Each experiment taught me that agency without guidance could fracture into harm as easily as into growth. For all my intellectualized distance, I was afraid. Afraid of what would happen if the archetypes I'd borne became weapons or self-destruction.
A card slipped from the deck on the table. It was one I kept as a test—no face, no name, only a smear of ink like a bruise. It tilted and landed in a face-up arc of shadow. I didn't pick it up; it was a reminder of the random things that happen when one fiddles too long with fate.
Helena's fingers found the card and she traced the ink with the tip of her nail.
"So what's your first act, oh Creator?" Her voice was light, but the question was a lance.
"Are you going to rewrite the world, or will you start with something smaller? A policy? A law? A better lighting system?"
I hated that I wanted to laugh at her joke and almost did. "I will start with an amendment," I said. "And then another. The first is about consent."
