Pollen's P.O.V.
The clatter of ceramic plates and the screech of chair legs against the polished marble tiles made my jaw ache. It was noon on Thursday, and the Matrix Co. Ltd. cafeteria was a war zone of overlapping thoughts. Usually, Dahlia's loud, bright presence was enough to buffer the worst of it. But today, the seat across from me was empty.
I stared down at the piled-up rice and the cold, soggy greens on my plate, shifting them around with my fork. I didn't have much of an appetite.
'Did I lock the door before I left?'
'I swear, if the manager asks for that report one more time...'
'Need more coffee. Too tired.'
The stray thoughts of my coworkers drifted above their heads in tired, sluggish shades of grey and stressed orange. I kept my head low, trying to lock my gaze onto my lunch.
I wondered if Dahlia was sick. She wasn't the type to just skip out on a whim, even if she didn't technically need the paycheck. I thought about paying her a visit, but a sudden realization stopped my fork mid-air. I didn't actually know her house number. She'd only ever mentioned that her family's place was over in Wisteria Town on 23rd Street.
That was a solid fifteen kilometers away from the office. A three-stop journey into a neighborhood I had no business being in.
Setting my fork down, I pulled my phone out of my blazer pocket. The screen was clean. No notifications. I had sent her a quick message the second I clocked in at eight-thirty, assuming she was just running late, but there was still no reply.
A sudden vibration against my palm made me flinch.
The screen lit up, the harsh ringtone cutting through the low hum of the cafeteria.
Zachy.
I just stared blankly at his name for a couple of seconds as the phone buzzed, my thumb hovering over the glass before I finally slid the icon to answer.
"Hello," I murmured, pressing the receiver to my ear.
[What took you so long to pick up? You spaced out on me again, didn't you?] Zachary's voice came through, clean and immediate.
"I'm actually eating," I said, trying to sound normal.
"Why did you call?"
On the other end of the line, I heard him chuckle, the sound warm and familiar.
[What, am I not allowed to call my sister now?]
"I didn't say that," I muttered, looking down at my rice. I could hear myself scrambling for an excuse.
"I just... figured you'd be busy with a shoot or something."
[Pol, even if I'm drowning in work, I'll always make time for you.] His tone shifted, softening into that familiar, protective rhythm that always made me feel small.
[You're my only sister, after all.] He Added
My throat went dry. I didn't know how to answer that. We weren't blood-related—not even close—but he and Leo were the only real anchor I had in this loud, chaotic world. A cold, intrusive thought suddenly crept into my mind, making me uneasy: Am I relying on him too much? Am I becoming a burden?
[Pol? You still there?] Zach's voice broke through the fog, a sharp edge of worry tightening his words.
[Look, I'm just calling to check in on you. Make sure you're doing okay. And don't forget to take your medicine as soon as you finish that food.]
I closed my eyes, taking a slow breath.
"I'm just finishing up my lunch, sorry Zachy. You know I don't like to let the food get cold."
I reached into my blazer pocket, my fingers brushing against the familiar, slick plastic of the blister pack. I popped out a small blue capsule—the neuro-stabilizer.
"I'm taking it right now, see?" I whispered, placing the pill on my tongue and swallowing it down with a heavy gulp of lukewarm water from my bottle.
I waited for the familiar, artificial haze to settle behind my eyes, dulling the vibrant thoughts around me.
"How about you?" I asked, trying to clear the heavy air between us.
"Did you have lunch yet?"
[Yeah, we already ate a while ago.] Zach replied.
The word we slipped out naturally. He had to be with Leo.
"Send my regards to Leo," I said, transitioning the phone to my shoulder as I pulled a clean tissue from the tray. I leaned over, meticulously wiping a stray grain of rice and a faint circle of condensation from the polished marble table.
Growing up under the strict, loving eye of a woman who spent her life as a nun instils certain habits you never really shake. Table manners weren't optional when your mother was Sister Mira Anderson of Willow Water Church—the very chapel where my life on paper officially began.
[No need for that.]
Zachy's voice crackled through the speaker.
I picked the phone back up with my right hand, pressing it securely against my ear while my left hand balanced the heavy ceramic tray. I turned, threading my way through the maze of chairs toward the counter where the cafeteria staff were collecting the dirty dinnerware.
"Did I say something wrong?" Iasked, my brow furrowing slightly as I handed the tray over to the attendant with a polite nod.
[No.]
Zachy replied, his tone shifting into something a bit more deliberate.
[Leo will be picking you up later, so don't stay late at the office.]
I swallowed hard, keeping my eyes fixed on the spotless tile floor as I walked out of the lunchroom. He knew me too well. He knew my default setting was to bury myself in the cold, logical solace of my monitor until the building went dark.
Mr. Clark Henderson ran our department with a rigid, professional hand that boundary-lined on obsession, but he was a good boss. Mostly. At least, his demands gave me an excuse to hide from the world.
"Why is he picking me up?" I asked, a sudden spike of curiosity making me slow my pace in the hallway.
Leonardo didn't just drive all the way out to the Snowflakes district on a whim. He was quiet, methodical, and valued his schedule. He only showed up at my office for three specific reasons: major occasions, planned vacations, or family emergencies.
"Did something happen?" The word emergency loomed in the back of my mind, tightening my chest.
"Is everything okay?"
On the other end of the line, Zachy let out a heavy, long-distance sigh.
[Oh, come on Pol. Don't be like that. Stop pretending that something important isn't actually important.]
I stopped walking entirely, leaning my back against the cool, painted drywall of the corridor. My mind scrambled, frantically flipping through a mental calendar to figure out what I had missed. What day was it today?
It was August 27th
A sudden, familiar wave of sorrow washed over me, heavy and dull. Is there actually something worth celebrating today? All I could feel was a quiet, lingering ache.
"..."
I remained completely silent, the static on the phone line stretching thin between us.
[Wait-]
Zachy's voice cut through my silence, sharp with sudden realization.
[Don't tell me you actually forgot?]
I stared at the modern lighting fixtures overhead, the date finally clicking against the grief I always carried during this time of the year.
"It was my mom's six-year death anniversary," I muttered, my voice dropping into a low, sad whisper that felt too heavy for the sterile office hallway.
"And it would have been her sixty-six birthday celebration... and it's the sixth anniversary of my college graduation."
[It's your birthday, Pol.]
Zachy said. His voice was incredibly calm, soft around the edges, stripping away the corporate noise surrounding me.
I froze, completely out of speech. My tongue felt thick, my mind entirely blank. When did that even happen? How had the day arrived without me noticing?
[Happy Birthday, Pollen Anderson.] - He added
I could practically hear the warm, familiar smile on his face through the receiver, probably shaking his head, wondering how on earth his sister could completely forget the date of her own birth.
As the silence settled between us, an old story flashed vividly in my mind—a tale told to me years ago by Miss Claire Simpson, the gentle woman who had looked after me when I was just a fragile, nameless infant.
It had been a night flooded with beautiful, silver moonlight over Willow Water Church, all the way back on 19th Street in Ginkgo Town. Sister Mira Anderson was conducting her usual late-night rounds inside the sanctuary, her heavy keys jingling softly as she made sure every piece of altar equipment was locked safely inside its respective storage cabin. She was meticulous, checking the cleanliness of the pews and the surrounding courtyard, before finally telling the remaining staff to leave and get some rest.
She had been right on the verge of locking the main wooden doors and leaving for the night when a faint, reedy sound cut through the stillness.
A crying baby.
Right outside the entrance, nestled against the stone step, was a small bundle wrapped tightly in a faded blanket. Fastened around the infant's tiny wrist was a plastic hospital tag—a bracelet with no name, no lineage, just a single stamp of text: August 27, 1998
Miss Claire told me that Sister Mira had looked around the darkened courtyard first, her eyes searching the shadows of Ginkgo Town, hoping the mother was just nearby, hiding in the dark. But the street was completely empty.
With a heavy, trembling sigh, the nun had reached down, lifting the cold bundle into her arms and pulling it against her chest to soothe the frantic crying.
"Aww, what a beautiful baby... ssshhh. It's okay. It's okay," she had murmured, shifting the infant into a secure football hold, her palm gently tapping the baby's back in a slow, rhythmic cradle.
When the crying finally dissolved into soft, rhythmic breathing and the baby fell asleep, Sister Mira looked down at the tiny tag on the child's arm again. There was no family name. Just those numbers.
"Isn't it destiny?" she had whispered into the empty church, a breathless, incredibly happy smile breaking across her face as she sighed heavily against the weight of the moment.
"We both have the exact same birthday."
She knew the rules of the city. She knew she couldn't just keep the child for herself without facing severe consequences from the law for bypassing legal security protocols and adoption systems.
Moving calmly, her heart pounding against the sleeping infant, Sister Mira walked back inside the warmth of the sanctuary and reached into her habit for her phone. She called the local precinct, her voice steady as she reported the abandoned baby she had found on the church steps.
Minutes later, the quiet night of 19th Street was broken by the flashing lights of a local police cruiser, arriving alongside a medical team to conduct an immediate investigation and evaluate the health of the nameless baby girl.
The medical evaluation had been brief but thorough. There were no active amber alerts in the Ginkgo district, and no hospital reports of a missing newborn matching my description. I hadn't been stolen or lost; I had simply been left behind in the dead of night, with nothing to shield me from the cold stone steps but a thin, faded blanket. Once the medical team cleared me, they handed the check-up records to the responding officer. The policeman, looking down at the nameless bundle, told Sister Mira that her best option was to seek immediate assistance from social services.
She did exactly that, bringing me to Unity Orphanage, and when the paperwork demanded a name for the ledger, Mira gave me one. She named me Pollen.
Because of her demanding duties as a nun, it was Miss Claire Simpson who became my primary caretaker, raising me and watching over me at the orphanage until I was ten years old. For ten long years, Sister Mira fought through the relentless red tape, systemic delays, and the complex legal protocols required to adopt a child under the care of the church. Her devotion never wavered. When the final approval came through, she made a choice that altered both of our lives—she formally left her position at Willow Water Church, stepped away from the sisterhood, and officially adopted me. From that day forward, she poured everything she had into taking care of me herself, shielding me from a world that was already starting to grow far too loud for my senses.
"I'm sorry, Zachy." I said, my voice cracking slightly as I leaned heavier against the cool corridor wall.
"But... I'm afraid I really can't celebrate today."
On the other end of the line, the rustle of studio equipment quieted down. Zachy's tone shifted, instantly becoming softer, more delicate. He knew the landmines in my head better than anyone.
[I'll go with Leo to pick you up later, Pol. Don't stress yourself out for now. Just take it easy.]
He was being so careful with his words, trying not to fracture the fragile peace I was clinging to. But the truth was, I didn't think I could ever celebrate my birthday the way normal people did. My mind felt strangely hollow as I tried to look back; I had completely forgotten how I even spent the last five birthdays. The memories were a blur of gray static. The only thing I knew for certain was that Zachary and Leo had been right there by my side every single time, quietly marking the day with me before we made our annual journey to visit the quiet grave of my beloved mother.
"Okay," I whispered, the exhaustion weighing so heavily on my chest that a desperate, simple urge took over. I just wanted to go home. I wanted to hide in the dark where the thoughts of the city couldn't reach me.
[Take care of yourself, Pollen.]
Zachy said. The line buzzed with a faint, lingering warmth, but I could hear the worry tight in his throat. I knew I shouldn't have brought up my mom's death anniversary over the phone—I knew it cast a shadow over his day too—but I couldn't help it. To me, her memory was the only thing that mattered today.
Beep.
The call disconnected, leaving me alone with the faint, digital hum of the empty hallway. I didn't hesitate. I turned away from the elevators and walked straight toward the glass-fronted corner office at the end of the floor.
I knocked twice on the heavy door before pushing it open. Mr. Clark Henderson was hunched over his desk, his dual monitors throwing a harsh, artificial glow across his sharp features. Above his head, his thought bubble was a jagged, vibrating mess of deep orange and black lines—the universal signal of a man drowning in corporate deadlines.
"Yes, Miss Anderson?" Mr. Henderson said, swirling his leather chair around to face me. He was playing with a sleek silver ballpen in his right hand, spinning it through his fingers with an impatient, rhythmic click. His eyebrows furrowed slightly as he took in my rigid posture. Above his head, the familiar, jagged cloud of stressed orange static was already beginning to pulse.
"I need to request a half-day, sir," I said, keeping my hands clasped tightly over the front of my charcoal blazer.
"I need to leave now."
Henderson's brow furrowed deeper, his thought bubble spiking into a chaotic jumble of administrative frustration. 'Now? Today of all days?' He leaned back, the pen tapping sharply against the polished wood of his desk.
"Anderson, you know we're in the middle of a critical deployment cycle. Is this something that can wait until the evening clock-out?"
When he mentioned the deployment cycle, I knew exactly what was keeping him on edge. At Matrix Co. Ltd., our work moved in relentless, overlapping waves. We had a strict window to clean, test, and deploy the massive confidential programming package we had just received from yesterday's client. If we didn't push it through the secure pipeline immediately, the system would bottleneck the moment our next cycle—belonging to an entirely different corporate giant—hit our servers tomorrow morning. Missing the deadline meant risking a multi-million dollar breach of contract.
"It's really urgent, sir. Please," I said, lowering my gaze and bowing my head deeply in front of him.
With my eyes fixed firmly on the polished floor tiles, I couldn't see his face. Because I was looking down, I couldn't read the shifting colors of his thoughts or check if his orange static was turning into an angry red. Panic began to claw at my chest in the heavy silence.
Is he going to deny it? Is he going to force me to stay?
"Very well," Henderson's voice finally broke the quiet, sounding strictly professional but exhausted.
"Just make sure that you finish your remaining queue before the final deployment deadline. I don't want to see a single error report on Cluster 04 tomorrow morning."
"Thank you, Mr. Henderson," I murmured, a wave of profound relief washing over me. I stepped backward out of his glass-fronted office, closing the heavy door softly behind me to shut out the corporate noise.
I walked briskly back to my workstation, my fingers trembling slightly as I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone. I didn't care about the blinking internal network alerts on my screen. I opened my chat history and quickly typed out a direct message to Zachy:
[I'm leaving work early. I'm going to half-day today. I'll visit my mom's grave at the Timeless Garden first, and then I'll head straight over to your place at 17th Street CherryBlossom Town afterwards.]
I tapped the screen.
Sent.
I took a deep, shaky breath.
The heavy glass doors of Matrix Co. Ltd. hissed shut behind me, instantly cutting off the hum of the server rooms. The high-noon heat of the Snowflakes district hit my face like a physical wall, the air thick with the metallic tang of city exhaust and the glare of the sun reflecting off the towering glass monoliths.
My head was spinning. The neuro-stabilizer was doing its job, wrapping the colorful thought bubbles of the lunch-hour rush in a thick, grey fog, but it couldn't touch the heavy ache in my chest. Walking away from my desk at noon felt wrong, like breaking a code I had spent years writing, but my feet moved forward anyway, carrying me toward the concrete steps of the 20th Street transit entrance.
I shoved my hands into my pockets, my phone a cold, dead weight against my thigh. I was heading to Ginkgo Town. I was going to see my mom.
Third-Person P.O.V.
Outside the towering glass monolith of Matrix Co. Ltd., the afternoon heat of the Snowflake district simmered over the asphalt. A block away from the station entrance, a nondescript gray sedan sat idling by the curb, its tinted windows perfectly masking the two occupants inside.
To any passing commuter, it was just another corporate car waiting for an executive. But inside, the air was tense, filled with the low hum of a private radio scanner and the tactical click of a camera shutter. These men weren't corporate guards or formal employees of the Morris Group; they were a specialized, independent surveillance crew hired directly by Kyles Morris through a secure, off-the-books channel. They had no idea who the girl was or what she had done. They only knew that the billionaire's private account was funding their clock.
"Movement at the side exit," the driver murmured, adjusting his earpiece. His eyes remained locked on the heavy glass doors of the building.
The passenger leaned forward, raising a pair of compact binoculars. Through the lenses, a lone figure stepped out into the blinding mid-day glare. It was a young woman in an oversized charcoal blazer, her head slightly bowed, her hands buried deep in her pockets. She looked small, almost fragile, against the sweeping architecture of the district.
"Confirm target," the passenger said, his voice clipped.
"Target confirmed. It's Pollen Anderson."
The driver glanced down at the digital dashboard clock.
It read 12:45 PM.
"She's four hours early. The background file says her shift usually runs until five-thirty."
"Doesn't matter," the passenger countered, his fingers flying across an encrypted tablet interface to log the anomaly. He quickly snapped a high-resolution photo of her crossing the pavement toward the concrete steps of the transit stairs.
"No secondary assets in sight. No signs of a drop-off. She's moving toward the platforms alone. Log it and send the transmission directly to the client."
[Surveillance Log: Team Alpha
Target: Anderson, Pollen
Location: 20th Street Snowflakes Station Entrance
Time: 12:45 PM
Subject has unexpectedly exited the Matrix Co. building four hours ahead of her standard schedule. No signs of contact or secondary assets in the immediate vicinity. Subject is boarding the southbound Blue Line train alone.
Awaiting instructions from Mr. Morris. Should we intercept or follow to the next stop?]