Zalmos Proxy -

Elias sat. The chair was too small, child-sized, his knees brushing the table's underside. He'd been a Proxy for eleven years. He'd delivered ultimatums to presidents, carried sealed whispers into volcanoes, once held a dying star in his bare hands until it agreed to go dark. But instant noodles at 3 AM—that was the hardest.

The recall hit Elias at 3:14 AM. Not a phone chime or a knock—a dent in his sternum, pulling him north. He didn't own a car, didn't have a pass, but the Proxy didn't care. He dressed in the dark, walked twelve blocks to the Zalmos Arch, and pressed his palm to the reader. zalmos proxy

He woke on his knees in a hallway of polished lead. The air tasted of rust and burned rosemary. Ahead: a door without a handle. Behind: a wall of weeping stone. Elias knew the protocol. He closed his eyes, bit the inside of his cheek until copper flooded his mouth, and spoke the name he'd been bred to forget. Elias sat

Behind him, Zalmos sat alone in the lead hallway, waiting for a reply he already knew would never come. Not a phone chime or a knock—a dent