The room smelled like citrus and glass.
Ember sat in a soft reclining chair—far softer than anything she’d ever used in the commune. The fabric adjusted to her posture with each shift, and above her, an ambient light moved like a simulated sun, casting her in perfect tones.
A styling robot moved around her in elegant, precise arcs. It didn’t speak much. When it did, the voice was gentle, female-coded, and eerily soothing.
“You have excellent facial structure,” it said as it hovered near her cheek. “Minimal restructuring required.”
“Please hold your head still,” the bot instructed. Ember obeyed, jaw tight. The scan beam passed over her cheekbones, then paused—lingering near her throat.
She swallowed hard.
They said they took care of it. That no one would ever notice.
But machines noticed everything.
She blinked, unsure how to respond.
She hadn’t spoken to anyone since they pulled her from the dorm. No guards. No questions. Just… this.
A private suite. Fresh clothes. Stylists. Nutrition smoothies.
It felt like winning something she didn’t enter.
Ember looked at herself in the mirror again.
Her hair was lighter—blonder, styled into waves. Her cheeks had a subtle shimmer. Even the lines of her uniform had been altered—sleek, accentuating, fashionable. She didn’t recognize herself, not completely.
“What is this?” she finally asked.
The robot paused.
“Preparation,” it said. “For your performance. You will be part of the New York presentation.”
“The Director has selected you personally.”
Her eyes widened. “Me? But I—”
She remembered backing Ash. Publicly. Just once. One short clip. She’d posted it and… then they locked her out. She never even saw the numbers.
“That moment was noted,” the robot said, as if reading her mind. “It was… compelling. But ultimately misguided.”
Ember’s mouth went dry.
“You’ve been given a chance to reframe your image,” the robot continued. “After your performance, you will deliver a statement. Clarifying your position on the subject of Ash Danner.”
“Clarifying?” she echoed.
“Denying affiliation. Disavowing his actions. Affirming loyalty to the Seven.”
The robot brushed a final strand of hair into place.
As it moved around her, Ember’s body stiffened. She hated this part—the scans, the calibrations, the quiet hum of machines that seemed to see through more than skin. She always feared the bot might notice… something. Something she kept hidden even from herself most days.
Her parents had said she’d be safe. That it would never show. That no one needed to know.
But the machines didn’t ask questions. They just saw.
“The Director is generous,” it said.
When the robot left her alone, Ember stared at her reflection.
She looked perfect.
Like someone who belonged on a screen.
Someone who was rising.
But under the polish, her hands trembled.
She whispered, almost involuntarily:
“Ash wouldn’t even know my name.”
Frank M. Anderson's Writing 
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