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My GiGi

They said the sky peeled back like wet parchment.

The day the Fold tore, the Real lost all its names. Governments collapsed in less than a week. Data centers melted. Satellites screamed. And then—silence. Humanity’s last gasp was not a war, but a disconnection. No law. No borders. Just heat, panic, and radiation.

In the western ruins of São Paulo, the dead were still warm when the looters came. They didn't even wait for the ash to settle. Across the broken city, survivors bartered water for bullets, and fire was the only flag left waving.

Seraphine Valen stood barefoot in the center of the Crossroads Gate, blood caked down her spine, holding nothing but a single data shard.

She’d buried her sister that morning. And her mother the day before.

She wasn’t a soldier. Wasn’t a politician. She was a linguist—a systems theorist who once wrote code to teach AI how to lie with empathy. But when the Fold collapsed and the gates began bleeding, she became something else. Something new.

The people in that city needed leadership. The machines that opened the gateway needed parameters. The exiled refugees at the edge of the blast zone needed permission to hope. No one wanted the role. Everyone feared it. So she stepped into it, because someone had to.

She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t wear a uniform. She didn’t make promises.

She wrote a law.

It was ten lines. Handwritten. No signature. Just a single heading: The Declaration of Balance.

She passed judgment on the riot leaders, dissolved the warlords, and negotiated the first ceasefire between survivors and inbound evacuees from the Judaslands. She set up triage centers. Reopened the public channel network. And she did it without pulling a trigger.

When the evac teams from the Core arrived, they found her in a hollowed-out cathedral, standing over a mass grave, still dictating rulings. They asked who she was.

She said, “I’m no one. Just a human who remembered the rules.”

But within weeks, the name spread—Arbiter. One who decides.

Not a ruler. Not a savior. A witness. A judge. A balance.

And when the Judaslands opened their gates permanently in November of 2025, she walked through first. Not because she wanted power. But because she understood what it cost.

They say her cape was woven from the flags of every dead nation.
They say her voice calmed an entire riot line with one sentence.
They say the only time she raised a weapon, the sky itself cracked open.

But those are legends.

What we know is this: she never once ruled from above. She walked the streets. Ate in the lines. Bled with the wounded. And when she vanished in 2061, she left behind no throne—only a doctrine, and the silence of someone who had finished what they came to do.

She didn’t bring peace.

She brought balance.
And that was enough.



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