Chapter 1: The First Layer

Downtown was quiet—too quiet. This was my first shift. I was expected to clock in by nine. For the next month, three nights a week, my world would shrink to these hours, to the company of a digital assistant named Zara, and to the two living exhibits I was tasked with comforting.

A buzz lit my phone screen—My Enclave, the app from the Ethereal Boundaries Foundation. Zara again. Just this morning, she had been guiding me through welcome prompts and legal disclaimers in that smooth, synthetic voice. She’d mentioned a future VIP event—an all-expenses-paid trip for my family where I’d “interact with at least one of the living exhibits.” The promise felt surreal. Distant.

Now, with my first real shift minutes away, all that mattered was the tight coil of nerves in my chest and the shadowed façade of the gallery ahead.

My pulse hammered in my throat as I pulled into the designated spot by the employee entrance. The hiring process had been invasive, but this was the moment of truth. I needed to clock in, collect the tablet, and face whatever this was.

The streets were slick from recent rain. Moonlight glinted off cobblestones. The gallery loomed ahead like a monument—limestone walls bleached bone-white. Arched windows. Cornices. A structure built for reverence, not comfort. It stood in stark contrast to the stripped-down, clothes-optional world I’d been navigating. This place felt rigid. Heavy with tradition. Something ancient and unyielding.

Then I saw him. A figure—hooded, furtive—jiggling the lock on the employee door.

My breath hitched. The app on my phone froze, its spinning wheel the only response as dread surged through me. The fear was instant and bodily, a rush of helplessness so complete I felt like a child again. The memory of being exposed—of having no control, no cover, no say—crashed through me with all the weight of that classroom.

This man wasn’t Pete. This wasn’t some warped test of new social norms. This was targeted. Malicious—and I was alone.

Just as my panic threatened to consume me, the blue and red strobes of two police cars painted the alley in frantic light. The takedown was swift, efficient. The officers moved like they’d done this before. The man was cuffed, bundled into a car, and driven off.

Then the silence returned. I was left in the driver’s seat, shaking and breathing shallow. Relief came—but it was hollow, trembling at the edges.

The immediate threat was gone, but the gnawing question remained: What kind of place is this?

Gripping the steering wheel, I inched the car forward. Leaving was the logical choice. Get out, go home, and pretend none of this happened, but leaving meant giving up. Leaving meant going back to being the girl who got kicked out. Who couldn’t handle it? Who didn’t follow through? I had to see this through.