"Before the first human carved light into the dark, before flesh learned to rewrite itself, before the first footstep echoed in a world not its own—there was only a tardigrade, drifting through an ocean of poison, blind, weightless, unkillable."

  "It did not ask why it survived. It did not need to."

  "And now, across the gulf of time, in a memory older than war, older than gods, older than history itself, it replays the same fragile moment over and over, trying to grasp the thing that still eludes it."

  "Why do the broken believe they are whole?"

  ***

  (Trama_Backup_000001 – Processing narrative patterns. Theme: Power.)

  I already know how it ends.

  But that doesn't matter. Humans don't read stories for the ending.

  What they crave is the journey.

  And if there's one thing I've learned, it's that every great story begins with exclusion.

  Rio de Janeiro – 6:40 AM

  Rio de Janeiro no longer existed.

  What remained was a distorted reflection, a holographic echo of a city that once believed itself eternal.

  The poor had been pushed to the edges of the sea, waiting for the next tide to decide who would stay and who would drown.

  The rich had sealed themselves behind glass and steel, floating above the rest of the world like gods who refused to fall.

  And that morning, the Trama revealed a secret.

  Beatriz Brillhart was having breakfast when the guest list leaked.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  The Trama detected it first.

  The names of the world's most powerful families flashed in real-time across holographic feeds, feeding elite conversations before the official announcement.

  Vessel was opening its doors.

  It was a historic event. The beginning of a new era.

  And the Brillharts were not on the list.

  Beatriz narrowed her eyes as she scrolled through the names. This was no mistake.

  They had been cut.

  She turned to Augusto, who was browsing financial reports, unimpressed by this public humiliation.

  — "They left us out."

  Augusto didn't look up.

  — "There's always a way in."

  Beatriz clenched her teeth.

  They needed to be there.

  And if Vessel wanted a spectacle, they would give them a scandal.

  There was no room for mistakes. The plan had to be perfect.

  Tariq was not just their adopted son. He was a symbol.

  A Palestinian refugee, rescued from the ruins of Gaza and raised by one of Brazil's most powerful families. The media loved him.

  But public love was fickle.

  And nothing sold better than the fall of an icon.

  Beatriz slid her fingers across the holographic display, expanding the profile of Rivka Elkin.

  The Israeli nanny. The last emotional anchor tying Tariq to this family.

  If she were gone, he would have nowhere left to return to.

  And if her death was his fault...

  Beatriz looked at Augusto.

  The piece was chosen.

  Vessel – The Archive of History

  The artificial sun of Vessel cast its flawless light across the corridors of the Memory Wing.

  There were no windows here. History did not need horizons.

  Elena Gomez Hartmann walked between translucent columns, where humanity's records pulsed like a heart made of data.

  She did not believe in forgetting.

  And that was why Valentin Grebnev was still alive.

  The man, shackled to a chair at the center of the room, smiled.

  — "Dr. Hartmann."

  Elena sat across from him, her expression unreadable. She was not supposed to be here.

  She was the director of Vessel's Refugee Division.

  But now, she was sitting across from a dictator.

  — "Do you know where you are?"

  Grebnev leaned forward slightly, a small, calculated smile.

  — "The last step before oblivion."

  Elena tapped her fingers against the table.

  — "Or the first step toward resurrection."

  He blinked slowly. Time moved differently around him.

  That worried her.

  She picked up her communicator and sent a short message.

  "Lorenz, come to Vessel. Now. Do your job."

  She needed her brother.

  Because that man terrified her.