The moment they stepped out of the Hall of Cultural Records, Aarav could feel the shift.
Reva wasn't teasing anymore. She walked like someone checking off tasks. Efficient. Direct. No space for jokes.
"Where are we going?" Aarav asked, catching up.
"Registration office," she said. "Now that you're officially in the system, we need to set up your civic ID, housing allotment, and earnings grid."
"Wait—I get a house?"
Reva smirked. "A cot, a bathroom, and a keypad. Don't get excited. It's provisional."
The registration center was less intimidating than the Hall. It looked like a coworking hub had mated with a botanical garden. Low lighting, wall projections of flowing water, and faint music playing in the background. A scent like warm cinnamon drifted through the air. Aarav could've sworn the floor hummed beneath his shoes.
He waited at a kiosk while Reva flagged a registrar. The walls around them pulsed with soft cyan lines, marking off invisible queues. A few other applicants—most in layered tech-fabrics—waited at other terminals, eyes distant and nervous.
"You'll be staying in a rotating residency block. Minimal surveillance, low activity zone," she said. "Perfect for someone who's 'from Vireen' and just needs time to adjust."
"Thanks for not saying 'fake refugee.'"
"I'm still deciding."
A glowing interface asked for a public name and primary skill category. Aarav hesitated, then typed: AARAV // Story Architect
He turned. "Is that allowed?"
Reva shrugged. "Sounds impressive. They'll give you more leeway if you sound like a specialist."
He tapped confirm. The screen blinked and gave him a location code: J-42 Sector, Tier 2, Grid Housing, Unit 12-B
"Next step," Reva said, "is credits. You don't get currency. You get skill-based point allocations. Your story earned you a Category 3 contribution voucher. That puts you on the lower curve, but if your next one's good, they'll bump you."
"So I can't buy anything?"
"You can trade, use public access perks, or build your value index. Once it hits a threshold, you can convert credits to open market privileges."
Aarav blinked. "So it's like freelance bartering with government oversight?"
Reva grinned. "Exactly."
She walked him toward a side exit that opened into a quiet tramline. The platform shimmered with directional panels and floating maps. Aarav followed her instructions to scan his token against the pad.
The tram zipped in almost instantly, silent as a breath. They stepped in. The seats were minimal, the view wide open—no rails, just smooth glide over the mag-plates embedded in the city's bones.
"Public transit's not bad," he said.
"You'll say that until you get stuck with a guy who plays sky-flutes for twenty stops."
He chuckled. "That's oddly specific."
"Lived experience."
J-42 wasn't glamorous. It was a long, modular tower surrounded by a few identical ones, with walkways between them like wireframes holding up a simulation. The walls weren't stone or glass but something translucent and light—quietly glowing from within. Garden strips ran along the outer balconies, growing vine-fruits he didn't recognize.
He found his door: Unit 12-B.
The key wasn't a key at all. Just his hand on the panel and a soft beep.
Inside: one room. Fold-out bed, small desk, bathroom door barely wide enough to stretch in. No windows, but a mural projected a slow sunrise across one wall. A control tab near the bed let him change it. He flipped through options: ocean cliffs, snowy forests, sunset over geometric fields.
It was enough.
He sat on the edge of the bed and opened his notebook.
Do I bring the mirror here?
He stared at the question. The idea had crept in the moment he saw how discreet this unit was. No cameras. No neighbors checking in. And no one knew him yet.
But how?
The portal was still sitting in the Earth-side storage room beneath the TV repair shop. No mirror there—just a shimmer on the ground that appeared when he stepped in. The mirror was on this side, in Codora, leaning inside that dusty old supply room like a secret waiting to be noticed. Moving it would raise questions. And what if it didn't work once displaced? What if the link broke?
Still, having it here—private, under his control—was tempting.
He scribbled under the question:
Pros: Secure. Always nearby. No risk of someone else finding it.
Cons: Risky to move. Might not survive transport. If caught = instant vaporization?
He sighed. For now, the answer was no.
But the question wasn't going away.
He tossed the notebook beside him and lay back, staring at the ceiling.
His room. His name in the system. His first legal step in Codora.
Not a bad start for a guy who was invisible just two days ago.