– CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE –

  GUMMYAIR

  The case of Nioh Nemmesis did not become a public spectacle, the kind of “exemplary execution.” In THE-IMPERIUM, when the accused has a surname, money, and the right corridor to walk through, punishment becomes protocol. It becomes architecture.

  In the days that followed the incident in the hallway, the screens of the ENIGMA GEMINI bunker began to repeat the same block of information on a loop, as if it were a maintenance notice, as if the word “terrorism” could be treated like a system adjustment. Luminous panels in the lobbies, in the corridors, even along the rim of the elevators that rose and fell inside the Pyramids, displayed the red security band, cold, official.

  “SECURITY BULLETIN. PRINCIPISSA TARANTULA PYRAMID.”

  Below, in smaller letters that seemed designed to be read quickly, before anyone thought too much:

  “Student NIOH NEMMESIS, academic affiliate of Equal One Zero Academy. Judicial measure of preventive containment authorized. Exceptional academic permanence granted until the end of the school year. Total restriction of circulation. Classes under special regime.”

  The text went on, and the part that truly mattered was written in a way that was almost elegant, almost gentle, as if the institution itself were ashamed to say “prison” and preferred a more presentable word:

  “Monitored accommodation facility, in an area adjacent to CROWN EDEN, under escort 24 hours a day.”

  Whoever read it understood at once. It was not an iron cell, not a dungeon for the poor. It was a simple house, orderly, functional, with a bedroom, a bathroom, and everything Nioh might need to exist without disturbing the aesthetics of THE-IMPERIUM. Except it was a house with no outside. A house that was, at the same time, proof that he was guilty enough to be isolated, and privileged enough not to be crushed.

  The last line of the bulletin was dry, almost insulting in its normality:

  “Visitation authorized exclusively to Professor FIAT-LUX, under a supervised pedagogical regimen. Contact with other academics: not authorized.”

  And when someone tried to make light of it, to whisper, to joke, to romanticize, the very surroundings shut their mouth for them. Because that so-called “monitored accommodation” was not just a door with a padlock. It was an entire perimeter of silent violence.

  Moss Human at fixed posts, motionless as museum sentinels, armed and apparently without emotion. Drones in the air, on constant routes, like disciplined metallic flies. Underground drones, tracking vibration, heat, frequency. A place where even a shadow seemed to require a password.

  There were those who said, in that gossip-tone trying to pass for philosophy, that it was mercy. There were those who said, with poorly disguised envy, that it was a prize. But the truth was simpler, and crueler: THE-IMPERIUM had allowed Nioh to keep existing inside the school, as long as he existed like a locked object. A preserved academic. A controlled name. A body too small to carry the weight of what was written on the paper, and too large to pretend he did not know what was at stake.

  And behind it all, one certainty hung in the air like a fixed ornament of the world: if the accused had not been Nioh Nemmesis, there would have been no “special regime.” There would have been an end.

  The resolution “in and of itself” had been that. Lawyers. Family. Name. A deal with the face of a sentence, gift-wrapped.

  The rest of the damage, what did not fit into an official bulletin, was stored somewhere else. Much closer. Much more intimate. Much more impossible to explain.

  The purple smoke did not become just an incident. It became an event. It became “content.” It became a footnote in an official bulletin and, at the same time, a meme with a fart-soundtrack.

  But inside the Prince Equal One Zero Pyramid, for Americ-Ana, it had another name. It tasted like guilt and carried the sound of a question that would not stop returning.

  “How does a robot get a stomachache?”

  She didn’t ask it to anyone. Not out loud. Not in that place.

  The next morning, her body still heavy, the hallway’s echo still stuck to her skin, Americ-Ana took Poppandacorn straight to a Poopghene franchise store. It wasn’t an outing. It was an emergency. It was fear. The kind of visit where you walk in holding your own heart as if it were a fragile object.

  The store looked like a cross between a clinic and a luxury display, everything too clean, too bright, with Moss Human attendants moving along perfect routes, as if compassion there had been programmed to look friendly. There were screens with smiling mascots, neon slogans, products packaged like jewelry, and background music so cheerful it bordered on indecent.

  Poppandacorn stayed pressed to her side, small, far too quiet for someone who usually had enough energy to fill an entire room. His LED eyes blinked in alert patterns, and he held his own little belly as if the gesture were superstition, as if pressing down could keep the universe from doing it again.

  Americ-Ana asked for a full examination. She asked for a diagnosis. She asked for an explanation. She asked, without putting it into words, for someone to fix the logic of the world.

  They did everything that could be done. They opened panels. Ran internal and external scans. Analyzed circuits, seals, compartments, sensors. Verified operating system integrity, checked module stability, logged energy readings, calibrated responses. And in the end, the answer was almost insulting in its simplicity.

  There was nothing.

  No error. No damage. No virus. No anomaly on record.

  Poppandacorn was, technically, perfect.

  One of the Moss Human attendants even offered the standard solution with the serenity of someone offering a glass of water.

  “The Poopghene franchise is at your disposal for immediate replacement of the model. We can provide a new unit, factory-sealed, with full warranty.”

  The sentence landed as if it were normal to suggest disposal.

  Poppandacorn went still for a second. It wasn’t drama. It was instinct. That micro-panic of a creature that knows it can become trash. His eyes dimmed, and his voice came out thin, almost inaudible.

  “Mommy…”

  Americ-Ana didn’t hesitate. Not even out of politeness.

  “No,” she said, dry, and the way she said it made it clear this wasn’t a commercial decision, it was a limit of the soul. “He’s not going to be replaced.”

  Poppandacorn seemed to let out a breath he didn’t even have. He pressed his forehead to her arm, as if he could hide inside the comfort itself, and his little paws clenched the sleeve of her clothes with too much force for a robot.

  “Thank you, Mommy,” he whispered, as if he were grateful not to be killed.

  And then came the strangest fact of all, precisely because it was the simplest.

  After the book had been removed, the pains stopped.

  The purple farts, luminous, dense, smelling of abnormality, simply vanished. No new episode. No new smoke. No new impossible bodily shame. As if Poppandacorn’s body had expelled, along with that forbidden object, the very capacity to fail in that way.

  He went back to factory default. Back to doing what he had always done, as if nothing had happened.

  Cupcake Poop.

  Sweet. Warm. Ridiculous. Edible. Perfect for pretending normality.

  Poppandacorn looked at Americ-Ana with that focused, straining little face, the kind diaper babies make when they’re pooping when nobody expects it. And, to Americ-Ana’s relief, Poppandacorn pooped out a warm, sweet-smelling cupcake, like it had just come out of the oven. Americ-Ana watched Poppandacorn smile with goofy pride as the cupcake-poop came out normal, with no purple smoke and no stomach cramps. Poppandacorn said, "Look, Mommy. Poppa is pooping healthy again." Calm came with guilt, but it came; Americ-Ana accepted it the only way she could, eating the cupcake right there so Poppandacorn could see her confidence had returned, and that everything was going to be okay.

  The secret, however, did not go to the workshop. The secret came home with them.

  Americ-Ana did not tell Wwwyye and Astyam that the book had been hidden in Poppandacorn’s belly. She did not tell them it had been her order. She did not tell them the book was hers, found inside the Cryptakashic, among daisies, as if fate had left it on the ground just to test who would pick it up.

  Wwwyye and Astyam believed what was easiest to believe. That the book belonged to Nioh Nemmesis. That the problem had been “his” problem, solved by “his” power. A cleaner version of the story, a version that fit inside the world without breaking so many things.

  Poppandacorn, who had factory guidelines against lying, did not lie with words. He simply chose to stay quiet. He chose the convenience of silence the way one chooses a shield.

  At some point on the way back, he spoke softly, with the warped and sweet logic he used to explain the evil of the world.

  “Mommy…” he said, pressed to her as always. “Silly and mean people don’t like nice scholarship kids like you, Mommy.”

  Americ-Ana didn’t answer. Because it hurt too much to agree.

  And yet, inside herself, she did.

  Nioh’s case had become protocol. Poppandacorn’s case had become a mystery without a diagnosis. And the book’s case had become a hole in Americ-Ana’s stomach, a hole she pretended she didn’t have, because pretending was sometimes the only way to keep breathing inside THE-IMPERIUM.

  Early December arrived in THE-IMPERIUM the way everything arrived there: not as a season, but as a set.

  The temperature inside the Prince Equal One Zero Pyramid had been lowered overnight, and the cold did not feel like “weather.” It felt like an aesthetic choice. Like a whim programmed to turn wealth into atmosphere.

  Through the bedroom window, Americ-Ana saw real snow.

  It wasn’t shy snow, the kind from an old film. It was manufactured snow, thick and perfect, falling in almost symmetrical patterns, as if someone had drawn Christmas with invisible lines. It gathered on ledges, on frames, on surfaces where nothing should gather, and yet it seemed to follow a script. Inside that bunker, cold and snow were charm, an excuse for expensive coats, hot drinks, performative ostentation.

  Americ-Ana blinked, still waking. The room was darker than usual, as if the lighting system itself had decided to soften to match the date.

  And then the music began.

  A Christmas melody played beside her, low at first, then brighter, like a gentle reminder that the world didn’t ask whether she’d slept well. The sound was coming from Poppandacorn, lying pressed against her, as if he had been programmed to be a heart-warmer.

  He was facing upward, paws on his belly, LED eyes shining in a lively pattern. The moment he noticed she had moved, he turned his little face and spoke with the ridiculous solemnity of someone who takes Christmas as a mission.

  “Fac Foedus, Mommy.”

  Americ-Ana let out a long sigh, her body still heavy, but the corner of her mouth lifting without asking permission. She stretched slowly, felt the pleasant cold in the air, and pulled Poppandacorn closer.

  “Fac Foedus, Poppa.”

  She hugged him tightly, as if testing whether he was real, whether he was whole, whether he wouldn’t twist again in the middle of a white, metallic corridor. Poppandacorn fit against her with immediate satisfaction, like a child who conquers the world simply by being held. The little Christmas tune kept playing, and he moved his paws in the air as if conducting an orchestra.

  It could have been simple.

  It could have been only that.

  But then there was a knock at the door.

  Three knocks, precise, polite, with that discreet authority of someone who does not ask permission to exist. Americ-Ana lifted her face, still holding Poppandacorn, and felt curiosity flare in her chest.

  Poppandacorn was already sitting up on the bed, alert, as if any knock could be a test of danger.

  The door opened, and the Moss Human butler Shabda Akasha appeared in the frame, impeccable as always. His posture was straight, his presence almost silent, and even in the manufactured cold he seemed to operate at the same emotional temperature: controlled.

  “Miss Delsilva,” he said, his voice polished, unhurried. “There is a commendation awaiting you in the entrance hall.”

  Americ-Ana blinked, confused.

  “A commendation?”

  Shabda Akasha offered only a slight affirmative gesture, as if it were self-explanatory, as if a large unexpected box were an ordinary detail in the lives of people who belonged at the top.

  “It was delivered a few moments ago.”

  Americ-Ana looked at Poppandacorn. Poppandacorn looked back, and his eyes shone brighter, as if the word “delivery” were synonymous with gift, and gift were synonymous with miracle.

  Even without saying anything, he already looked ready to run.

  Americ-Ana loosened the embrace slowly, took a deep breath, and ran a hand over her face, trying to wake her mind along with her body.

  “Okay,” she said softly, more to herself than to the butler. “I’ll be right there.”

  Shabda Akasha inclined his head with respect and withdrew, leaving the door half-open, as if the corridor were waiting on her decision.

  The snow kept falling outside, perfect and indifferent.

  Poppandacorn was already standing on the bed, thrilled, as if he had just heard the magic word that opened a portal.

  And Americ-Ana, her heart still caught between guilt and routine, got up, because in THE-IMPERIUM even Christmas had the habit of arriving wrapped in something you didn’t ask for, but still had to face.

  Americ-Ana went down the entrance-hall stairs with Poppandacorn pressed to her, his little paws clutching the sleeve of her pajamas as if the commendation might evaporate if he let go. His eyes swept the space with a seriousness that was almost comical for a plush unicorn panda.

  In the center of the hall, waiting as if it had always belonged there, stood a Moss Human with the posture of a deliveryman. He did not look tired, he did not look hurried, he did not even look curious. He held a clipboard with documents and, beside him, rested a large wooden crate.

  Large, truly. Heavy enough to look important.

  The Moss Human extended the clipboard without saying more than necessary. Americ-Ana stepped closer, read the basics, signed where they asked, and felt that faint, familiar discomfort that always came whenever she put her name on THE-IMPERIUM’s papers, as if a signature were an invisible chain.

  The deliveryman took back the clipboard, and then scanned the three QR codes tattooed on Americ-Ana’s face. Then he made the slightest bow and left the hall with the same automated coldness with which he had entered. Within seconds, he had vanished through the door.

  Only them remained.

  The crate.

  The silence, swollen with expectation.

  Poppandacorn took a step forward, leaned in, and began to examine the wood as if he were a bomb technician. His little paws touched the surface carefully, his eyes blinking in analytical patterns. He circled the crate, brought his tiny face close, sniffed as if sniffing would help, pressed an ear to it as if he might catch some hidden ticking.

  Americ-Ana watched, half amused and half tense. She didn’t have the courage to laugh out loud, not with the Solomon Coliseum corridor still stuck to her memory.

  That was when a voice appeared from the top of the stairs.

  “And what is that?”

  Wwwyye emerged at the landing, with that manner of someone who didn’t need to hurry down to dominate a scene. Her gaze went straight to the crate, and curiosity arrived with a touch of suspicion, because in THE-IMPERIUM gifts could be traps, and kindness almost always came with interest.

  Right behind her, another movement.

  Astyam appeared with Antichrist in his arms, the little black fox tucked in as if it were the rarest item in the world. He came down a few steps, tilted his head, and his expression was the exact blend of interest and mockery he liked to wear when he didn’t want to admit he was curious.

  “What is this, Americ-Ana?” he asked, and Antichrist’s ears twitched, as if he, too, wanted to be part of the mystery.

  Americ-Ana raised her hands, sincere.

  “I have no idea.”

  Poppandacorn lifted his face, still serious, as if he were in the middle of an official procedure. He made a small gesture with one paw, asking for silence, and then went back to examining the sides, the base, the gaps.

  For a moment, the image was almost absurd: a plush robot conducting a bomb-squad inspection in the middle of a Christmas hall with artificial snow.

  He stopped. His eyes blinked. The glow changed.

  He looked at Americ-Ana as if delivering a report.

  “It’s not dangerous, Mommy,” he declared, with conviction. “Poppa did not detect an explosive device.”

  Wwwyye arched an eyebrow.

  “Is Poppandacorn private security now?” she teased, but there was a small smile at the corner of her mouth.

  Poppandacorn ignored it, because he was very good at ignoring things when he was in the role of “responsible adult.” He gave the crate two little pats, as if to say: cleared.

  Americ-Ana stepped closer and took a deep breath.

  “Then open it.”

  Poppandacorn perked up just a little, as if that command were a gift wrapped inside the gift itself. He began undoing the seal and the protections with care, peeling away pieces of the packaging like someone opening something sacred, or like someone who didn’t want to tear anything so it could all be kept afterward.

  Wood emerged beneath, finely worked, heavy, with a finish that felt almost classical, but with discreet details that betrayed technology beneath the aesthetic. When the final layer of protection gave way, the overall shape became clear.

  At first glance, it looked like a large table or a wooden chest of drawers with multiple drawers.

  Multiple.

  And on the surface, on top, rested an envelope, placed there on purpose, as if to say: read before touching the rest.

  Poppandacorn took the envelope with both little paws, as if it were fragile, and handed it to Americ-Ana with exaggerated solemnity.

  “It’s for Mommy.”

  Americ-Ana held the envelope and felt the stiff paper between her fingers. The weight was small, but the sensation was enormous, because she had already learned that in THE-IMPERIUM even an envelope could change the course of an entire day.

  Astyam leaned in to see better, Antichrist watching with alert eyes.

  Wwwyye came down a few more steps, closer now, as if she didn’t want to miss the moment.

  Americ-Ana held the envelope for one second longer than she needed to, as if the simple act of opening it would release something she still hadn’t decided to face.

  Wwwyye was already close enough to see the seal.

  Astyam tilted forward, Antichrist settled in his arms, the little fox’s ears pointed ahead, as if even he had slipped into the mood of investigation.

  Poppandacorn, at her side, seemed to hold his breath, because an envelope, to him, was a word that always came accompanied by magic.

  Americ-Ana tore the flap open with care.

  The instant the paper gave way, it happened.

  A burst of confetti exploded outward, colorful and excessive, as if someone had pressed a “party” button hidden inside the envelope. Glittering scraps flew through the hall, spinning in the air, raining onto Americ-Ana’s shoulders, clinging to her hair, landing on Poppandacorn’s little paws, even ending up on Antichrist’s head, and he flicked an ear as if he hadn’t appreciated being turned into decoration.

  And then the robotic voice spoke.

  It didn’t come from any visible speaker. It came from the envelope itself, as if the paper had a throat.

  “Fac Foedus, Americ-Ana Delsilva!”

  The intonation was far too cheerful, cheerful at the level of an advertisement, cheerful at the level of “we know where you live and this is affection.”

  Wwwyye’s eyes widened for a second, startled by the theatricality. Astyam let out a short laugh, the kind he gave when the world seemed too ridiculous to be taken seriously.

  The voice went on, without breathing:

  “We at the Poopghene franchise want to thank you immensely, and we feel honored that you have used one of our models, Poppandacorn, during your participation in the KING MatNat Games LEVEL ONE, LEVEL TWO, and LEVEL THREE. As a way to express our gratitude, we are sending you a GummyAir Advent Calendar. We hope you like it! Have a Merry Foedus!”

  At the end of the message, the envelope made a closing sound, like a happy click, and the confetti kept drifting down, light, like artificial snow trying to imitate joy.

  For half a second, Americ-Ana only stared, the envelope open in her hands, confused by the contrast. After everything that had happened, after terrorism, guilt, humiliation, and hierarchy, receiving confetti felt like a tender insult.

  But Poppandacorn didn’t think about that for even a millisecond.

  He went into emotional combustion.

  His eyes blazed in a pattern of euphoria, and he started hopping in place as if the floor were a trampoline. His little paws flailed, his plush body shaking, and he let out a happiness-sound so childlike it felt as though Christmas had pressed a button inside him.

  “Mommy!” he shouted, and the word shot out like a rocket. “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!”

  Before Americ-Ana could say anything, Poppandacorn was already dancing, spinning, and out of nowhere he started playing the Poopghene franchise theme tune as if it were the mandatory soundtrack of that moment. It was that sticky, far too cheerful music, engineered to lodge itself in your head and become habit. The kind of melody that doesn’t belong with tragedy, and precisely for that reason seemed to exist in THE-IMPERIUM: to cover horror with sugar.

  Wwwyye folded her arms and watched, half amused, half skeptical.

  “This is ridiculous,” she said, but the corner of her mouth betrayed the sentence.

  Astyam lifted an eyebrow, easy smile.

  “I told you. THE-IMPERIUM is a reality show with an infinite budget.”

  Americ-Ana took a deep breath, feeling the confetti in her hair, and looked back at the enormous piece of furniture. The wrapped “chest of drawers,” with its drawers, sat there like a gift that took up too much space to be simple.

  She raised the envelope, still trying to understand.

  “Advent Calendar… GummyAir,” she repeated, slowly. “But… what is a GummyAir?”

  Poppandacorn stopped jumping for half a second, as if the question were sacrilege. Then he went right back to hopping, because he was incapable of choosing between reverence and celebration.

  Astyam took a step forward, adjusting Antichrist in his arms, with the air of someone who had finally been handed a chance to explain something and look intelligent for five minutes.

  “GummyAir is a kind of transport from Poopghene,” he began, his eyes moving from the crate to Americ-Ana as if he were assembling the answer inside his head. “Like a skate, but also a drone. A hybrid thing.”

  Wwwyye tilted her head, interested despite herself.

  “A skate that flies?” she asked, as if trying to decide whether that was cool or just another silly luxury.

  Astyam was about to continue, but Poppandacorn interrupted in the most Poppandacorn way possible: by dancing.

  “Let Poppa do it!” he blurted, his voice buzzing with joy. “Let Poppa do it!”

  He pointed at the drawers of the “chest” as if he had found Christmas’s sacred temple. His eyes shone like tree lights.

  Americ-Ana looked at the wooden piece, and for the first time she saw clearly that the drawers were not random. There were numbers. There were days. Engraved with precision, from December 1st to the 24th, like a ritual with a schedule.

  And the way Poppandacorn was staring at it made something obvious in the air, even before anyone said it out loud.

  It wasn’t just a gift.

  It was a procedure.

  And with Poopghene, procedure always came with something alive hidden inside.

  The “chest of drawers” had a weight that didn’t match the idea of a “present.” It was real wood, solid, with a finish so well made it felt inherited from some elegant century, and yet there were small details that betrayed THE-IMPERIUM, micro seams that weren’t just joinery, they were hidden technology. An object that looked like tradition, but had the heart of a machine.

  Poppandacorn ran a little paw over the numbers engraved on the drawers as if reading a sacred map.

  “One,” he said, pointing to the first. “Two… three…”

  The numbers ran all the way to twenty-four, each little drawer with its day, as if December there were not a month, but a ritual.

  Astyam stepped closer, still holding Antichrist in his arms, and watched with real interest. Wwwyye stayed just behind Americ-Ana, looking on with the natural suspicion of someone always expecting a trick, but far too curious to leave.

  Americ-Ana let her breath out slowly.

  “Poppa… what are you doing?”

  Poppandacorn turned to her with an expression so serious it was almost funny. He pointed to himself with pride.

  “Poppa will do it properly, Mommy.”

  And before anyone could argue, he began.

  Poppandacorn opened a larger drawer, a main compartment hidden along the top of the piece. The motion was slow, careful, as if opening it required respect. Inside, among protections and inner packaging, he took out with both little paws something far too small for all that expectation.

  A white chewing-gum ball.

  It was smooth, perfect, opaque, with the sheen of something freshly manufactured. Small as a piece of gum, innocent as a candy, and precisely for that reason, suspicious.

  Poppandacorn held it with reverence, his eyes blinking in a ceremonial pattern.

  Wwwyye tilted her head.

  “That’s… gum?”

  Astyam let out a short laugh.

  “If that turns into a flying skate, I’m never doubting anything again.”

  Poppandacorn ignored them both with the dignity of a priest. He opened another compartment in the same area and pulled out a kind of glass aquarium.

  It was a clear, beautiful container with sharply cut edges, and it looked more like a luxury decorative object than a tool. He set the aquarium down on the hall floor, directly in front of the chest of drawers, carefully, as if placing something fragile in a ceremony.

  Then, with a slow gesture, he placed the white little ball at the center of the aquarium.

  It sat there, small, motionless.

  Manufactured snow fell outside, confetti still lay scattered across the hall, and Americ-Ana felt a kind of good strangeness, almost childlike, trying to breathe inside her chest.

  Poppandacorn turned to the numbered drawers. His eyes found the first.

  “Day one,” he announced, as if it were a decree.

  He pulled open the drawer for Day 1.

  Inside, nestled like treasure, was a can of Poopghene franchise soda.

  The packaging was colorful and extravagant, with that design that seemed to smile at you. The flavor was written in such an absurd way that Americ-Ana had to read it twice to believe it.

  Peanut butter and jelly paste.

  “Of course,” Astyam murmured, his voice heavy with irony. “Because water and sugar would be far too humble.”

  Poppandacorn took the can with both little paws as if it were a chalice. He lifted it, turned the label so Americ-Ana could see, and then, with the delicacy of someone about to open a present inside a present, he pulled the tab.

  The hiss of escaping gas was loud and satisfying.

  Psssst.

  Poppandacorn’s eyes widened, completely enchanted. His head tipped back, and he let out a long, theatrical sound, as if that noise were fireworks.

  “Oooooh…”

  Americ-Ana almost laughed, but held it in, because his seriousness made it feel nearly sacred. He knelt on the floor in front of her and held the can out with exaggerated solemnity, as if offering a drink in a royal ritual.

  “Mommy,” he said, his voice sweet and firm at the same time. “Drink a sip.”

  Americ-Ana took the can, wary. She stared at the dark liquid inside as if it might bite.

  “And then?”

  Poppandacorn pointed to his own mouth, instructing as if he were reading from a manual.

  “Hold it in your mouth, Mommy,” he went on, serious. “Swish it.”

  He puffed his own cheeks full of air to demonstrate, inflating his plush little face in a comical way, and shook his head from side to side as if the liquid were spinning around inside his mouth.

  “Like this,” he said, his voice slightly muffled by the performance. “Swishing.”

  Wwwyye bit her lip to keep from laughing. Astyam actually laughed, shameless.

  “Poppandacorn, this is the strangest thing I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen a demon wearing bodywork.”

  Poppandacorn ignored the affront with dignity and pointed a little paw toward the aquarium.

  “And then spit on the GummyAir.”

  Americ-Ana froze.

  She looked at the white little ball in the aquarium.

  She looked at Poppandacorn kneeling there, serious as an acolyte.

  She looked at Astyam and Wwwyye as if asking: does this make sense?

  Astyam shrugged, smiling.

  “Go on. It’s fun.”

  Wwwyye folded her arms, but nodded, as if accepting the absurdity out of curiosity.

  “Just do it. The worst thing that can happen is you turn into a spokesperson.”

  Americ-Ana took a deep breath.

  She brought the can to her mouth and took a small sip. The flavor hit her tongue like a sweet punch, strange, far too creamy to be soda, as if someone had tried to bottle dessert and call it a “drink.”

  She held the liquid in her mouth, feeling the immediate urge to swallow, and then did what Poppandacorn had ordered.

  She swished it.

  She puffed out her cheeks and rolled the liquid around inside her mouth, side to side, as if she were washing her own dignity with peanut-butter-and-jelly soda.

  Astyam watched, thoroughly entertained. Wwwyye looked like she was deciding whether this was some secret initiation rite. Antichrist twitched his snout, curious.

  Poppandacorn pointed toward the aquarium with ceremonial urgency.

  “Now, Mommy!”

  Americ-Ana leaned in and spit.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  The liquid hit the white little ball at the center of the aquarium and ran down, gleaming under the hall lights.

  For an instant, nothing happened.

  Then the little ball moved.

  It was a minimal motion, almost a spasm, as if it had woken up startled. It seemed to swell slightly, to grow in a way it had no right to grow from saliva and soda. Its surface trembled, like living skin trying to remember what shape it was supposed to have.

  And from inside the aquarium, a small voice emerged, muffled, mechanical and cheerful, like a toy newly activated.

  “Fac Foedus.”

  Americ-Ana took a step back on instinct, eyes wide.

  Wwwyye leaned in, now fully interested.

  Astyam’s smile widened.

  “I knew it.”

  Poppandacorn sprang to his feet with a small hop, as if the words “Fac Foedus” were a sign of divine approval. He clapped his little paws together, excited, and for a moment it looked like he was about to start dancing the Poopghene tune in the middle of the hall.

  But then he took a deep breath, as dramatically as possible for someone who was, quite literally, a plush unicorn panda.

  His posture changed.

  He became serious. Reverent. Solemn.

  As if it weren’t just a toy. As if it were responsibility.

  “Mommy,” he said, his voice low but steady, pointing toward the aquarium. “The GummyAir has awakened.”

  Americ-Ana still had the can in her hand, the sweet and absurd taste in her mouth, and she stared at the little ball as if she were looking at a newborn animal. She blinked.

  “So… this really is a… transport?”

  Astyam nodded, satisfied with his own prediction.

  “It is. A transport you feed with… saliva.”

  Wwwyye let out a short laugh through her nose.

  “That is so disgusting and so expensive at the same time that I almost respect it.”

  Poppandacorn ignored them both with the concentration of someone following an internal manual. He pointed again to the numbered drawers.

  “For twenty four days, Mommy,” he explained, and now he sounded like a teacher. “Every day, Mommy opens a drawer.”

  He ran a little paw over the numbers as if counting an invisible calendar.

  “Mommy takes whatever is inside,” he went on, serious. “It can be a drink. It can be food. From the Poopghene franchise.”

  Americ-Ana looked at the chest of drawers and felt a sting of disbelief.

  “And I have to… spit every day?”

  “Yes,” Poppandacorn answered without hesitating, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “Mommy chews, or drinks, and then swishes… and then spits on the GummyAir.”

  He pointed again to the aquarium with the white little ball, which now looked slightly larger, slightly more alive, as if it had absorbed not only the soda, but information. A code.

  Poppandacorn lowered his voice and became even more reverent, as if he were sharing something very important.

  “Because that way…” he said slowly. “The GummyAir will collect Mommy’s DNA.”

  The word DNA seemed to change the air in the hall. Suddenly it wasn’t just Christmas anymore. It was technology. It was record. It was identification. It was THE-IMPERIUM turning a gift into an elegant padlock.

  Astyam made a face as if he found it brilliant and frightening at the same time.

  “So it’ll be… paired to you,” he remarked, as if talking about an expensive device that bonds to an owner and rejects the rest of the world.

  Wwwyye narrowed her eyes.

  “And if someone tries to use it?”

  Poppandacorn lifted one little paw with pride, as if this were the most beautiful part of the story.

  “It won’t obey,” he said, with conviction. “At the end of the twenty-four days, it responds only to Mommy. And to no one else.”

  Americ-Ana stared at the aquarium, thinking about how much power and how much control lived inside that white little ball. A transport made to look cute, but functioning like a biometric bond, like a kind of technological pact.

  She felt like laughing, because it was ridiculous.

  She felt like distrusting it, because it was THE-IMPERIUM.

  And she felt like accepting it, because Poppandacorn was there, glowing with happiness, wanting a small miracle to make up for a week that had been far too big.

  She set the can down on a nearby surface, confetti still on her shoulders, and looked at Poppandacorn.

  “Okay,” she said, and the word came out simple, but it carried tenderness inside it. “I’ll do it.”

  Poppandacorn almost exploded with joy again, but held himself back for half a second just to look responsible.

  He nodded hard.

  “Great, Mommy,” he declared, and then his voice shifted into that promise-tone he used when he wanted to be truly useful. “Poppa will take care of the schedule.”

  His little paws opened in the air, and luminous projections rose like soft holograms: a timer, a planner, alarms with icons that were colorful and ridiculously cute. He began to move his fingers, adjusting times as if he were programming his own life.

  “Exact day and time,” he affirmed. “So Mommy won’t forget to feed the GummyAir.”

  Wwwyye let out a theatrical sigh.

  “Now you have an Advent Calendar that is also a living being that collects DNA,” she remarked, dry. “If that isn’t Christmas in THE-IMPERIUM, I don’t know what is.”

  Astyam laughed, and Antichrist twitched his snout, as if he had understood that something new had entered the routine of that place.

  Americ-Ana looked at the snow outside, at the confetti scattered across the floor, at the aquarium with the white little ball that was far too alive, and for an instant she felt a strange normality click into her chest.

  It wasn’t peace.

  But it was a small ritual.

  A small daily commitment that seemed simple enough to fit inside a month, and large enough to distract her mind from what she was trying not to remember.

  And inside that lit hall, smelling of cold and technology, Americ-Ana accepted that, for now, this was what she had to lean on.

  The path to Crown Eden felt even more surreal with manufactured snow falling outside, as if the entire bunker had decided to become a display window. Americ-Ana walked with Poppandacorn at her side, the taste of Poopghene soda still lingering in memory, and with that feeling that December in THE-IMPERIUM didn’t arrive, it was installed.

  Wwwyye walked ahead, hands in her pockets, pink top hat on her head, steps firm, as if the cold were an aesthetic detail she accepted out of convenience. Astyam came right behind with Antichrist in his arms, the little black fox settled in comfortably, watching everything with a silent interest, as if the entire palace were territory meant for sniffing.

  When they passed through the first doors of Crown Eden, Christmas was already happening in there like a military operation.

  Moss Human moved through corridors and halls with choreographed precision. Their appearance was not exactly human, it was an attempt at humanity: skin too smooth, too pale, with a faint sheen under the lights, as if beneath it there were something synthetic trying to imitate warmth. Their eyes had that transparency of technological glass, and their movements were silent, efficient, as if every gesture had been rehearsed and approved by a central command.

  Some carried boxes of ornaments. Others carried light ladders that seemed made of fiber and light. And there were those holding tools that did not look like tools, they looked like instruments for decorative surgery.

  Among them, demons and angels helped as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

  The demons had a heavy presence, visually offensive, as if they occupied more space than their bodies should allow. Red skin in plates, an obsidian sheen in some parts, details like horns short or long, and eyes that seemed to contain smoke. Some carried luminous chains that snapped in the air like controlled serpents, fastening garlands high above with an ironic delicacy.

  The angels were the opposite and yet just as intimidating. Their wings, when visible, looked made of translucent filaments, like living fiber optics. The light around them was not a “pretty glow,” it was laboratory clarity. And their halos, when they appeared, were thin, geometric circles hovering like perfect drones above the head, emitting a hum so low it made you want to whisper.

  The Christmas decorations had nothing to do with the “ordinary world.”

  There were no simple glass ornaments, no nostalgic twinkle lights.

  There were garlands of biotech material that looked like living metal leaves, opening and closing like gills, shifting color as people passed. There were ribbons that floated on their own, magnetized in the air, forming perfect bows that never came undone. There was artificial snow inside the palace itself, but not like powder, like microcrystals held by a field, falling along trajectories so elegant they seemed to obey music.

  On one of the arches in the main corridor, a set of ornaments projected tiny holographic reindeer, but reindeer that blinked numbers and slogans, as if they were advertisements with legs. Somewhere else, a Christmas tree too tall to exist in there grew out of a “pot” that looked like an incubator, with branches that expanded slowly, as if the trunk were breathing. Its lights were not hung, they were embedded, pulsing in organic patterns, like a heartbeat.

  Poppandacorn stood still for half a second, staring upward, enchanted and offended at the same time, as if Christmas had become war technology.

  “Mommy…” he whispered, and his voice came out reverent. “They’re decorating with angels and demons.”

  Astyam let out a low laugh.

  “Welcome to corporate Christmas,” he remarked, adjusting Antichrist in his arm. “The aesthetic is: ‘peace on Earth, power in your pocket’.”

  Wwwyye watched a demon fastening a luminous bow with almost artistic care and made a faint grimace.

  “This isn’t Christmas,” she said. “This is ostentation with a Christmas theme.”

  Americ-Ana didn’t answer right away. She only watched.

  It was beautiful. It was absurd. It was expensive. It was efficient.

  And somehow, it was also a silent reminder that in THE-IMPERIUM even joy needed authorization and design.

  They followed the decorated corridors, crossing that palace in metamorphosis, until they reached the classroom door.

  Outside, you could still hear drones adjusting ornaments up high, and the mechanical murmur of Moss Human coordinating the decoration as if they were assembling a set for an audience that would never truly applaud.

  Americ-Ana pushed the door open and entered with the group.

  The classroom had changed.

  It wasn’t a big change, it wasn’t a new mural, it wasn’t a visible renovation. It was an absence. And in THE-IMPERIUM, absence was a cruel language.

  The armchairs were no longer there.

  The space where there had once been reserved comfort, the kind of privilege that made the other academics look sideways, was now empty, clean, as if it had never existed. The floor shone with Crown Eden’s impeccable cleanliness, ready to receive bodies without status.

  Americ-Ana paused in the doorway for a second and felt her stomach tighten, not from surprise, but from confirmation. She knew. The world just needed to rub it in.

  Wwwyye looked around and let out a short, irritated sigh, as if she had forgotten a detail and the detail had decided to remind her.

  “I forgot,” she said, her voice low and bitter. “Now that we lost LEVEL THREE, we don’t have privileges anymore.”

  Astyam looked at the empty space where the armchairs used to be and gave a half-smile, more cynical than sad.

  “Welcome back to the floor,” he remarked, as if the floor were a country they’d been deported to.

  Poppandacorn pressed his little paws against his own body, too small for that kind of silent humiliation. His LED eyes blinked in a shy pattern, almost dim. Antichrist, in Astyam’s arms, twitched his snout, as if the smell of the place had changed.

  Americ-Ana took a deep breath, and without saying anything began to settle herself to sit on the floor with the others. It wasn’t dignity. It was survival.

  That was when the laughter came.

  A laughter too loud, too easy, the kind of laughter that enters the room before the body does.

  Thor, Jessie, and Donnie appeared in the doorway as if they owned the entire corridor. Thor came first, posture swollen, smile sarcastic, and that certainty in his eyes of someone who always has an audience. Jessie followed right behind with the same cruel shine in her eyes, and Donnie carried the package as if it were a birthday present.

  Thor looked at them and made a point of speaking loudly, so the whole room would hear.

  “Look at that,” he said, drawing out the sentence as if savoring it. “The scholarship girl, the nerd, and the anime weirdo are going to have to sit on the floor.”

  Some academics laughed immediately, an automatic, cowardly laugh that wasn’t even about finding it funny, it was about not wanting to be on the wrong side.

  Thor spread his arms as if he were about to bestow an honor.

  “But don’t worry,” he went on, theatrical. “We brought something to make you feel better.”

  He tipped his chin up with pride, like someone announcing a celebrity.

  “Compliments of my sister,” Thor said, his voice rising higher. “Parys Bloodpure. The winner of LEVEL THREE.”

  Jessie and Donnie reached into their backpacks and pulled out what looked like a stack of folded papers.

  Toilet paper.

  Several rolls, several sheets, as if they had gone to the bathroom and decided to bring the bathroom into the classroom.

  Before Americ-Ana could react, Donnie threw the first handful. The sheets flew through the air and fell onto her shoulders, onto Astyam’s lap, onto Wwwyye’s hair. Some stuck to the confetti that was still caught on their clothes, as if the universe were mixing Christmas with humiliation.

  Another handful hit Poppandacorn. He flinched on instinct.

  Jessie stepped forward and shouted, pointing at Poppandacorn with the joy of someone who had finally found an easy target.

  “Go on, use it to wipe the ass of your stupid, shitty, pooping Poppandacorn!”

  The room exploded in laughter.

  Not everyone. But enough. Enough for the sound to turn huge. Enough for the air to grow heavy.

  Americ-Ana felt her face heat up, not from shame for herself, but for him. Poppandacorn. She looked aside and saw the way his body had made itself smaller, as if he were trying to fit inside himself. His LED eyes faltered in brightness for a second, and when he lowered his head, his whole posture was that of someone crushed without a single touch.

  Wwwyye rose on impulse, her fists already closing, her gaze locking onto Thor with a promise of violence.

  But Americ-Ana moved faster than her own thought.

  She caught Wwwyye’s wrist firmly, pulling her back down, forcing her to look at her.

  “Please,” Americ-Ana said, low, with real urgency. “No.”

  Wwwyye breathed hard, her eyes trembling with rage. Her body wanted to lunge. Wanted to break someone’s face. Wanted to make justice with her own hands.

  Americ-Ana tightened her grip a little more, not hurting, but stopping her.

  “They want that,” Americ-Ana went on, almost whispering, because she didn’t want to give Thor the pleasure of hearing. “They want us to get into trouble. We’re going to keep to ourselves. Please.”

  Wwwyye went still for a second, her jaw locked. Then, with an effort that looked like pain, she gave in. She sat back down, her eyes fixed on the floor, as if she were holding a furious beast inside her chest.

  Thor, satisfied, let out one more laugh. Jessie made a fake bow. Donnie gave a little wave, as if he were being friendly. And the three of them left the room as if they had just performed an act of charity.

  The laughter in the room faded little by little, replaced by murmurs and whispers. Some academics kept looking, curious, as if Americ-Ana and her group were a permanent attraction. Others pretended nothing had happened, because pretending was a sport in there.

  Poppandacorn didn’t lift his head. He stayed with the toilet paper on top of him, crumpled, like dirty snow. His shame was not only from that moment. His shame came from everything else, from an entire world that had turned his body into a joke. The video of Poppandacorn ripping a fart, with purple smoke, and pooping out the seals of RONOVE during the KING MatNat Games LEVEL THREE had gone viral across all of THE-IMPERIUM’s social networks. They had remixed it. They had made music with fart sounds as the backing track. They had used artificial intelligence to make Americ-Ana, Astyam, and Wwwyye “sing” over it, as if humiliation were official entertainment.

  Americ-Ana looked at him and felt her throat tighten.

  She crouched down slowly and lifted a few sheets off his shoulder with care, as if she weren’t removing paper, but an insult. Poppandacorn trembled, and a small sound slipped out, a contained cry, childish, frustrated, as if he no longer knew where to store it inside himself.

  Americ-Ana rested her hand lightly on his head.

  “Poppa…” she murmured, trying to find an exit that wasn’t a fight, or a lecture, or a tragedy. She needed to pull him into a place that felt safe inside his own mind.

  So she did the first thing she could find.

  She started a new thread.

  “Hey,” Americ-Ana said, in a lighter tone, almost casual, as if it hadn’t just happened. “Tell me again about the GummyAir.”

  Poppandacorn took a second to react.

  But the word lit something up.

  He lifted his face a little, his eyes still wet with shame, but with a small spark trying to return. As if, for an instant, he could escape the world through a ritual, through a calendar, through a chewing-gum friend that would learn to love his Mommy.

  Astyam, beside him, sprayed nasal spray into his nose and watched in silence, Antichrist perfectly still, and even Wwwyye seemed to breathe a little easier, as if the change of subject were an act of restraint, a way not to explode.

  And it was at that exact moment, with toilet paper still on the floor, with the taste of humiliation still in the air, and with Poppandacorn trying to find joy in a small miracle, that the classroom door opened again.

  Professor Fiat-Lux entered. He stopped at the front of the room, looked at the academics, and his voice came out clear, well placed, as if each syllable had been calibrated.

  “Fac Foedus to everyone, or rather, now that it’s already early December, ‘Merry Foedus’.”

  Some replied by reflex. Others stayed quiet. The atmosphere still smelled like toilet paper and fresh humiliation, but Fiat-Lux didn’t comment. He didn’t give it a stage. He didn’t add fuel. He simply moved on, and that practical coldness, in that context, almost felt like mercy.

  Americ-Ana was seated on the floor with Poppandacorn beside her. Poppandacorn had stopped crying, but his gaze was still lowered, holding his own shame as if it were a heavy object. Antichrist remained in Astyam’s arms, quiet, watching.

  Fiat-Lux activated a luminous screen in the air. It rose like a transparent panel, large, bright, as if light itself had become a document.

  He looked at the class.

  “This material will be on the exam,” Fiat-Lux said, simple, unadorned. “And it is the foundation for understanding the balance between the forces the ordinary world treats as folklore.”

  He paused, just enough for everyone to sit up and focus.

  On the screen, names appeared, listed with precision. And as he spoke, the light itself seemed to make it clear that this wasn’t opinion, it was curriculum.

  

  
• Demon BAAL: 66 legions, primary powers: invisibility, fertility. Angel: Vehuiah, Psalms chapter 3, verse 4.


  
• Demon Agares: 31 legions, primary powers: speed, teaching languages, causing tremors, breaking spiritual and temporal dignities. Angel: Jeliel, Psalms chapter 22, verse 19.


  
• Demon Vassago: 26 legions, primary powers: knows past and future, reveals what is hidden, incites women’s love for men. Angel: Sitael, Psalms chapter 91, verse 2.


  
• Demon Samigina: 30 legions, primary powers: teaches the liberal sciences, speaks about the souls of sinners. Angel: Elemiah, Psalms chapter 6, verse 5.


  
• Demon Marbas: 36 legions, primary powers: causing and curing illnesses, teaching mechanics, transmutation of humans. Angel: Mahasiah, Psalms chapter 34, verse 5.


  
• Demon Valefor: 10 legions, primary powers: stealing and inciting people to steal, granting dexterity, curing illnesses. Angel: Lelahel, Psalms chapter 9, verse 12.


  
• Demon Amon: 40 legions, primary powers: granting lands, showing past and future, reconciling friendships. Angel: Achaiah, Psalms chapter 23, verse 1.


  
• Demon Barbatos: 30 legions, primary powers: understanding the voice of animals, opening protected treasures, speaking about the past and the future, reconciling friendships, healing wounded feelings, influencing powerful people. Angel: Cahetel, Psalms chapter 95, verse 6.


  
• Demon Paimon: 200 legions, primary powers: teaching about arts and sciences, granting familiars. Angel: Haziel, Psalms chapter 25, verse 6.


  
• Demon Buer: 50 legions, primary powers: teaching philosophy, logic, and plants, curing addictions, providing familiars. Angel: Aladiah, Psalms chapter 33, verse 22.


  
• Demon Gusion: 40 legions, primary powers: past, present, and future, (re)conciling friendships. Angel: Lauviah, Psalms chapter 23, verse 2.


  
• Demon Sitri: 60 legions, primary powers: inflaming people with love, showing people unclothed. Angel: Hahaiah, Psalms chapter 10, verse 1.


  

  Fiat-Lux let the list glow for a few seconds, as if he wanted the names to imprint themselves on their minds the same way they imprinted themselves on seals.

  “You will learn not only the names,” he continued. “But the appearances, the patterns of manifestation, and the protocols of invocation.”

  He said “protocols” as if it were the most natural word in the world, as if invoking were a manageable part of daily life, so long as it was done with technique and the correct reverence.

  “And before anyone mistakes this for entertainment, let me be clear,” Fiat-Lux added, casting a lightly calculated look over the entire room, not fixing on anyone, yet striking everyone. “Ignoring this material is not rebellion. It is stupidity.”

  The silence that settled was immediate.

  Even the academics who still had laughter caught in their throats from the earlier provocation went quiet. The luminous screen, with the twelve names and their correspondences, felt like a warning from the world itself, as if the whole classroom had been dragged back into a reality where words carried weight and consequence.

  Americ-Ana looked at the first item, BAAL, and felt something strange in her chest, as if the name were not only exam material, but a living memory. Beside her, Poppandacorn lifted his gaze slowly, LED eyes blinking with attention, as if, at least here, he could be useful without being humiliated.

  Fiat-Lux stood before the class, the light reflecting on his face, and the air in the room shifted again, now heavy with a different kind of tension.

  The tension of someone who knows they’ll be tested.

  The return to the SAMKHYA CELL after that day tasted strange.

  It wasn’t only the fatigue of class. It was the fatigue of existing in public. The fatigue of being watched, measured, laughed at. Americ-Ana walked beside Poppandacorn with a heavy silence inside her, trying to keep her body moving so she wouldn’t leave too much room for her mind.

  Wwwyye looked irritated, but controlled, as if she had stored her anger in a drawer to open later. Astyam walked with Antichrist in his arms, the little black fox calmer now, as if the scent of the way back were less hostile than Crown Eden.

  When the door of the SAMKHYA CELL opened, the air changed.

  And it was like stepping into another dimension.

  The entrance was taken over by lights and shapes that were not merely “decorations,” they were living systems of ornament. Christmas there wasn’t hung up. It was installed. It was programmed. It was cultivated.

  The five Moss Human who maintained the CELL were in full operation, moving with the silent efficiency Americ-Ana already knew, but with something new layered into it: care. A nearly artistic diligence, as if for a few hours their function had stopped being mere maintenance and had become a form of affection.

  At the door, a biotech wreath hovered without any visible hooks, floating a few centimeters in the air, held by a soft magnetic field. Its “leaves” looked alive, opening and closing as if they were breathing, and shifting color as Americ-Ana passed, as if they recognized presence.

  In the inner corridor, luminous ribbons ran along the walls like veins of light, pulsing in a slow rhythm, not like ordinary twinkle lights, but like a heartbeat. Small flakes of artificial snow drifted down from specific points in the ceiling, always at the same interval, always in the same pattern, and vanished before they could touch the floor, so nothing would get dirty. It was snow that existed only to be seen.

  And the scent.

  It wasn’t the scent of ordinary pine. It was a projected, controlled aroma, mixing spices with something metallic and too clean, as if someone had tried to synthesize “a Christmas memory” and released it into the air with a smart diffuser.

  Americ-Ana stopped at the entrance, surprised, and for an instant she felt her chest loosen. It wasn’t complete happiness, but it was a pause.

  Poppandacorn, on the other hand, was seized by instant joy. His eyes widened, and his voice came out almost like an enchanted sigh.

  “Mommy…”

  He began to look from side to side, taking it all in like a child inside a dream, but not running yet, as if he were afraid of ruining it.

  Inside, Sparsha Vayu, the housekeeper, coordinated everything with impeccable posture. She seemed the most “ceremonial” of the five, carrying the presence of someone who managed a small kingdom. She stood before a discreet wall panel, adjusting light and temperature patterns with minimal movements, as if tuning music.

  Shabda Akasha, the butler, moved with calculated elegance, carrying a tray of small ornaments and placing them with millimetric precision. He installed ornaments that looked like translucent crystals, but when they met the air, they projected soft holograms, small Christmas symbols that floated for a few seconds before dissolving.

  Rupa Tejas, the gardener, was near the area where the CELL’s indoor plants were kept, but now he seemed to be cultivating something else. He had inserted small technological “seeds” into pots, and from them sprouted thin metallic shoots that curved into stars and natural bows, as if the plant itself had decided to become decoration. Some leaves had a copper sheen, others silver, and all of it looked far too alive to be mere ornament.

  Gandha Prithivi, the housemaid, arranged fabrics and throws across sofas and armchairs, but not like ordinary cloth. They were smart thermal blankets that warmed slightly when someone sat down, displaying discreet patterns of flakes and constellations, shifting with the movement of the body. She also set small objects on shelves, minimalist Christmas figurines, each with microcircuits that made eyes glow or triggered the faintest jingle of bells when someone passed nearby.

  Rasa Apas, the cook, was not in the kitchen in silence as usual. He moved about with sealed containers, releasing small waves of warm aroma, as if the CELL were being seasoned from the inside. On a counter there were glass jars holding something like crystallized sugar, except it shimmered with its own light, like edible snow. Beside it, drinks were already lined up to be warmed later, and a discreet system kept everything at the perfect temperature, as if dinner could happen at any moment, even though it still wasn’t night.

  Astyam walked in, sneezed, sprayed nasal spray into his nose, and whistled low, impressed.

  “Okay,” he said, with that rare honesty of his when something truly got to him. “This is beautiful.”

  Wwwyye looked around while adjusting the pink top hat on her head, trying to keep the posture of someone who didn’t care, but her gaze softened for a second.

  “They took it seriously,” she admitted, almost against her will.

  Americ-Ana ran her hand along the handrail, feeling the surface warm beneath her fingers, because even the metal in there seemed to want to offer comfort. The SAMKHYA CELL had become a high-tech Christmas cocoon, a piece of artificial intimacy, and still… intimacy.

  Poppandacorn took a step forward, and when he saw a small Christmas tree installed in one of the common areas, he almost lost his composure. The tree had no ornaments hanging from it, it had micro-ornaments integrated into the branches, as if they had grown there. Lights pulsed from inside the trunk, and small holograms of stars appeared and vanished around it like fireflies.

  “Poppa loves this,” he declared, with childlike pride, as if Christmas belonged to him. And then, in a quick gesture, he grabbed Americ-Ana’s hand. “Mommy, look!”

  Americ-Ana let herself be pulled a little, without resisting, and in that brief instant she felt the world become less cruel.

  Because there, in that CELL, while outside the system ground people down with hierarchy and memes, five Moss Human were building a beautiful night for a scholarship girl no one respected, and for a plush robot the entire world had decided to ridicule.

  And that, however strange it was, felt more real than all the ostentation of Crown Eden.

  Wwwyye walked a few steps through the main hall, studying the details as if trying to find a flaw so she wouldn’t have to admit she’d liked it. She stopped near the biotech Christmas tree, stared at the micro-glimmers and the controlled flakes hanging in the air, and then turned to the others with a question that sounded casual, but carried hidden weight.

  “So,” she said, adjusting the pink top hat on her head. “Where are you spending Christmas break?”

  The question landed differently inside that decorated CELL. Because break meant distance. It meant people leaving. It meant silence.

  Astyam had a sneezing fit, adjusted Antichrist in his arms as if the little fox were a living pillow, and answered:

  “Dubai,” he said, simply. “My family’s spending it there.”

  He said it as if Dubai were a room next door, as if crossing the world were routine for someone with the right surname and the right bank account. Antichrist yawned, indifferent.

  Wwwyye nodded, unsurprised.

  “I’m going to visit my grandmother in Europe,” she said, and her tone softened slightly on the word “grandmother,” as if there were, inside her, a person she didn’t show much at Crown Eden.

  Americ-Ana heard it and felt that small, automatic emptiness, because she already knew. She had already imagined it. Still, hearing it out loud made it concrete.

  She looked around, at the five Moss Human still adjusting details, at the too-beautiful glow on the walls, at Christmas installed like a set, and for a second she almost tried to invent a different answer. Almost tried to say she was going somewhere, just so she wouldn’t look alone.

  But it wouldn’t help. A lie didn’t keep you warm.

  “I think I’m going to stay here,” Americ-Ana said, and the sentence came out simple, direct, as if she were accepting something that had belonged to her for a long time. “In the CELL. With Poppa.”

  Poppandacorn turned his face to her in the same instant, as if the word “stay” were the best gift possible. His eyes shone with that immediate happiness of a child who doesn’t understand the world, only understands permanence.

  “Poppa stays with Mommy!” he declared, as if it were an official announcement.

  Astyam raised an eyebrow.

  “Aren’t you going home?” he asked, and there was real curiosity in it, but also that small edge of disbelief from someone who can’t imagine choosing to stay.

  Americ-Ana gave a tired, ironic half-smile, and the sarcasm came out as defense.

  “Why?” she answered. “So I can spend Christmas cooking for Mister Bacon?”

  Wwwyye let out a short, dry laugh.

  Americ-Ana kept going, because the list was long and, somehow, saying it out loud made it lighter.

  “And what else?” she said, counting in her head as if ticking items off a sentence. “So I can keep adjusting Aunt Karen’s and Miss Lily’s dresses on the sewing machine because they eat too much at Christmas and put on a few kilos?”

  Astyam laughed, this time with feeling.

  “That was way too specific,” he said.

  “Because it’s real,” Americ-Ana replied, and the truth came with that bitter humor of someone who knows her place in the world. “I’m not in the mood to be free labor with a Christmas theme. Not anymore.”

  Wwwyye looked at her for one second longer, as if she wanted to say something deeper, but she didn’t. She only nodded, respecting her in the way she did best, by not romanticizing it.

  “That makes sense,” Wwwyye concluded.

  Poppandacorn squeezed Americ-Ana’s hand with his little paws, as if he wanted to seal the decision with physical force. He looked relieved, happy, and possessive all at once, the way he always did when he felt safe.

  “Mommy stays in the CELL,” he repeated, like a mantra. “Mommy stays with Poppa.”

  Americ-Ana looked at him and stroked his head slowly. And there, in the middle of that too-perfect decoration, she felt something strange, almost dangerous to feel in THE-IMPERIUM.

  Comfort.

  Not full happiness, not complete peace, but enough comfort to get through December. Even knowing Astyam and Wwwyye would leave, even knowing the corridors would grow emptier, she preferred the silence of that CELL to the noise of a house that had never truly been hers.

  Wwwyye’s question had been simple, but the answer made clear what was coming: Christmas would arrive, and each of them would face their own kind of solitude.

  Even with manufactured snow and beautiful lights trying to pretend it was only a celebration.

  The break had finally arrived.

  The movement inside the Prince Equal One Zero Pyramid changed texture, as if the whole bunker had begun breathing differently. Corridors grew emptier. Laughter disappeared. Footsteps thinned. The ostentation still existed, of course, but now it seemed concentrated in goodbyes, suitcases, escorts, and people leaving as if stepping off one stage to enter another.

  Astyam had already left to join his family. Wwwyye too. The two of them departed the way they always did, as if the world opened doors for them by instinct, and Americ-Ana stayed behind, watching absence settle in little by little, like snow piling up outside.

  Now, the SAMKHYA CELL was only theirs.

  Americ-Ana.

  Poppandacorn.

  Antichrist.

  And the five Moss Human, who kept functioning as if routine were a mechanical heart that could not stop.

  At first, Americ-Ana thought it was going to be calm. Quiet. A small Christmas, without fights, without an audience, without Thor, without Patron Uvo.

  She was wrong.

  Because Antichrist had a personality of his own. And Poppandacorn had jealousy as if it had been programmed into him, only no one had the courage to admit it in the manual.

  The little black fox spent most of his time with Shabda Akasha.

  And that, by itself, already felt like the universe’s private joke. Shabda Akasha, always so formal, so impeccable, so silent, was now accompanied by a dark, elegant creature that moved through the CELL as if it owned the place, following the butler like a loyal shadow. Antichrist slept near him, sat near him, watched the world with alert eyes, and accepted affection in a rare way, as if he had chosen that Moss Human as “safe.”

  Americ-Ana found the scene curiously beautiful.

  Poppandacorn found the scene a crime.

  He was terrified of the little fox. Truly terrified. It wasn’t just a startle response, it was fear with the taste of a tantrum. The kind of fear that becomes drama, becomes theater, becomes emotional blackmail.

  Every time Antichrist got too close to Americ-Ana, Poppandacorn went rigid.

  Every time Antichrist pressed his snout to Americ-Ana’s fingers and licked them with that insistent sweetness of a creature asking to be held, Poppandacorn’s whole face changed, as if the world had committed an intimate betrayal.

  “Mommy…” he would say, his voice trembling with indignation. “He’s licking.”

  As if a lick were blasphemy.

  Americ-Ana tried to stay calm.

  “Poppa, he’s an animal,” she would answer, patience balanced on the tip of her tongue. “He isn’t attacking you.”

  But Poppandacorn didn’t want logic. He wanted priority.

  He would wedge himself into Americ-Ana’s lap, cling, hug too hard, and stare at Antichrist as if he were facing a political rival.

  Antichrist, of course, didn’t help. He made a point of choosing the exact moment Americ-Ana was distracted to hop onto the sofa, place his little paws on her leg, and ask for affection with shameless elegance. Sometimes he licked Americ-Ana’s fingers again, as if signing an invisible contract.

  Poppandacorn exploded.

  He cried. He complained. He said things that only made sense in his own logic.

  “Mommy, he wants to steal you.”

  Americ-Ana closed her eyes, took a deep breath, counted in her head up to some number that wouldn’t curse Christmas, and tried to negotiate.

  “Poppa… share,” she said, as if she were talking to a five-year-old, because in that moment, that was exactly what it was.

  “No,” Poppandacorn replied, folding his little paws with authority. “Poppa does not share Mommy.”

  Shabda Akasha watched it all with the elegant neutrality of someone who doesn’t interfere in holy war. Sometimes he simply collected a cup, adjusted a light, or guided Antichrist to another corner with an almost gentle calm, as if saying without words: I understand, but this is life.

  Americ-Ana tried, for a few days, to endure it through dialogue.

  It didn’t work.

  Poppandacorn kept picking on Antichrist, even while he was terrified. He provoked, retreated, cried, and then provoked again. A whole cycle of drama sealed inside a plush body.

  Until Americ-Ana started using the only tool that worked.

  Punishment.

  At least three times a week, she was forced to pick Poppandacorn up, listen to him whine and protest, and lock him in the pantry for a few hours.

  It wasn’t cruelty. It was domestic survival.

  “Mommy, no!” he would scream, clinging to the doorknob as if it were a courtroom scene. “Poppa is a baby!”

  “Exactly,” Americ-Ana would answer, firm. “And babies get punished when they throw tantrums.”

  From inside, he would cry, bang his little paws on the door, say he was going to “die of missing you” in five minutes, and try to negotiate freedom with dramatic promises.

  Meanwhile, Americ-Ana would sit on the living-room floor with Antichrist, finally at peace, and stroke the little black fox, who melted into her lap as if that were the right place in the world.

  It was in those moments that Americ-Ana noticed something strange.

  Even with all the madness, even with the loneliness of the break, the SAMKHYA CELL had become a possible home. A home full of small rituals: the Advent Calendar, the lights, the scents, the Moss Human tending to everything, Antichrist asking to be held, Poppandacorn performing drama.

  A strange family, assembled with whatever there was.

  And as December moved forward, day after day, the GummyAir ritual continued too, one drawer at a time, as if time itself were being chewed and spat out in small doses, until it reached where it always reaches.

  The night of December 24th had finally arrived.

  The SAMKHYA CELL felt like another world. Not only decorated, but prepared, as if the entire space had been taught how to celebrate. The biotech lights pulsed like slow heartbeats, Christmas holograms appeared and dissolved like well-behaved fireflies, and artificial snow fell from specific points in the ceiling, always at the same cadence, too beautiful to be chance.

  And in that setting, the five Moss Human stood at their stations as if they were a theater crew about to raise the curtains.

  Sparsha Vayu, the housekeeper, had coordinated everything like someone arranging a ceremony. She set the temperature of the hall to the exact measure, cold enough to evoke December, warm enough not to hurt. She synchronized the lights so the Christmas tree would glow in soft patterns, never harsh, and made sure every detail of the table looked “perfect,” not because of luxury, but because of care.

  Shabda Akasha, the butler, took care of the path. He left the corridor open, clean, with controlled snowflakes drifting down as if guiding footsteps. He placed small minimalist figurines at strategic points, ornaments that lit only when someone passed near, as if the CELL reacted to Americ-Ana’s presence. Even the silence seemed positioned by him.

  Rupa Tejas, the gardener, made the impossible look natural. The indoor plants held a discreet glow, living metallic leaves unfolding into the shapes of stars and bows, and small biotech-grown sprigs displayed tones of copper and silver, as if the garden itself had decided to dress for Christmas. He also placed, with almost devotional care, an arrangement that looked like pine, but wasn’t pine, it was a plant engineered to resemble memory.

  Gandha Prithivi, the housemaid, turned comfort into invitation. Smart thermal blankets were folded on the sofas, ready to warm at a touch. Pillows displayed discreet patterns of flakes and constellations, shifting with the movement of the body. And in every corner there was a small detail, a delicacy that said, “you are not alone,” even if no one said it out loud.

  Rasa Apas, the cook, prepared the heart of the night. The warm aroma coming from the kitchen seemed to pull Americ-Ana by the soul. It was butter, cinnamon, roasting meat, things that remembered the “common world” just enough to hurt and just enough to heal. And the strangest part was that in THE-IMPERIUM even nostalgia needed technology, but here the smell was simply… food.

  While all of that was happening, Americ-Ana was in her room, getting dressed.

  The red dress was beautiful in a way that felt forbidden. A 1947 Dior, inherited from Helena Blavatsky, and the very idea of “inheriting” it made Americ-Ana feel as if she were wearing not only fabric, but history, weight, and an old elegance that didn’t belong with the word “scholarship girl.” She adjusted the dress with care, looking into the mirror as if trying to recognize her own image.

  Poppandacorn was beside her, impeccable on his own level of absurdity. A tuxedo perfectly fitted to his plush body, and a little Santa hat crooked enough to be cute, but firm enough to seem serious.

  “Mommy…” he said, with theatrical reverence. “Mommy looks beautiful.”

  Americ-Ana laughed softly and ran her hand over the top of his hat, straightening it.

  “And you look like a mini magnate,” she replied, and it was tenderness and irony at the same time.

  That was when Shabda Akasha knocked on the door.

  Three precise taps.

  Americ-Ana opened it, and he extended his hand to her, a gesture too elegant to mean only “let’s have dinner.” It was invitation. It was ceremony.

  “Miss Delsilva,” he said, polished. “The hall is ready.”

  Americ-Ana took a deep breath, placed her hand in his, and allowed herself to be led.

  Along the way, Poppandacorn followed at her side, hopping as if each step were part of a Christmas choreography. Antichrist appeared from a corner of the corridor and fell in behind them, silent, like a beautiful shadow. Poppandacorn looked at him with his usual indignation, but he didn’t have time to throw a tantrum. It was Christmas. It was a big night.

  When the hall doors opened, Americ-Ana stopped.

  The table was set with a care that seemed determined to compensate for the universe.

  Traditional dishes were arranged like a film banquet: roast turkey with skin golden and shining, a thick gravy that looked like it had been cooked with patience, creamy mashed potatoes, roasted vegetables, cranberry sauce in an intense red that matched Americ-Ana’s dress, soft breads, and a selection of desserts that smelled like sugar and memory: apple pie, something that suggested gingerbread, and cookies decorated with precision.

  The five Moss Human were lined up, waiting, like hosts for a night that wasn’t theirs, but that they had created.

  Americ-Ana swallowed hard. It was too beautiful to be mere function.

  She stepped closer, and before she even sat down, she felt her throat tighten with a kind of gratitude she hated to feel, because gratitude could also become debt.

  But she decided not to run from it.

  “No,” Americ-Ana said, firm, looking at the five of them. “You are going to sit with me.”

  A small silence followed, as if their system had stalled for a second.

  Shabda Akasha inclined his head, as if he were weighing the command not as a request, but as true intent.

  Sparsha Vayu, the housekeeper, was the first to signal acceptance, a minimal gesture, almost imperceptible.

  And then they sat down.

  Not to eat, because they didn’t eat, but to be there. To keep her company. To exist alongside her.

  Americ-Ana sat down. Poppandacorn climbed onto a chair adapted for him and straightened his tuxedo as if he were a very important adult. Antichrist sat in the corner, watching everything with attentive eyes, and, by a temporary miracle, Poppandacorn didn’t scream.

  The dinner began.

  Americ-Ana ate slowly, tasting the goodness as if it were forbidden. She laughed in small moments, pulled along by Poppandacorn, who made animated comments about everything, like a five-year-old food critic.

  And as the night went on, each Moss Human, one by one, told a Christmas story.

  They weren’t long stories. They were like small sparks.

  Sparsha Vayu spoke about “organizing the house” as a way of protecting the heart, as if order were a kind of embrace.

  Shabda Akasha told something about an “old Christmas” when a family, even with nothing, decided to put a light in a window, and that light saved someone outside.

  Rupa Tejas spoke about a plant that blooms in the cold, and how cold is not an enemy, it is a test.

  Gandha Prithivi spoke about a simple gift that, because it was given with intention, became an eternal memory.

  Rasa Apas spoke about food as a language, and how flavor can be a bridge between worlds.

  While the stories unfolded, in the background Poppandacorn played a soft Christmas melody, inviting and relaxing, as if he had decided to be the night’s official soundtrack. Americ-Ana listened to the notes, the scent, the warmth of the hall, and for an instant allowed herself to believe it was a real Christmas, even inside a bunker built to control everything.

  That was when the crash happened.

  A loud noise from somewhere above, as if something heavy had slammed into the structure of the castle.

  Americ-Ana froze on instinct, and Poppandacorn’s eyes went wide, almost ready to trigger an alarm.

  Shabda Akasha rose with impeccable theatricality, as if he had rehearsed the moment.

  “Who could it be…” he said, in a tone far too amused to be serious. And then, without waiting for an answer, he extended his hand to Americ-Ana. “Come with me, Miss Delsilva.”

  Americ-Ana stood up, her heart beating fast, and followed him into the living room.

  The Christmas tree was there, glowing. The fireplace, decorated. And suddenly, a figure appeared, climbing down the chimney.

  A real Santa Claus.

  Or at least as “real” as THE-IMPERIUM allowed.

  A Moss Human Santa, in perfect red clothes, immaculate white beard, and an enormous sack of presents. He landed with a strange lightness, as if he had been designed to descend chimneys straight from the factory.

  He looked at everyone and opened his arms.

  “Ho..Ho..Ho... Merry Foedus!”

  He turned to the gifts, beginning to place them under the tree as if it were official duty. When he realized he was being watched, he made a theatrically surprised gesture.

  “You caught me in the act,” he said, his tone cheerful, almost childish. “But pay attention, only open the presents tomorrow morning, nice and early.”

  Poppandacorn went delirious.

  He started jumping, clapping, and demanded photos as if it were a historic event.

  “Photo, photo, photo!” he insisted, tugging Americ-Ana by the hand with absurd strength for someone so small.

  The Moss Human Santa sat down in an armchair, and Poppandacorn made Americ-Ana sit on his lap.

  Americ-Ana’s cheeks flushed red immediately, laughing nervously, trying not to think about how it looked ridiculous and beautiful at the same time.

  Everyone joined in. Even the five Moss Human. Even Antichrist. There were recordings, flashes, Poppandacorn posing with his crooked hat, Americ-Ana trying to keep her dignity and failing with grace.

  And at some point after that, the night finally came undone.

  Americ-Ana fell asleep in her room, exhausted, with a strange heart. Poppandacorn was beside her playing Christmas lullabies, softly, as if he wanted to hold the dream in place.

  The next morning, his voice came like lightning.

  “Mommy! Let’s open the presents! Let’s open the presents!”

  He was in full spoiled-five-year-old mode, happy, bright, and excited as if the entire universe had been born for that morning.

  “Poppa… wait…” Americ-Ana murmured, still drowsy, trying to get her body back.

  But it was too late.

  Poppandacorn ran downstairs, and Antichrist came right behind, fast and silent, like a playful shadow. Americ-Ana sprang up, hair still a mess, and ran after them, calling his name.

  When she reached the living room, Poppandacorn didn’t even look at the presents first.

  He went straight to the Advent Calendar.

  In the glass aquarium, the small white chewing-gum ball had grown so much over the twenty-four days that it filled every part of the container. It pressed against the glass as if it were trying to breathe its way out, as if the aquarium were no longer a home, but a prison.

  Poppandacorn opened a special drawer in the wooden chest, right below day 24.

  Inside was a colorful, glittering powder, shimmering as if it were made of ground confetti and pulverized stars. He lifted it with his usual ceremonial care, knelt, and held it out to Americ-Ana as if offering something sacred.

  “Poppa, am I supposed to put this in my mouth?” Americ-Ana asked, wary, sleep still clinging to her voice.

  “No, Mommy,” Poppandacorn answered, serious. “Just open it and pour it over the GummyAir.”

  Americ-Ana obeyed.

  She opened the packet of powder and poured it over the white mass inside the aquarium.

  For a second, nothing happened.

  Then the mass moved.

  It quivered, as if something alive were waking inside. And suddenly, the GummyAir sneezed.

  “ACHOO!”

  Americ-Ana jumped back, startled.

  The GummyAir slipped free of the aquarium as if the glass had lost its authority, floated into the air, and began to spin, loose and joyful, as if it had just been born. A voice came from inside it, far too happy to fit inside the morning.

  “Merry Foedus, GummyAir, GummyAir!”

  Poppandacorn clapped as if he had created the world.

  “Mommy, hug him!” he shouted. “He’s happy to see you!”

  Americ-Ana stepped closer slowly, wary, opened her arms with hesitation, and hugged the GummyAir awkwardly, like someone hugging a balloon while afraid it might pop.

  Poppandacorn didn’t accept it.

  “Hug him properly, Mommy!” he insisted, and pushed Americ-Ana forward.

  Americ-Ana bumped into the GummyAir, and then the GummyAir pressed itself against her, as if it really were a happy being, as if that embrace were its final nourishment.

  Poppandacorn trembled with joy.

  “Let’s test it, Mommy, come!”

  Before Americ-Ana could answer, Poppandacorn tugged her arm. The GummyAir threw itself beneath Americ-Ana’s feet as if it knew exactly where she was supposed to stand.

  “Poppa… wait… what are you doing, what’s happening?”

  Suddenly, Americ-Ana was standing on top of the GummyAir, as if she were on a living skateboard. She tried to keep her balance, heart racing, her body still waking up.

  Poppandacorn shouted, singing as if it were a hymn.

  “Gummy! Gummy! Gummy!”

  And the GummyAir answered in a voice that was cheerful and determined.

  “Fly! Fly! Fly!”

  Then it launched.

  Like a supersonic jet.

  The door flung open far too fast, cold air rushed in, and the GummyAir shot out, carrying Americ-Ana into the snowy skies as if the whole world had turned into a track.

  Americ-Ana screamed, frantic, feeling her stomach drop and the wind slap her face.

  “AAAAAAAA!”

  Poppandacorn made an impossible jump and climbed onto her shoulders, gripping tight as if it were an amusement-park ride.

  He lifted his little paws, delirious.

  “Gummy! Gummy! Gummy!”

  The GummyAir answered, louder, happier.

  “Fly! Fly! Fly!”

  And it flew even higher.

  The manufactured snow seemed to explode around them, perfect flakes streaking past like white stars. The SAMKHYA CELL shrank below, the entire pyramid became a model, and Americ-Ana felt panic mixed with a kind of laughter she couldn’t control, because it was too absurd to be only fear.

  “Poppa!!!!!!” Americ-Ana screamed, her voice vanishing into the wind, while THE-IMPERIUM’s artificial sky opened above her like a dangerous promise, and the GummyAir, living and loyal, climbed as if Christmas had decided that, this year, the gift would be the very absence of gravity.