Zahir paused outside the apartment.
The wall framing the door was covered in peeling paint. The standard issue lattice-linked lock had been replaced long ago with a cheap analog bolt—for Zahir of course. Staring down, it was the same.
He let himself in.
Then he was stepping through the front hallway, and into a kitchen he hadn't set foot in for over a year.
His mother was sitting there, watching the holo screen, smoking a aporizer, and looking... not her worst.
Their eyes met, and he saw an older female version of himself staring back at him—those same wide, dark eyes. Her long box braids were tied loosely behind her head.
Her expression was unfamiliar. She looked concerned.
"Zahir?" Her voice cracked on the syllable, brittle relief threaded through it. She got up and took a hesitant step forward, arms lifting slightly before she closed the gap, pulling him into a meek, desperate hug.
Zahir froze. His entire body went rigid, instinctually associating her touch with rejection. H refused to hug her back. Every muscle remained tensed, bracing for for her to insult him or ask for money.
Instead, her voice softened further, full of quiet worry:
"What happened to you, baby?"
He stood silent in the doorway. How could he even begin to explain? He didn't want to, so he didn't. The events of the past few days crashed over him all at once, threatening to pull him under and drown him.
His mother broke the silence first, eyes looking him over.
"Baby… I've been having these dreams. I mean, you've been on my mind. I know I haven't been the best mother—"
"Stop," he interrupted.
"I just want you to know—"
"Stop, Ma." Zahir exhaled heavily, exhaustion making him numb. "I just need to sleep here for the nightt. I'll be gone in the morning."
Her eyes searched his face, and she pressed forward anyway. "Can I at least make you some food?"
He couldn't remember the last time she'd cooked for him—had she ever? Before he could even think of a reply, his stomach growled sharply in answer.
He sighed, relenting. "Sure."
Zahir moved past her, down the narrow hall toward his old room. He didn't look back. Once inside, he collapsed onto the bed. Threadbare blankets pulled over his head. His knees curled in, tight against his chest.
Depleted. Defeated.
A knock came, soft against the door. His mother's voice followed, quiet, careful.
"Baby… I made you something."
Zahir stayed still.
The door creaked open anyway. Footsteps crossed the room. The plate clinked faintly onto the bedside table. Her voice cracked, low.
"I had this dream a few nights ago, Zahir," she said quietly. "You were crying, and I was trapped underwater. No matter how hard I fought, I couldn't reach you. I woke up gasping—it felt too real. And baby, right then, I knew. It was the Field showing me what kind of mother I've been."
Zahir lifted his head from the pillow and stared at her, caught off guard. Where was this coming from?
But then, something clicked. The hesitant, stumbling apology his mother offered now echoed painfully with his own pitiful attempt at accountability with Mekka—still fresh, still tearing at his insides. The role reversal felt uncanny. It exposed how much he'd inherited her selfishness, despite every effort he'd made to outrun it.
He was sick fucking fruit from a sick fucking tree.
His mother's eyes searched his face, pleading for understanding. "I know I messed up. I ain't...I ain't been there right. Maybe it's too late, baby. But I'm gonna try."
For the first time, unexpectedl, Zahir could grasp a little of how she must be feeling.
It softened something inside him, just a little.
"Thanks for the food. I just need some sleep, ma."
She placed a hand on his head and scrunched her nose.
"You need a shower too. You smell like vomit."
And with that, the door clicked behind her.
Zahir ate the food, then fell quickly into a deep, exhausted sleep.
The next morning, light sliced across the floorboards in narrow bands.
Zahir blinked awake, surprised to find he'd only slept half a cycle—less than usual. And yet, he felt clear. Steady. His head wasn't fogged like it should've been, not after days without proper rest.
It was another point in favor of his theory: superposition might be accelerating his recovery.
If he was right… he wondered how far he could push it.
The faint smell of overcooked eggs drifted under the door. He didn't know how to feel about his mom's spontaneous show of care.
He couldn't shake the feeling of coincidence. She hadn't been this lucid in years. What were the odds that she would start having dreams around the same time that he broke through, especially from the trial Logos gave him?
He let the idea drift away as he sat up and scanned his room.
It was mostly bare.
He hadn't stayed there for over a year, and he'd taken anything useful with him to the fallback. But a few precious items remained—things he hadn't dared take into the Slant, out of fear they'd slip away from him:
A small, scuffed trophy from Bragg's gym, back from when they'd won district titles two years straight.
A battered notebook from his time with Six.
His first cracked pay chip—the one he'd spent buying a week's worth of greasy takeout. The first money he'd earned for himself after Six. A symbol of his own stubborn tenacity.
Zahir let out a quiet chuckle at the memory, then reached for the notebook. He flipped idly through the worn pages, stopping on one filled with red ink and chaotic doodles.
"The Six Code", scrawled at the top.
He remembered clearly the night at Six's cramped apartment, a Spire board set up between them, where Six had laid down his own unbreakable rules of the game.
The code read:
Power doesn't matter. Leverage does. Don't fight unless you've already won the setup. Let 'em think they're winning, and rig the prize. It doesn't matter what you did. It matters what they think you did. Know what they eat, know what they fear. Dead ends make demons.
Zahir traced his thumb lightly over the ink.
For years, these six rules had been the only playbook he'd trusted. It had gotten him this far. But it had also gotten Six killed. There was no escaping that.
He used to ask himself what Six would've done in a situation like this. It had been his only playbook for years. But looking at it now, it was hard to put much faith in it. If Six's code was so effective, he'd still be alive.
There had to be better playbooks out there. That much was obvious.
There were better systems out there. Real ones.
How else could you explain legendary Innovators carving entire dimensions into the fabric of the world. He had even planned to visit one of those dimensions once he got rich: Paradise 9. There were whole realities, stable and thriving, built by those who understood the deeper architecture. Those people weren't following street codes. They had blueprints. Formulas. The real playbook.
Zahir didn't have that.
Yet.
But he had to start with what was in front of him. And for what it was worth, Six's code had been enough to help him predict BQP's moves after the catacombs. So it would at least be enough to help him outmaneuver them.
The plan to build a holon—to challenge BQP, to change the Slant—was still alive, if barely. But his crew was gone. The fallback had collapsed. All that remained were the fragments: a playbook, an Supoerposition-type Signature, and Logos.
It wasn't much. But it would be enough.
Zahir closed the notebook, set it on his lap, and let his focus settle.
There was a place just behind his sternum now—a faint, persistent warmth he had come to recognize. It wasn't physical, exactly. It was the quiet imprint of his Archive, tucked beneath his ribs like a hidden nucleus.
And connected to that, there was a new thread in him now—faint, but steady. It stretched from the warmth of his Archive to the cooler, foreign presence settled just beneath it.
Logos.
The connection hummed like a drawn string.
Zahir plucked it.
The response was immediate. A pulse through his chest. A ripple in the air.
Soft, white light bled outward, prismatic at the edges, swirling like ink dispersing through water. It coalesced in front of him, pulling itself into shape—the familiar ring of Logos.
The voice followed, clinical but steady.
"I had not anticipated my removal from the chamber disrupting my… awareness," Logos said. "I will store additional energy for such risks in the future."
The phrasing gave him pause. The way Logos spoke about itself—the uncertainty of its own boundaries and limits—sparked a dozen questions in the back of his mind.
But those could wait.
"I need you to help me find someone."
"I do not have a function for locating individuals."
Zahir pressed his palm to his forehead. His jaw clenched. "What good are you, then, if you can't help me with what actually matters?"
There was a brief silence. Not empty—measured, intentional.
"There is a difference between want and need," Logos replied, the tone like a patient reprimand. "It is important you learn the distinction."
Zahir exhaled sharply, frustration creeping at the edges. "Enlighten me."
"For instance," Logos continued, "you badly want to find your friend. But you urgently need to stabilize your condition. Without an anchor, you may not survive long enough to do either."
Oh, right. Hard to forget nearly tearing himself apart just to dodge a surveillance drone.
"Alright," he said slowly. "Then tell me. What exactly is an anchor?"