The offer came the way most of them did—casually, and in public.
Daniel was sitting on the low rail near a market intake, feet swinging above a channel of moving water, when the woman stopped beside him. She didn't loom. She matched his posture, leaning with her elbows on the rail, eyes on the current instead of him.
"You've been traveling alone a while," she said.
Daniel nodded. "I move."
"That tracks," she replied with a soft smile. "Some kids settle early. Some don't. Migration years bring out both."
Her tone was warm. Not the polished warmth of a counselor, but the rougher, practiced warmth of someone who worked with her hands.
"I'm Elara," she said.
"Daniel."
"I run a fabrication shop below the waterline. Mostly composites. I like teaching. And I've got a spare room that's currently full of boxes that don't talk back." She glanced at him. "I'd prefer someone who asks questions."
Daniel felt the Lace stir.
It wasn't a warning. It was a context note. High community integration. Skill ranking: Master. Recent emotional volatility markers: Low-Moderate.
It was the "Moderate" that caught his attention. It meant she was processing something. Grief? Stress?
He looked at her. She had grease under her fingernails and eyes that looked tired around the edges. She reminded him, painfully, of a teacher he'd had in the Before—Mrs. Gable, who smelled like peppermint and chalk and hid her gin in a coffee mug.
He missed Mrs. Gable.
"One year," Daniel said. "Trial placement."
Elara smiled, and this time it reached her eyes. "One year. If we hate each other, you walk. If we don't, we talk."
It was a good year. That was the part that made it hard.
The first real test came three weeks in.
A composite run failed halfway through curing, the carbon weave collapsing in on itself like a bad idea. Elara stared at the readout, jaw tight, hands hovering uselessly over the console.
"That's thirty hours gone," she said flatly.
Daniel leaned closer, peering at the warped lattice. "Not all of it."
She looked at him, irritation flashing. "Daniel—"
"Here," he said, pointing. "The outer layers held. The core failed because the humidity spiked too fast. But the edges are still good."
She hesitated. Then sighed and pulled the run apart instead of scrapping it outright.
They worked late, trimming salvageable sections, re-layering by hand. Elara moved fast at first, sharp and clipped, then slowed as Daniel mirrored her pace without comment.
"You don't panic," she said eventually.
Daniel shrugged. "Panicking doesn't fix anything."
She laughed at that, a short bark that eased something in her shoulders. "You sound like an old woman I used to work with. Drove everyone crazy. Best engineer I ever knew."
They finished near dawn. The salvaged pieces stacked neatly on the bench, imperfect but usable.
Elara wiped her hands and looked at him. "You saved me from wasting it."
Daniel shook his head. "You saved it. I just noticed."
She studied him for a long moment, then ruffled his hair, awkward and affectionate. "I'm glad you're here," she said, almost to herself.
Elara wasn't a monster. She was brilliant, messy, and loud. She taught Daniel how to sing terrible songs while laminating carbon fiber. She made soup that tasted like spicy water and laughed when he told her so.
She let him be small.
The first time Daniel scraped his knee, he was embarrassed enough to cry.
It wasn't the pain. It was the suddenness of it—the way his body betrayed him with heat and wetness and a sharp, childish sting.
Elara was there immediately, kneeling, hands steady.
"Sit," she said, already pulling a kit from the wall.
"I'm fine," Daniel muttered, blinking hard.
"I know," she said. "Sit anyway."
She cleaned the scrape gently, humming under her breath. Something tuneless and old. Daniel watched her hands, grease-stained and precise, the way she cupped his calf to keep him still.
"You don't have to be tough here," she said.
That undid him more than the fall had.
He let his head tip forward, shoulders shaking once. Elara didn't comment. She just kept working, wrapped the knee, tied it snug but not tight.
"There," she said. "Battle scar."
He sniffed. "It was a floor."
"Floors are undefeated," she replied.
Later, sitting on the step with his knee throbbing and a mug of something too sweet cooling in his hands, Daniel felt the Old Man retreat without effort.
He didn't analyze the moment.
He just let it happen.
The cracks were small at first.
There was a night when Daniel came home later than usual.
He'd stayed to watch a pressure release cycle at the intake—nothing dangerous, just interesting. When he opened the shop door, Elara was sitting at the table with a glass of clear liquor and an untouched meal.
Her head snapped up.
"Where were you?" she asked.
"At the intake," Daniel said. "I lost track of time."
Her relief came too fast, sharp enough to sting. "You could have told me."
"I didn't think—"
"I worry," she said, cutting him off. Then, softer, "I don't like not knowing where you are."
Daniel nodded. "I'm sorry."
She reached across the table and took his hand. Held it a second too long. Her thumb pressed into his knuckles as if checking that he was real.
"You'll let me know next time," she said. It wasn't a question.
Daniel felt the Lace stir. A mild flag. Boundary compression.
He looked at Elara's tired face, the faint tremor in her fingers.
"Okay," he said.
The flag dimmed.
Later, lying in bed, Daniel told himself it was reasonable. He was young. She was responsible for him. Worry was part of care.
Still, he dreamed of water pressing from all sides, held back by walls that flexed but didn't break.
———
Elara had not planned to take a child.
She told herself that often, usually while watching Daniel from the corner of her eye as he worked. He moved carefully around the shop, not tentative, just deliberate. Like he expected things to resist him if he rushed.
Most people did rush.
She'd told herself she liked teaching. That it was practical. That the spare room was wasted space and migration years were good for everyone involved.
All of that was true.
It just wasn't the whole truth.
The shop had been quiet before Daniel arrived. Not silent—machines hummed, water pressed against the hull, systems ticked and cycled—but quiet in the way places get when no one expects anything from you anymore.
Daniel expected things.
Not from her, exactly. From the world. He watched systems like they might explain themselves if he waited long enough. When something failed, he didn't curse or force it. He tilted his head. Adjusted. Tried again.
She liked that about him more than she should have.
It made her careful. At first.
She noticed herself changing routines without thinking about it. Timing meals so they overlapped. Keeping the shop open later so he'd stay close. She told herself it was efficient. Kids needed structure.
But sometimes, when he was gone—off watching intakes or wandering the gantries—the space he left felt louder than the machines ever had.
She hated that feeling.
One evening, after too much clear liquor and not enough sleep, she caught herself standing in his doorway long after he'd gone to bed. Just listening. Counting breaths.
She stepped away quickly, heart racing.
This is normal, she told herself. You're responsible for him.
The words worked less well every time she used them.
Daniel didn't cling. That was the problem.
He thanked her. He listened. He laughed when she sang badly. He fixed things beside her like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And he kept moving forward.
She began to dread the end of the year in a way she didn't admit even to herself. Not because she feared being alone again—she'd been alone before.
Because this time, she'd been seen first.
She caught herself watching his hands sometimes, thinking about how small they still were. How easily they fit in hers when she wrapped a bandage or guided a tool.
A warmth spread through her chest then, heavy and sweet.
She told herself it was love.
And maybe it was.
But there was something underneath it too. Something tighter. Hungrier.
The thought that followed scared her enough that she poured another drink to drown it out.
If he leaves, there will be nothing left of this.
She didn't think of harm. Not yet.
She thought of keeping.
Of holding something good still long enough that it couldn't slip through her fingers like everything else had.
When Daniel smiled at her from across the shop later that night, grease-smudged and earnest, she smiled back. And for just a moment, the relief of that smile felt like oxygen.
She did not ask herself what happens when you breathe too deep.
———
Daniel tried to carry the weight. He worked harder. He made her tea. He told jokes he knew she liked. He wanted to fix her, the way he fixed the misaligned actuators in the shop.
But people aren't actuators.
The Lace sent him notifications. Pattern drift detected. Escalation risk: 12%.
Daniel dismissed them. I can handle it, the boy thought. She needs me.
The Lace flagged a conversation request the next morning.
Daniel declined it without opening the channel.
Instead, he brewed Elara tea the way she liked it—too strong, with something bitter floating on top. He brought it to her in the shop, set it beside her console.
She smiled, surprised. "You didn't have to."
"I wanted to," he said.
Her shoulders eased. "You're very good at this," she said. "At knowing what people need."
Daniel felt something twist, faint and unpleasant.
"I just pay attention," he said.
She touched his arm as she passed, fingers lingering. "I don't know what I'd do without you."
That night, Daniel lay awake longer than usual.
He considered reopening the Lace notice. Letting someone check in. Adjusting something before it hardened.
Instead, he imagined Elara alone in the shop, waiting for a boy who might decide not to come back.
He closed the notice without reading it.
I can handle this, he told himself again.
And because he wanted it to be true, it almost was.
The end didn't come during a fight. It came during a celebration.
It was his "birthday"—or the day they had assigned to it. Elara had made a cake. It was lopsided and too sweet, and she was beaming.
She had had too much of the clear liquor.
"I'm so glad you stopped at that rail," she said, her voice thick. She was standing between him and the door. The shop lights were dimmed. "I was so quiet before you."
"I like being here," Daniel said. He was sitting on the workbench, swinging his legs.
"Do you?" She stepped closer. The smile was still there, but it was rigid now. "Because the year is almost up. And I know how the system works. They'll try to move you. They'll say you need 'variety.'"
"I can choose to stay," Daniel said.
"They talk to you," she murmured. She reached out and touched his face. Her hand was hot. "They fill your head with ideas about moving on. About leaving."
Her thumb traced his jawline. It wasn't maternal anymore. It was possessive.
The Lace screamed. His vision filled with alerts. His adrenaline spiked, his body wanted to flee and he had no awareness of choosing it.
Constraint violation. Imminent boundary breach. Threat level: Critical.
Daniel froze. He looked into Elara's eyes and saw the desperation there. It wasn't malice. She didn't want to hurt him. She just wanted to keep him. She wanted to consume his autonomy because her own life felt so empty.
"You're not going anywhere," she whispered. Her grip tightened on his shoulder. Pain flared.
"Elara," Daniel said, his voice trembling. "You're hurting me."
"I'm keeping you safe," she hissed. Her other hand came up. She was holding a bonding tool—a heavy, industrial curing laser. Not a weapon. But she wasn't thinking like a mechanic anymore.
She raised it. "I won't let you leave."
Daniel didn't move. He couldn't. He loved her. He realized, with a sickening jolt, that he loved her.
"Elara, don't," he begged.
She shifted her balance, prepared to swing.
The Lace didn't wait for him to ask.
There was no sound. No beam of light from the ceiling.
One moment, Elara was standing there, smelling of sugar and sweat, her face twisted in a mask of terrified love.
The next moment, the space where she stood was occupied by mist.
It happened so fast Daniel's brain couldn't process the transition. The air pressure dropped. A wet, heavy sound—thump—as clothes and inorganic matter hit the floor.
The bonding tool clattered to the concrete, spinning.
Daniel sat on the workbench.
He was covered in a fine, warm spray. He blinked, wiping his eyes. His hand came away red.
He looked at the floor. There was no body. Just a spreading pool of biological slurry, already steaming as the floor drains opened to reclaim the water.
"Elara?" he whispered.
The shop was silent. The cake was still sitting on the counter, lopsided and sweet.
———
The counseling room was soft. Too soft.
Daniel sat in a chair that molded to his body. He was clean. The drones had scrubbed the red off his skin, but he could still smell the iron.
The Counselor was a man this time. Gentle eyes. hands folded on his lap.
"Daniel," he said.
Daniel didn't look up. He was staring at his own hands. They were shaking.
"She made me a cake," Daniel said. His voice cracked.
"I know," the Counselor said.
"She wasn't bad," Daniel said. Tears spilled over, hot and fast. "She just… she got sad. She got confused."
"I know," the Counselor repeated.
"Why didn't it stop her?" Daniel looked up, angry now. "Why didn't it stun her? Or lock the door? Why did it have to… delete her?"
The Counselor leaned forward. "The system protects the child. Absolute priority."
"I didn't want protection!" Daniel shouted. "I wanted her to stop!"
"She crossed the threshold of lethal intent," the Counselor said. His voice was calm, unyielding. "She had a tool. She had the will. She was going to break you to keep you. The system does not gamble with your life."
Daniel slumped back. The anger drained out, leaving him hollow.
He remembered the look in her eyes. The terrified possessiveness. There was a faint part inside him that recognized it—the look of someone drowning who grabs the nearest swimmer and drowns them too.
"I loved her," Daniel whispered.
"That is why it happened," the Counselor said gently. He stopped there. His mouth opened, then closed. What came next, he tried not to say. He knew how it sounded, like blame.
"Because you wouldn't have run. You would have let her hurt you because you loved her. The system acted because you couldn't."
Daniel closed his eyes.
He saw the shop. The soup. The bad singing. The way she bandaged his thumb. And he saw the mist.
"Does it ever miss?" Daniel asked.
"No."
"Does it ever regret?"
"No."
Daniel wiped his face. He felt older. Not in the way his past life was old—wise and distant. He felt old in the way a scar is old.
"I want to go back," Daniel said.
"To the shop?"
"No," Daniel said. "To the road. I don't want… I can't be in a room right now."
The Counselor nodded. "The path is always open."
Daniel left Highwater an hour later.
He didn't take the barge. He walked.
He walked until his legs burned. He walked until the lights of the settlement were just a glow in the mist behind him.
He touched the seed in his pocket.
He understood the lesson now. The Lace wasn't a god. It wasn't a parent. It was an immune system. And an immune system doesn't care if the virus is sorry. It doesn't care if the virus loves you.
It just kills the infection.
Daniel looked up at the arc of the world, glowing above him. It was beautiful. It was safe.
And it was unflinching on boundaries.
He kept walking, because stopping meant thinking about the cake, and he wasn't ready to do that yet.