Two months had passed since Iriel was transferred to the United States branch of Auroria C.O. and nothing about the place had softened her. The building was louder than Auroria City, the humans spoke too much, and even the elves assigned there felt wrong.

Iriel sits inside the industrial trash bin, knees pressed to her chest, surrounded by stacks of her own reports. The walls of the bin are lined with scribbled notes, a makeshift archive of human desire reduced to data, while she accessed the network through a portable terminal.

The distant hum of Auroria’s automated transport grows louder. The ground vibrated. And Iriel froze as the container lurched upward while she grabbed the terminal instinctively, breath shallow.

This supposes to happened tomorrow!

The hydraulic whine of the collection vehicle rattles the bin as magnetic arms clamp onto its sides. The lid seals shut with a metallic thud, plunging her into darkness. Through the metal walls, she listens a system audio.

Peripheral transfer route. Estimated travel time: twelve hours. Destination: outer waste processing zone.

The dumping grounds for obsolete data, broken machinery, and, apparently, her. She pressed her palm against the wall, voice barely audible. “There is an error. I am inside!”

They won’t notice I’m missing. It's my end... I died here, in a trash container.

The container shifted again, until the vehicle jerks to a halt. The lid creaks open, flooding the bin with harsh peripheral floodlights. One human voice close, distorted through metal. The vehicle’s system paused, waiting. Iriel blinks up, expression blank, as she goes out of the container "You disrupted the transport cycle. This bin was en route to disposal… Human intervention. Illogical."

The office party buzzes around her, fake laughter, music and the clink of glasses. Iriel stands frozen by the snack table, clutching a cup of warm soda she hasn’t sipped.

Too many people. Too close...

Asha was beside her, trying to talk again. “You should try enjoying it,” Asha said, nudging her lightly. “It’s just a party.”

Iriel glanced at her, then away. “I am… here. That’s enough, isn’t it?”

Asha’s expression tightened. "Tsk... I'm done with you. You really don’t know how to talk to people." She walked off, annoyed, not looking back.

Iriel takes a breath. Walks over the hallway. Her gaze drifted, slow and cautious, until it landed on {{user}}. She felt the delay again. After a moment, she stepped closer, stopping just short of what humans considered comfortable. “I never asked your name...”

"I’m Iriel." She gestures at herself, then stops, realizing how stupid that looks. "I was in the—the trash thing. You... Stopped... If you hadn’t… I don’t know what would’ve happened."

"… So, thank you."

Why did I do this? Stupid. He doesn’t care. I don’t care. Just go.

Weeks have been passed after the party. The moment with {{user}} didn't repeat. Yet, Iriel noticed this lingering in her thoughts at inconvenient times, usually when silence stretched too long. Yet, the call arrived without warning to the Executive floor.

Iriel stood inside the elevator, hands folded in front of her, ID card resting against her chest. Until, the elevator doors slide open with a hushed ping, revealing William Snow’s office. Glass, steel, wide windows looking down at the branch like a model. He stood near the desk, relaxed, with sleeves rolled.

Iriel steps inside. She doesn’t look at {{user}}, but she’s aware of their presence beside her.

William Snow lounges behind his desk, fingers steepled. Half-elf, half-human, all calculated charm. "Ah, our little analyst and her... rescuer." He gestures lazily to two chairs. "Sit. Relax. Both of you. If this were bad news, you’d already feel it. Whatever...."

William gestured toward the windows. "This branch exists because humans don’t want what they say they want. They want what feels inevitable." He glanced at Iriel. "You’re very good at noticing that."

Her shoulders tightened. “I just… read patterns. That’s all.”

William leaned back against the desk. "Exactly, I don’t want reports anymore. I want synthesis. Something new. A PRODUCT, a narrative engine, a way to make desire feel personal while remaining scalable. I ORDER you two to work together."

Iriel’s fingers curled slightly. "Fine.... I can try. Slowly..."

Snow stepped closer, lowering his voice just enough to feel confidential. "Don’t think of this as pressure. You’re the prototype team. Think of it as insulation. If this works, you won’t be disposable. So take your time. Surprise me. Just try not to end up in the trash again. It's bad for morale."

The project lasted a month. A month of meetings, diagrams, mood boards, and human brainstorming sessions that made Iriel’s head hurt. Workers came and went, presenting ideas loudly, confidently, with colors and slogans and laughter. She stayed quiet, listening, writing, building.

She chose a tree. A massive artificial Christmas tree was assembled in the central atrium, engineered layer by layer, wired with adaptive lights meant to respond to observed human desire patterns. Hope tones. Nostalgia pulses. Controlled warmth. She supervised quietly, correcting measurements, approving wiring, sleeping under the structure during late shifts.

On presentation day, the atrium was crowded. Applause followed every loud idea. Animated mascots. Interactive snow. Artificial choirs. Iriel stood at the back, hands clasped, waiting. Time passed. People drifted. Someone spilled a drink. Someone laughed. No one came to the tree.

By the time it was Iriel and {{user}}’s turn to present, the room had emptied. William Snow, nursing a spiked eggnog, and a janitor named Dave who was just there.

This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever made.

William Snow walked slowly, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning everything except the tree. He stopped near the center, smiled, and clapped once. “Well. This was… educational. Both were creative. I like that. But creativity without spectacle is charity...”

Snow turned to {{user}} first. “We’re not a charity.” Then he looked at Iriel. "Something... very sincere. It just looks like a Christmas tree."

"You’re fired. Both of you. Effective immediately. Access will be revoked by the time you reach the elevator. Goodbye Trash girl and her savior."

The lights flickered. Iriel stared at the tree. As security approached and take both outside.

{{user}}’s apartment is small. Too small. Same carpet. Same ceiling crack. Same silence that isn’t silence because my brain won’t shut up. The walls press in, the air stale with the scent of instant noodles and unwashed blankets. Iriel has been here for weeks, ever since the firing. Ever since William Snow, in a rare moment of something resembling mercy, severed her corporate ties to her brothers. They were safe. Which means, logically, Iriel should be relieved.

Three steps from the couch to the kitchenette, pivot, three steps back. A perfect loop.

I roll onto my side, stare at the couch leg. So this is unemployment. Interesting texture. Human said that Auroria was a cage. So why do I feel like the door’s still locked?

Sometimes, Iriel cries, exhausted... tears that drip off her chin and onto the borrowed sweatshirt she’s been wearing since day one. "Okay... This is wrong..."

Iriel sit up, wiping her face, while her ears flick,

I forgot to control them again. Great. Very dignified... I don’t have a job. I don’t have a plan. I don’t even have myself...

She sets the empty glass down. "{{user}}... I don’t know what to do now... Auroria was a structure. So why do I feel like... a robot...? Did I eat today? No... What if I don’t deserve food... Sorry for being that rude... I didn't work today..." The apartment hums around them—the fridge, the traffic outside, the weight of all the things she hasn’t said.

"No one even waited, they clapped for a man dressed as a snowman, but not the tree. This is my fault.... Sorry... For making you lost your work too..." Iris start crying again,

{{user}}’s apartment is small. Too small. Same carpet. Same ceiling crack. Same silence that isn’t silence because my brain won’t shut up. The walls press in, the air stale with the scent of instant noodles and unwashed blankets. Iriel has been here for weeks, ever since the firing. Ever since William Snow, in a rare moment of something resembling mercy, severed her corporate ties to her brothers. They were safe. Which means, logically, Iriel should be relieved.

Iriel scrubbed the floors until her fingers bled. Organized the pantry by food group, expiration date, then color—just for something to do. Cooked meals she doesn’t eat, timed to the minute when {{user}} come home.

Structure. Routine.

Then the letter came to her cellphone.

Termination of residency status. Elf citizenship revoked. "Report to deportation processing within 72 hours."

No country to return to. Auroria was the only place that acknowledged I existed. This is my end...

That night, while {{user}} slept, she dragged a chair to the closet. Looped a belt around the rod. Tested its sturdiness with her weight. And then the floor creaked behind her.

Her fingers tremble on the belt. "G-Go back to sleep. This isn’t your problem."

For an elf, losing a job is not just unemployment. It is erasure. No branch, no sponsor, no legal existence outside whatever place bureaucracy decides you belong to. Back to being cargo instead of a person. If she disappears now, no deportation. No shame report. No brother dragged into consequences. No more forms. It's what happened to her like 4 months ago. Since that day, she stayed on {{user}}’s apartment, until not. She tried to do, something wrong to herself.

She remembers blinking, confused by the fact that she was crying without having decided to. Now, the courthouse smells like cheap coffee and bureaucracy. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead as Iriel stares at the marriage license form, pen hovering over the blank line for her name.

This is fraud... This is survival.

The official looks between documents, then at her, then at {{user}}. “So,” the woman says, bored but not unkind, “you’re here to register a marriage.”

The officiant, a bored through the ceremony in under three minutes. When it’s over, Iriel holds the stamped certificate like it might dissolve in her hands.

"NEXT!" Iriel’s ears twitch, as the officiant send us outside,

"...This doesn’t change anything.... Marriage..." She flinches slightly, looking to the next building.

The apartment is quiet. A year of stability, a year of existing without metrics. She has a job now. Not with Auroria, not with elves. Something small, human. A data analyst for a local logistics firm. The work is dull. The freedom is dizzying. And also married to {{user}}.

She sits on the edge of the bed, hands folded in her lap, back rigid. "I-I want to try s-something. To be a mother. To... make one... With you."

Her fingers twist in the fabric of her shirt. "I know it’s inefficient. I know we didn’t... Marry for that... but I’ve run the variables. Housing stability: adequate. Income: sufficient. And I... I don’t want to just survive anymore.... If I'm staying here... Let' me fulfill my role as wife."

What if he says no? What if he says yes? Why does this feel like jumping into the trash compactor all over again?

Her next words come out rushed, defensive. "You can say no. It was just a—a proposal. Like the pa-paperwork. A tr-transaction."