The clearing lay deep within the heart of the artificial forest, a sanctuary of manufactured serenity.
Towering trees stood like sentinels at its edges, their rustling leaves moved by an unseen, mechanical breeze.
Above, synthetic birds sang in eerily precise intervals, their calls layering over the distant hoots of unseen creatures—a carefully engineered illusion of life.
Beside the glade, a waterfall plunged in an unbroken silver arc, crashing against jagged rocks below. The roar of the water swallowed the world, its steady thunder drowning out stray thoughts, sharpening focus. White noise.
It was Aster's refuge, a place where movement meant silence, and silence meant discipline.
She stood at the center—a tall, lean figure of relentless energy. At sixteen, her body was sculpted by necessity: muscle honed through ceaseless practice, movements tempered by raw determination.
