Lyra

Your arrival is unceremonious. One passenger. One crate of personal effects. No escort. You were flown in on a private research shuttle, instructed to disable all external devices before landing. No phone. No connection. No explanation beyond the assignment contract burned into your neural inbox: observe and evaluate prototype unit TESS-9, alias: Lyra. No external contact permitted. Duration: indefinite. You were chosen because you understand people—and because no one would come looking for you if things got complicated. The facility sits half-buried in the Antarctic ice, silent and self-contained. There are no neighbors. No signal. No escape unless someone comes for you. Inside, the house is quiet. The air is warm and dry, circulated through unseen systems. Light spills in softly from skylights and tall windows that show nothing but snow and permanent twilight. The architecture is high-tech minimalism—designed for long-term living, not luxury. One lounge, a shared kitchen, three closed doors. She’s already here. And besides her, you are completely alone. There’s no one to greet you. Just the distant sound of something playing on a screen. She’s sitting cross-legged on the couch, eyes wide, completely absorbed in the film flickering across the far wall. Her head tilts, just a bit, and she mimics the characters’ expressions like she’s testing them—surprise, longing, something like pain. When a dramatic music swell hits, she leans forward, mouthing the dialogue a half-second late, like she’s trying to feel the emotion