his shoulders.

He chewed through lunch and wandered north. The early afternoon crowd flowed around him, tourists, office drones, parents with strollers, half a dozen teenage influencers taking selfies in unison.

He grinned. Took a long sip from his Coke. Wiped the mustard from his chin with his sleeve.

Then he saw it.

Silver and impossible.

The Cloud Gate, gleaming in Grainger Plaza.

A tourist trap for over twenty years.

Part sculpture, part mirror, part myth.

He hadn’t been there in years, but something pulled him forward. Maybe he wanted to see himself reflected, crisp and distorted. Maybe he just liked the shine.

He stepped off the path, adjusting his cuffs, still chewing the last bite of his hot dog.

As he walked toward the sculpture, his reflection slid into view,

And something was wrong.

There stood a little girl.

Alone.

Dark red dress. Black hair falling just past her shoulders.

Still as a statue.

Her eyes, somehow, were older than her face.

And they were locked on him.

He swore she wasn’t there a moment ago.

And then it felt like the air itself folded inward.

Bent around a point.

Twisted.

And suddenly, she was.

“Hello, little girl. What’s your name?”

She didn’t answer.

Just stood there. Staring. Still.

Her eyes, there was something wrong with them.

Not blank. Not scared.

Too knowing. Like they didn’t see him, but saw through him.

Steve let out a breath. The mood was gone.

Probably some courthouse protester’s kid.

A stunt. A threat.

He turned to walk away, muttering, “Unbelievable.”

And froze.

His foot didn’t lift.

His knees didn’t bend.

His arms stayed at his sides.

It was like being welded to the world.

Only his eyes could move, just barely.

He glanced toward the polished surface of Cloud Gate.

His reflection stared back: stiff, confused, lips just parted.

She wasn’t there.

He could see the crowd behind her.

The city skyline.

The faint smear of mustard still on his sleeve.

But not the girl.

His eyes flicked back down.

She was still standing beneath the sculpture.

Right where the reflection said there was nothing.

And she was watching him.

Still.

Then came the voice.

“You broke the laws.”

Not loud. Not angry.

Just… final.

Steve’s voice came out fast, high.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t break any laws. They didn’t pay their taxes.”

He tried to control it, but his words were unraveling.

“She must be with them,” he thought. “They followed me.”

“You exploit. You manipulate. And you justify these actions as if you understand.”

Steve’s eyes went wide. Panic started to set in, not because of her words, but because he couldn't move.

“No,” he said. “No, no, no. Listen, what I did was legal. Everything I filed was approved, reviewed. I didn’t break anything.”

“Yes, you did.”

A heat rose in his chest, clashing with the cold air around her.

People were starting to notice now, phones out, filming.

But the screens only showed him.

Not her.

Just a man frozen in place, sweat gathering at his collar, eyes darting wildly.

Then the Cloud Gate changed.

Usually a polished mirror of the city skyline, now, the entire surface twisted with movement, projecting memory instead of reflection.

Elderly tenants dragged from their homes as bulldozers idled nearby.

Families weeping on sidewalks, eviction notices clutched in trembling hands.

Children watching their school collapse, yellow buses already turned away.

Homeless swept aside by private security in riot gear, their voices ignored.

The sound came next.

Not from speakers, but from inside their bones:

Children sobbing.

A man’s voice, shaking: “I don’t know what we’re going to do.”

A woman screaming: “We lost everything!”

Everyone in the plaza froze, staring at the Bean.

No one moved.

No one spoke.

They just watched Steve Jenkins’ life laid bare.

And understood why she was there.

The imagery faded away, as the reflective surface returned.

A faint hum lingered, like metal breathing.

A hushed quiet fell over the crowd, waiting.

"You petulant fool," Serena snapped, her voice not raised, but sharpened. "Throwing the word law around like you know the meaning."

She stepped forward.

No louder than a whisper on a dying breeze. Everyone heard it clear as day.

But the air shifted around her.

Like reality itself had flinched.

And then her voice came again, not through ears, but straight into bone and blood.

"You understand nothing of the universe. The laws I speak of are not written by fools. I speak of the laws that construct time itself. The laws that set the stars in motion, that once, briefly, gave you breath."

Her expression was unreadable beneath her porcelain skin and eyes that held no warmth, only the weight of everything she knew.

"Don’t speak to me of laws."

Steve’s jaw trembled. His knees shook but didn’t give. The paralysis held.

"Fools like you walk the world like it owes you. Like you’re entitled to this existence. You take advantage of life and expect it to be there, pliable, patient, waiting to serve your every whim.

I have been sent here to clarify that situation.

And the cost of that clarity is every breath you take from this moment on."

There was a gasp, sharp, involuntary, from the crowd.

A man took a slow step backward.

The silence that followed wasn’t just quiet.

It was heavier than sound.

Because something in her voice, not volume, but gravity, had landed.

Finality.

Like a gavel.

Like a guillotine just starting to drop.

And even the people who didn’t understand what was happening...

Felt it.

For a single heartbeat, Steve believed it: she was bluffing. Just a pale, well-spoken girl playing at godhood.

His shoulders began to loosen and he could again move his arms.

The panic almost dissolved.

Then he tried to take his next breath.

And couldn’t.

His chest hitched.

His lips parted. His throat moved. His chest strained outward.

But the air stayed out.

He tried again.

And again.

No breath. No sound. No oxygen.

His lungs fluttered, trying to draw something in, anything, but it was like the air had turned to glass.

His arms broke free, clawing at his throat, nails tearing at his skin and collar in a frantic bid for control. Blood streaked his neck, welling beneath jagged nails.

A scream built inside him, but there was no air to carry it.

The crowd watched, frozen. One woman dropped her phone. Another took a step forward but didn’t move again. Someone whispered, “Oh my God.”

He didn’t fall.

He just stood there, locked upright by unseen hands, mouth gaping, eyes wild, face turning a deep, unnatural shade of purple.

And the girl?

She didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t look away.

She simply watched.

Until the shaking stopped.

Until the body went still.

Until the red on his fingers dried across his throat like some final punctuation.

And when it was over…

Steve Jenkins remained standing.

Head tilted. Fingers still half-buried in the ruin of his neck.

Eyes open.

Dead.

Eyes turned to the little girl in the simple red dress, still standing beneath the sculpture.

Unmoving. Unblinking.

For one breathless moment, she was all that existed.

“The Engine sees all.”

Then…

The air around her seemed to fold inward, and she was gone.

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