Kyren hadn't spoken in hours.
He sat on the roof of the food cart, legs hanging over the edge, his spear across his lap like a silent dog waiting for a command. The city was quiet, but not peaceful. Oraka never offered that. Its silence was the kind that watched.
Below, Jamo was fixing something that didn't need fixing. Wires. Panels. The burner they hadn't used in days. He kept glancing up, like waiting for Kyren to say something, to break the heavy pause between one disaster and the next.
Kyren didn't move.
The fight with the Archivist had ended in a draw. Maybe. But it felt like something inside him had cracked open and let something else in. And now it was sitting behind his eyes, watching with interest.
He kept forgetting things.
Nothing huge yet. But enough.
The taste of a certain soup his mom used to make. The sound of his brother laughing when he was a kid. A scar he used to have on his left hand, now gone.
He didn't tell Jamo. Not yet.
He wasn't sure how to say it out loud without breaking something more.
Chiyo joined him just before midnight. She didn't sit right away—just stood near him, arms crossed, wind pulling at her coat. The glow from the spear flickered across both their faces.
"You're thinking too loud," she said.
Kyren exhaled. "Don't remember how to think quiet anymore."
Chiyo finally sat beside him. "He took something."
Kyren nodded. "More than one thing."
"You're still you."
"Am I?"
"Yes."
He looked at her. "How can you be sure?"
Chiyo reached over and touched his wrist. The glyph there pulsed at her touch, then stabilized.
"Because you're still hurting," she said. "Machines don't grieve. Only people do."
Kyren let the silence sit for a bit longer. Then finally, he asked, "How do I fight someone who edits memories?"
Chiyo didn't answer. Instead, she passed him something—a notebook. Handmade. Slightly bent from wear.
"Start writing them down," she said. "If he tries again, make him fight paper for paper."
Kyren smiled. Just a little. "That's actually... pretty smart."
"Don't sound so surprised."
---
The next morning brought rain and Kairashi.
The small child—the phoenix-dragon thing that still hadn't aged past toddler size—floated upside-down near the ceiling, blinking slowly.
"You're leaking," they said to Kyren.
He looked up, eyebrow raised. "What?"
"Memories. You have cracks."
Jamo spit out his cereal. "Why is that the first thing I hear today?"
Kairashi floated closer, hovering above Kyren's head. "You're going to burn from the inside if you don't fix the leaks. Want me to spit light into you?"
Kyren blinked. "That's an option?"
"No," Kairashi said, then smiled.
Chiyo chuckled. "They're not joking."
Kairashi flipped upright and settled into Kyren's lap. "You need a mirror."
"Why?"
"To see what the world wants you to be."
"I already know what it wants."
"No," Kairashi said again, more serious. "You only know what they're afraid of."
Kyren leaned back. "And what's that?"
"You becoming the first version of yourself, instead of the one they planned."
---
That night, the dreams returned.
Kyren stood in a cathedral made of broken screens. Each one displayed a different version of him—angrier, happier, older, dying.
In the center of the room stood a mirror. Cracked. Flickering.
He stepped up to it.
His reflection smiled.
Then it reached through the glass and tried to pull him in.
Kyren woke choking on air that wasn't real.
The spear leaned beside his bed, humming.
"You're getting stronger," the voice said.
"Why does it feel like I'm falling apart?"
"Because that's the only way new forms take shape."
---
Chiyo trained with him harder the next day.
Faster strikes. Sharper drills. Tighter rotations.
"Pain anchors you," she said, jabbing him in the ribs. "Your body remembers even if your mind doesn't."
He blocked the next strike. Barely.
They didn't speak after the session. They didn't need to. The sound of breath, sweat, and motion said enough.
Kyren collapsed against the wall after an hour. Chiyo tossed him a towel.
"You're not a mistake," she said suddenly.
Kyren looked at her, unsure.
"I can see it now," she continued. "They didn't want unpredictability. They wanted control. And you're something they can't format."
Kyren let that sink in. "Then what am I?"
Chiyo sat beside him. "An original draft. One they couldn't replicate."
---
Jamo showed Kyren the new bounty update that evening.
"Your nickname's changed again," he said.
Kyren raised an eyebrow. "To what?"
Jamo flipped the screen.
> KYREN OMARI – THE MISWRITTEN
Classification: Meta-Deviant, Inversion Class
Reward: 750,000 Credits
Status: Reassignment Recommended
Do Not Engage Without Administrative Permission
"Miswritten," Kyren muttered. "That's new."
"They're scared," Chiyo said.
"They should be," Kairashi whispered.
Kyren read the notice again. His name was spelled right, but it looked... wrong. Too clean. Too neat. Like someone had retyped it without permission.
He closed the screen.
"They can rename me all they want," he said. "I'll just keep proving them wrong."
---
That night, the dream returned again.
But this time, he broke the mirror.
And laughed while doing it.