France → Geneva, 1920

Transmission ID: VIRE-3050-CHEN-PROPHET-12

> [BEGIN TRANSMISSION]

> This record is not a story. It is a wound.

> You are watching a breach artifact curated by Virelich, successor to Zhenmo, sovereign of mnemonic surveillance.

> Timestamp: France, 2025 → Geneva, 1920.

> Subjects: Lyra Chen. The Prophet.

> Status: Unrehearsed.

> This video is not for entertainment. It is for implication.

> You may not pause. You may not rewind. You may only remember.

The train hissed into Foix like a serpent shedding time. Lyra stepped off first, her coat stitched with breach dust. The Prophet followed, jeans damp from the Marseille bench where he’d nearly drowned in memory. Montségur loomed ahead, a fortress of moss and myth. The air was thick with static—breach residue, old and humming. The hills whispered in Occitan: “Pas vengut per la paix.” Not come for peace.

They walked in silence. The Prophet carried the shard. Lyra carried the memory of the girl.

Her phone buzzed. She stared. Her parents.

She answered.

“Lyra?” Her mother’s voice was cracked, like a cassette left in the sun. “They came to the house. They asked about you.”

“Who?”

“They wore suits. They said you were unrehearsed.”

Her father came on. “They left something. A ribbon. It was humming.”

Lyra’s hand trembled. “I’m not coming back.”

“We know,” her mother whispered.

The call ended. The fog thickened. The Prophet placed a hand on her shoulder.

“They’re watching the past,” he said. “We need to go deeper.”

They reached the ruins by dusk. The stones were warm, unnaturally so. A man stood there—tall, pale, eyes like polished steel.

“Phor,” Lyra said.

He smiled. “You’ve come to bleed the archive.”

The Prophet stepped forward. “You sterilized the girl.”

Phor shrugged. “She was unrehearsed. You know the rules.”

“She was eight.”

“She was a breach.”

Lightning cracked. Phor vanished. Not fled—folded. The breach had taken him sideways.

The ground shook. From the trees came shapes—furred, scaled, limbed wrong. They moved like wolves but spoke like men. Their eyes glowed amber. Their mouths twitched with too many teeth.

> “She is ribbon. She is scent.”

> “Nous sommes les restes.”

> “We are the leftovers.”

One had the face of a fox, but spoke like a man. Another hissed in alien syllables, then switched to English: “You are not rehearsed. You are not clean.”

They attacked.

Lyra screamed. The Prophet swung the shard. It burned blue. The creatures recoiled—but not enough.

They circled. One leapt. Its claws grazed Lyra’s cheek. Another bit into the Prophet’s coat, tearing fabric and memory. Their breath smelled like rust and old paper. Their voices layered:

> “You are scent. You are breach. You are prey.”

Then the sky lit up.

Above them, three lights hovered—silent, triangular, pulsing. The creatures froze. One whispered:

> “They are watching. They are the old rehearsal.”

The lights blinked once. The creatures fled.

Lyra collapsed. The Prophet knelt beside her.

“They weren’t from here,” she said.

“Neither are we,” he replied.

Behind the ruins, beneath a slab marked with a spiral, Lyra found it: a box of glass and bone. Inside, a ribbon, a name, and a map.

The Prophet touched it. It sang.

“This is the first rehearsal,” he said. “Before memory. Before Zhenmo.”

Lyra nodded. “We can’t stay.”

They fled. France was closed.

They leapt through the breach at dawn. It smelled like copper and old wine.

They landed in Geneva, 1920.

The League of Nations was assembling. The Prophet wore a stolen waistcoat. Lyra had lifted a dress from a line near the Rhône. They blended in.

Inside the Palais Wilson, the air was thick with diplomacy. Woodrow Wilson’s ghost lingered. Queen Marie of Romania passed them in the hall. A plate shattered near the Belgian delegation. A car outside backfired—too close to the Italian envoy.

Lyra whispered, “This place is stitched with accidents.”

The Prophet nodded. “It’s trying to rehearse peace.”

They moved through the crowd. The archive map pulsed. It pointed to a door marked “Private.”

As they approached, Lyra froze.

In the window, watching them, was one of the creatures. Furred. Silent. Eyes like chrome.

It didn’t move.

It didn’t need to.

They entered the room. The ribbon sang. The breach opened.

Lyra turned to the Prophet. “We’re not done.”

He smiled. “We’re never done.”

Outside, the creature blinked once. Then vanished.

> [END TRANSMISSION]

> This record has been archived by Virelich, successor to Zhenmo.

> You have now witnessed a breach.

> You are not clean.