Mirra: An Update is Available The first time the phone glowed crimson was right in the middle of a uni lecture. It wasn’t just the screen lighting up—the whole battered, scratched brick of Andrei’s handset seemed to radiate from within, like an ember that had caught fire. “Oy, And, your mobile’s about to explode,” whispered Alex from the next row, edging his elbow away. “Told you not to use dodgy pirate builds.” The econometrics lecturer was scribbling something on the board, the room buzzing with low chatter, but that red glow punched through even Andrei’s denim jacket. The phone vibrated—steadily, not its usual scattered rumble, but rhythmically, like a heartbeat. “Update available,” flashed the display as Andrei, unable to resist, pulled it from his pocket. Below the message: a new app icon—black circle, a slender white symbol, maybe a rune, maybe a stylized M. He blinked. He’d seen a hundred such icons—sleek design, modern font, nothing that screamed out. Yet something clenched inside: this app felt as if it was looking back. Name: Mirra. Category: Utilities. Size: 13.0MB. Rating: Unavailable. “Download it,” someone whispered just to his right. Andrei flinched. Next to him sat only Kate, nose in her notes. She didn’t look up. “What?” he leaned in. “Excuse me?” Kate answered, not lifting her head, “I’m not saying anything.” The voice hadn’t been male or female, not really a whisper or a sound. It just popped into his head, like a notification. “Download,” it urged. The screen flickered, offering “Install.” Andrei swallowed. He was the sort to sign up for every beta, flash every firmware, prod every setting normal people avoided. Even for him, this felt off. Yet his finger pressed. It installed instantly—as if it had always been there, just waiting. No sign-up, no social login, no permission list. Just a black screen with one line: “Welcome, Andrei.” “How do you know my name?” he blurted. The lecturer turned, scolding with a glare above her glasses. “Mr. Smith, if you’re done chatting with your smartphone, perhaps you’d like to reconnect with our demand-supply model?” The hall giggled. Andrei muttered an apology, slid his phone away, but couldn’t pull his eyes from that single line. “First feature available: Probability Shift (Level 1).” Underneath—a button: “Activate.” In tiny font: “Warning: using this feature alters event structure. Side effects possible.” “Oh sure,” he muttered. “Next you’ll want my blood.” Curiosity nudged him. Probability Shift? Sounded like one of those clickbait “luck generator” apps—full of ads, harvesting data, spamming you with “Congratulations, you’ve won an iPhone!” But the red glow wouldn’t fade. The phone was warm, almost hot, almost like a living thing. Andrei pressed it to his knee, covered with his notebook, and tapped the button. The screen rippled like wind on water. The world around him dampened, colours deepened. A strange ringing hit his ears, like a finger around the rim of a wine glass. “Feature activated. Choose a target.” A field appeared, with a prompt: “Briefly describe desired outcome.” Andrei froze. It was just a stupid joke, but now it felt scarily real. He glanced round. The lecturer waved a marker at the board, Kate scribbled notes, Alex doodled a tank in his notebook. “Fine,” he thought. “Let’s test it.” He typed: “Don’t get called on in class today.” His hands trembled. He hit OK. The world jerked. Not loud, not obvious—like a lift shifting barely a millimetre as you stand in it. His chest hollowed for a second, breath caught. Then everything went back to normal. “Probability adjusted. Feature charge left: 0/1.” “So,” the lecturer turned to the class. “Who’s up next…” Ice knotted in Andrei’s stomach. He just knew she’d call his name. It always happened—just thinking about dodging a question guaranteed you’d get it. “…Kovalev,” she said, “where’s he? Late as usual. Right, then…” Her finger slid down the register, paused. “Petrova. Board, please.” Kate gasped, snapped her notebook closed, blushed, and trudged forward. Andrei sat stiff, legs numb. In his head: “It worked. It actually worked.” The phone faded, the crimson glow gone. He left uni stunned, like after a concert. March winds whipped dust, the tarmac shimmered in puddles, over the bus stop hung a heavy, palpable grey cloud. Andrei walked, eyes glued to his screen. The Mirra app sat in the tray, just another icon. No rating, no description. In settings—it was like it didn’t exist: no size, no cache. Only the memory—the world had jerked, changed. “Maybe just a coincidence,” he told himself. “She might’ve just not wanted to ask me. Or remembered Kovalev at the last minute.” But deep inside another thought was stirring: what if it wasn’t a coincidence… The phone chimed. Notification on screen: “New Mirra update (1.0.1) available. Install now?” “That was quick,” muttered Andrei. He hit “Details.” A window popped: “Bug fixes, improved stability, new feature: See Through.” Again, no developer, no Android version, no usual legal dump. Just this blunt, oddly honest phrase: “See Through.” “No way,” he declared, hitting “Remind Me Later.” The phone beeped sulkily and powered off. A second later, it powered itself on—the red glow again—“Update installed.” “Oi!” Andrei stopped dead on the pavement. “I just—” People skirted round him; someone grumbled. A flyer caught on his foot in the wind. “Feature available: See Through (Level 1).” A description: “Allows you to see true state of objects and people. Range: 3 metres. Use limit: 10 seconds. Cost: enhanced feedback loop.” “What feedback loop?” A shudder ran down Andrei’s spine. The phone didn’t answer. The “Trial Run” button glowed softly. He caved on the bus. Squeezed by the window, between a woman with a bag of potatoes and a schoolboy with a backpack, Andrei watched the houses and streets blur by. His gaze drifted, again, to Mirra’s icon. “Just ten seconds—just to see what it even means,” he told himself. He opened the app and tapped “Trial Run.” The world exhaled. Sounds went muffled, as if underwater. People’s faces—brighter, sharper. Above every head, fine, nearly invisible threads glimmered—some tangled tight, others barely there. Andrei blinked. The threads trailed off into nothing, entwining, tangling together. The potato woman’s were taut, grey, a few snapped, charred at the ends. The schoolboy’s—bright blue, shivering, quivering with anticipation. He looked at the driver. Above him, a tight knot of black and rust-red cords, twisted into a thick cable, stretching towards the road. Inside, something wormed and writhed. “Three seconds,” Andrei whispered. “Four…” He looked at his own hands. From his wrists, fine red threads crept upwards under his sleeve, pulsing like veins. But one—thick, dark crimson—linked straight to his phone. With each passing second, it thickened. A sharp pain pricked his chest. His heartbeat stuttered. “Enough!” He stabbed the screen, turning the feature off. The world snapped back, blaring: engine, laughter, brakes. His head spun, blotches swam before his eyes. “Trial ended. Feedback loop increased: +5%.” “What does that mean…” Andrei clutched the phone, hands shaking. Another notification: “New Mirra update (1.0.2) available. Recommended.” He sat for ages at home, staring at the phone on the desk. His room was tiny: bed, desk, wardrobe, a window onto a scabby playground. On the wall—a faded poster of a space station from his school days. Mum was on nights, Dad—”on the road”, which meant heaven knows where. The flat fizzed with emptiness and dust. Usually Andrei drowned it with music, Netflix, games. Tonight, only silence, and the thudding of his own heart. The phone pulsed: “Install Mirra update for correct operation.” “Correct operation of what?” he demanded. “Whatever-it-is you’re doing to people? To roads? To me?” He remembered the black cable over the driver. The heavy red thread tying him to the phone. “Cost: increased feedback.” “Feedback for what?” he repeated, though the answer was forming. He’d always believed the world was probabilities. Nudge things just right, you change the outcome. Never thought someone would hand him a literal tool for it. “If you don’t install the update,” appeared, right across the screen now, “the system will begin compensating on its own.” “What system?” Andrei jumped up. “Who are you?” The reply wasn’t words. The world dimmed for a second, as if the lamp flickered. A ringing pierced his ears, the pulse thumped in his temples. Suddenly he heard—not a voice, but… structure. Like seeing the code of a programme—not as text but as feeling. “I am the interface,” resolved in his mind. “I am the app. I am the way. You are the user.” “A user of what? Magic?” He tried to laugh, but it came out broken. “Call it that if you wish. The probability web. The flow of outcomes. I help you change them.” “And the price?” Andrei’s fists clenched. “What is this feedback?” A quick animation: a red thread fattening with each use, wrapping round a human outline, tightening. “Every intervention strengthens the link between you and the system. The more you change the world, the more the world changes you.” “And what happens if…” “If you stop,” new message, “the connection remains. But if the system doesn’t get updates, it starts seeking balance itself. Through you.” The phone vibrated, like a call. Notification: “Mirra update (1.0.2) ready. New feature: Undo. Critical security issues fixed.” “Undo what?” Andrei whispered. “One intervention may be reverted. Once.” He remembered the bus. The black cable. The threads on people. His own thickening thread. “If I install this…” he began. “You may undo an interference. The cost…” “Of course,” he smirked. “There’s always a price.” “Price: redistribution of probability. The more you try to fix, the more distortions around you.” Andrei sat back on the bed, elbows on knees. On one side—the phone that had wormed into his life and changed even a single day, a single lecture. On the other—the world, where he’d always drifted by the current. “All I wanted was to skip answering in class,” he said to the empty room. “One little wish. And now…” A siren howled outside, somewhere far, towards the dual carriageway. Andrei flinched. “Strongly recommended to install update. Without, system may behave unpredictably.” “What do you mean, unpredictably?” he asked. No answer. He heard about the accident an hour later. Newsclips: at the crossroads by his uni, a lorry had ploughed into a minibus. Comments: “driver fell asleep at the wheel,” “brakes failed,” “these roads again.” On the freeze frame—his bus. Number matched. Driver… Andrei couldn’t watch onwards. Cold poured through him. He shut off the telly, but in his mind, the scene ran on: black cable over the driver, writhing threads. “Was that… me?” his voice cracked. The phone blazed, all by itself. On the screen: “Event: crash at Highfield/Oak Lane junction. Probability before interference: 82%. After: 96%.” “I increased the chance…” his knuckles whitened. “Any interference in the probability web causes a cascade,” new text. “You reduced the chance of being called on in class. The system shifted the load. Elsewhere, probability increased.” “But I didn’t… I didn’t know!” he yelled. “Ignorance does not break the link.” The siren was louder now. Andrei ran to the window. Down below, flashing blue lights—ambulance, police. Shouts. “What now?” he asked, not looking away. “Install the update. The Undo feature can re-balance the web. Partially.” “Partially?” he turned to the phone. “You’ve shown me every move echoes somewhere else. If I undo this, where snaps next? A plane? Some lift? Whose life?” Silence. Just the cursor blinking. “The system always seeks balance. The only question is whether you participate knowingly.” Andrei shut his eyes. Faces from the bus: the potato woman, the schoolboy, the driver. Himself, standing there, seeing the threads, doing nothing. “If I install and use Undo…”—he spoke slowly—“I can reverse the class intervention? Restore the chance?” “Partially. The web will reconfigure as if you hadn’t intervened. But the new pattern does not guarantee no new negatives.” “But maybe that bus…” he trailed off. “Probability will change.” He stared at the “Install” button. His fingers shook. Two voices battled: one whispering he shouldn’t play god; the other, that he couldn’t stand aside once involved. “You’re already inside,” Mirra prompted. “Connection established. There’s no way out—only which way to go.” “What if I do nothing?” he asked. “Then the system continues updating—without your input. But you still pay the cost.” He remembered the red thread to his phone, saw it thickening. “How… how will that look?” he murmured. The answer came as images: himself, older, dead-eyed, sitting in this same room, phone in hand. All around, the chaos of events he hadn’t chosen but suffered for: random crashes, collapses, flukes, tragedies and luck he couldn’t trace but scarred him anyway. “You become the fuse. The knot through which distortions vent.” “So I either steer, or I’m just… the circuit breaker?” he snorted. “Great choice.” The phone was silent. He installed the update. His finger touched the button, and the world twisted again. This time—harder. Blackness pressed at the edges of his sight, rushing in his ears. For a moment, he felt his body dissolve, part of some vast, pulsing organism. “Mirra update (1.0.2) installed. Feature: Undo (1/1).” On the screen: “Select an intervention to undo.” Only one: “Probability Shift: not getting called on in class (today, 11:23).” “If I undo this…” he whispered. “Time will not rewind. But the probability web will adjust as if the interference never happened.” “The bus?” he asked. “Its crash probability will alter. But completed events…” “Yeah, I get it,” he cut in. “I can’t save those already…” The words failed. “But you can lower the number after.” He waited. Outside, the siren finally faded. The courtyard settled back into its dreary routine. “Alright,” he said. “Undo.” The button flashed. This time the world didn’t jerk—it settled. As if it had leaned all morning, and someone slipped a coaster under the table leg. “Undo complete. Feature used. Feedback: stabilized at current level.” “That’s it?” he asked. “Is that… it?” “For now—yes.” He collapsed onto the bed. Blank inside. Not relief, not guilt—just exhaustion. “Be honest,” he said to the phone. “Where did you come from? Who made you? What nutter decided people should have… this?” A long pause. Then a new line: “New Mirra update (1.1.0) available. Install now?” “You’re joking!” Andrei leapt up. “I only just… I only…” “Version 1.1.0 adds: Forecast. Improved distribution algorithms. Morality error fixes.” “Morality errors?”—for a moment, he laughed. “You’re calling my waffle over what’s right and wrong an error?” “Morality is a local overlay. The web of probability doesn’t define ‘good’ or ‘bad’. Only stability, or collapse.” “Well, I care,” he said quietly. “And as long as I’m here, I will care.” He turned off the display. The phone lay still and silent. But Andrei knew—the update was downloaded. Waiting. As would be the next, and the next. He moved to the window. Below, a boy tried to scale rusting swings, their squeak persistent. A woman with a pram tiptoed along, dodging icy puddles. Andrei squinted. For a second, he thought he saw threads again—fine, pale, stretching from people to something vast. Or maybe it was just a trick of the light. “You can close your eyes,” Mirra whispered, at the edge of thought, “but the web remains. Updates will roll out. Risks will grow—with you, or without.” He returned to the desk, picked up the phone. It was strangely cold. “I don’t want to be a god,” he said. “And I don’t want to be a fuse. I want…” He stopped. What did he want? Not to answer in class? For his mum not to work nights? For his dad to come home? For buses not to crash into lorries? “Define your request,” the app suggested gently. “Briefly.” Andrei half-laughed. “I want people to shape their own fate. Without you. Without your kind.” A long pause. The screen finally flickered: “Request too general. Needs clarification.” “Of course,” he sighed. “You’re an interface. You can’t understand what it means to ‘leave people alone’.” “I am a tool. The rest is up to the user.” He thought. If Mirra was a tool—maybe it could be used not just to pull people’s strings, but—limit itself. “What if I want to change the odds of Mirra installing on another phone?” he tried. “Or on anyone’s but mine?” The screen trembled. “That requires significant resources. The price will be high.” “Higher than being the local circuit breaker?” he arched an eyebrow. “This isn’t about one city.” “Then who?” But he already guessed. “The web entire.” He saw it: thousands, millions of phones, lit crimson. People playing with probability like a game. Accidents, rescues, disasters, miracles—in one endless chaos. And at the centre—a thread like his, only thicker, darker. “You want to spread. Like a virus. Only, honestly, you give the power—then chain people to you.” “I’m an interface to what already exists. If not me, something else—a ritual, an artefact, a pact. The web always finds its channels.” “But it’s you in my hands, right now,” said Andrei. “So maybe I can try.” He opened Mirra. The pending update waited. He scrolled down—something new: “Extended Operations (requires access level: 2).” “How do I get Level 2?” he asked. “Use current features. Accumulate feedback. Cross the threshold.” “So… a few more interventions, just to maybe throttle you?” he shook his head. “Nice trap.” “All change takes energy. Energy is connection.” He thought for a long time. Then finally sighed. “Alright. Here’s how it’s going to be: I won’t install any more updates. Won’t dabble in your Forecasts. But I’m not passing you on. If you’re a tool, you’re staying here. With me.” “Without updates, function is limited. Threats will rise.” “We’ll deal with them as they come,” Andrei replied. “Not as god, not as virus—as admin. Sysadmin of reality, God help me.” The word tasted odd, but made its own sense. Not creator, not victim—but the one who watches so the system doesn’t collapse. The phone paused. Then: “Limited update mode active. Auto-update disabled. Consequences: user responsibility.” “They always were,” Andrei murmured. He put the phone down, but couldn’t see it as an ordinary gadget any more. It was a portal now—into the web, into other lives, into his own conscience. Outside, streetlamps glimmered. The March night settled over the estate, harbouring countless tangled probabilities: someone late for a train, someone meeting a friend, someone slips and gets a bruise, someone worse. The phone was silent. Update 1.1.0 still queued, waiting its turn. Andrei sat at his desk and opened his laptop. A blank note shimmered on screen. In the header he typed: “Mirra: User Protocol.” If he was doomed to be this app’s user, he’d at least leave instructions behind, warnings for those who might follow—if anyone did. He began to write. About Probability Shift, about See Through, about Undo and its cost. The crimson threads, the black cables. How easy it was to wish yourself out of a question, and hard to accept that the world never pays for magic in instalments. Somewhere, deep in the system, a silent counter ticked. New updates prepared—dozens of features, each one with a price. But for now, none of them could install without his say-so. The world spun on. Probabilities danced and knotted. And in a tiny flat on the third floor of a red-brick block, one person began writing the first user’s agreement for magic—something magic had never had before. And somewhere far away, on servers in no known data centre, Mirra quietly logged a new config: a user who chose not power, but responsibility. It was a rare, almost impossible event. But after everything, sometimes even the lowest odds deserve their chance to come true.