Mira Santos could see the bonds between people from the corner of her eye—shimmering threads connecting heart to heart. Most people couldn’t ignore them—constant reminders of relationships, feelings, attachments. They remained heartbound by connections they couldn’t even see, while Mira had trained herself to look past them, to focus on the physical world instead of the emotional web that overlaid it.
She stood at her apartment window, watching the morning crowds flow through the plaza below. From this height, the bonds formed a complex network of light—gold for love, blue for family, green for friendship, and countless variations between. Some bonds were thick as rope, others thin as spider silk. Some pulsed with energy while others barely glowed.
Mira’s own threads were few and faint: a pale blue line stretching toward her mother’s assisted living facility across town, a few thin green strands to professional contacts, and one unusual silver thread that she preferred not to think about. She liked it that way—clean, uncomplicated.
Her phone buzzed. The display showed a message from her assistant: New client today, 11 AM. Routine separation case.
Good. Routine meant simple. Mira had built her reputation on clean, efficient cuts—severing bonds with minimal emotional backlash. People sought her services when they needed to move on: from ex-partners, toxic friendships, manipulative family members. She focused on the mechanics of the process rather than the feelings behind it. That was why clients trusted her.
In the bathroom, Mira studied her reflection. Dark eyes, sharp features, hair pulled back in a tight bun. No softness. Nothing inviting attachment. Her work clothes—matte black, light-absorbing—suited her profession. Bonds responded to illumination and shadow, growing rigid in brightness and pliable in darkness.
She pinned her license to her lapel—a small silver instrument that marked her as a registered bond-cutter. The government had regulated the profession after too many amateur cutters had left psychological damage in their wake. Mira had been among the first certified professionals, her precision with the tools earning her a reputation that kept her calendar full.
On her way out, she packed her case: silver scissors with obsidian blades for clean separations, fine-tipped forceps for isolating individual threads, a specialized light that could reveal hidden connections, and mapping gel that temporarily made bonds tangible enough to manipulate. Each tool represented years of training and practice.
The hallway outside her apartment was busy with neighbors. Mira noticed how they instinctively stepped aside as she passed, creating distance between their bonds and her tools. She didn’t mind the wariness—it made her job easier when people understood what she did and respected the power her position held.
Downtown, her office occupied the fourteenth floor of a glass building. The elevator was crowded with morning commuters, each person connected to others by cords of light that only Mira could see. She focused on the numbers changing above the door rather than the shifting bonds that swayed and tangled as people moved.
Her assistant greeted her with a tablet displaying the day’s schedule. “Morning, Ms. Santos. First client is a standard breakup case. Second is consulting only—uncertain about cutting. Third canceled. And you’ve had a request for an emergency session this afternoon.”
Mira took the tablet, scanning the details. “What kind of emergency?”
“Stalking situation. The client has a restraint order, but the bond keeps strengthening despite no contact.”
She nodded. “Those are difficult. The legal system doesn’t understand that physical separation doesn’t always affect the emotional connection. Tell them I’ll see them at three.”
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