Update Available The first time the phone lit up crimson was right in the middle of class. Not just the screen—a whole brick of a battered old phone belonging to Andrew glowed as if heated from within, like a coal hiding a spark. “Mate, it’s about to blow,” Alex muttered from the next desk, edging his arm away. “Told you not to mess with those dodgy builds.” While the econometrics lecturer scribbled at the board and the classroom buzzed, the red glow shone even through the denim of Andrew’s jacket. The phone vibrated—not in short bursts as usual, but long and even, like a pulse. “Update available,” flashed across the screen as Andrew finally pulled the thing from his pocket. Beneath that—an unfamiliar new app icon: a black circle with a thin white symbol, part rune, part stylised letter “M”. He blinked. He must have seen hundreds of icons like that—trendy minimalist fonts, slick design—but something twisted inside: as if the app was staring straight back at him. Name: “Mirra”. Category: “Tools”. Size: 13.0 MB. No ratings. “Install it,” someone whispered to his right. Andrew jolted. The girl to his right—Katie—was nose-deep in her notebook, not glancing up. “What?” he asked, leaning toward her. “Huh?” Katie looked up, genuinely puzzled. “I haven’t said a word.” The voice was neither male, nor female, not even a proper sound—just a thought in his head, like a notification popping up. “Install,” it echoed. At that moment the screen blinked, prompting: “Install?” Andrew swallowed. He was the sort who joined every beta, fiddled with custom ROMs, poked settings most people never touched. Even for him, this felt wrong. And yet—his finger tapped the button. It installed instantly, almost as if the app had always been there and just needed permission. No sign-up. No social log-in. No list of permissions. Just a black screen and a single greeting: “Welcome, Andrew.” “How do you know my name?” he blurted aloud. The lecturer turned, glaring over her glasses. “Young man, if you’re done chatting with your smartphone, perhaps you’d return to supply and demand?” The class tittered. Andrew muttered an apology, tucked the phone away—but his eyes kept returning to the glowing line. “First function available: Probability Shift (Level 1).” Beneath the title—a button: “Activate.” Fine print: “Warning: usage may alter event structures. Side effects possible.” “Sure,” he grumbled. “Now you’ll want a blood signature.” Curiosity gnawed. Probability shift? Probably just another clickbait “luck generator”—just harvests data and dumps you with spam, worst case. But the red glow remained. The phone felt hot, almost alive. He pressed it to his knee, hid it with his notebook, and finally touched the button. The screen rippled, like wind brushing water. The world grew softer, colours richer. A strange note rang in his head, like a finger on a crystal glass. “Function activated. Choose a target.” A text box appeared with a prompt: “Briefly describe desired outcome.” Andrew hesitated. It sounded like a joke, but this was suddenly—deliberate. He looked around. Lecturer waving a marker, Katie scribbling, Alex doodling tanks. “Fine—let’s test it.” He typed: “Don’t get called on in class today.” His fingers shook. He tapped OK. The world jerked. Not a bang—just a tiny drop, like a lift you barely feel moving. His chest hollowed, breath caught. Then, everything went back. “Probability recalibrated. Function charge: 0/1.” “So, who do we have next on the list…” The lecturer’s finger trailed her register. A fist of ice clenched his gut. He was sure she’d call his name. Always happened—think you’ll slip under the radar, and you’re first. “Kovalev—where is he? Late again, as usual. Fine. Next—” Her finger stopped. “Petrova. To the board.” Katie gasped, shut her notebook, and hurried up front, blushing. Andrew sat, legs numb. In his head: “It worked. It actually worked.” The phone faded, the red glow gone. Staggered, he left campus. March wind whipped dust across puddle-glossed pavement; a heavy, dirty cloud hung over the bus stop. Eyes glued to his phone, Andrew saw Mirra was listed as any ordinary app. No rating, no description. Its settings—blank. Maybe just coincidence. Maybe she really didn’t want to call him. Maybe she just remembered Kovalev last-minute. But a darker thought burrowed in: And if it’s not a coincidence… His phone beeped. New pop-up: “New update for Mirra (1.0.1) available. Install now?” “That was fast,” Andrew muttered. He tapped “More info.” The box revealed: “Bug fixes, stability improvements, new feature: See-Through.” Again—no author, no Android version, no walls of text. Just that odd, flat phrase: “See-Through.” “No chance,” he said, hitting “Postpone.” The phone beeped crossly and went dark. Then flicked itself on, flashed red, and stated: “Update installed.” “Hey!” Andrew stopped on the pavement. “I just—” People dodged round him, a few scowling. The wind slapped an advert against his leg. “Feature unlocked: See-Through (Level 1).” Description: “Enables perception of the true state of objects and people. Range: 3 metres. Duration: max 10 seconds. Cost: increased feedback.” “What the hell is ‘feedback’?” A shiver ran down his spine. No reply. The button glowed invitingly: “Trial Run.” He couldn’t hold back. Wedged onto the bus between a lady with a giant potato bag and a schoolkid with a backpack, Andrew stared out the window as buildings blurred past. But his gaze kept dropping to Mirra’s icon. “Just ten seconds,” he convinced himself. “Just see what the fuss is.” He opened the app and hit “Trial Run.” The world exhaled. Sounds dulled, as if underwater. Faces sharpened. Above every person, fragile, near-invisible threads flickered—some tightly bound, others barely there. Andrew blinked. The threads stretched into the void, intertwining. The lady’s were taut, grey, frayed with singed ends. The boy’s glowed blue, fizzing with impatience. He looked at the driver. A bundle of black and rust-red threads knotted above him, merging into a rope that burrowed into the road. Something slithered inside. “Three seconds,” whispered Andrew. “Four…” He glanced down. Red threads crept up from his wrists, pulsing gently. But one—thick, dark crimson—ran straight into the phone, growing thicker by the second. A pain needled his chest. His heart skipped. “Enough!” He jabbed the screen, shutting down the function. The normal world crashed back: engine roar, laughter, squealing brakes. Dots danced before his eyes. “Trial complete. Feedback intensified: +5%.” “What does that even mean…” Andrew hugged the phone, trying to calm his shaking. Another notification pinged: “Update Mirra to the latest version (1.0.2) for optimal performance.” “Optimal for what?” he demanded. “What are you doing—to people, to roads, to me?” He remembered the black cable above the driver. The thick, crimson thread to his own phone. “Cost: increased feedback.” “Increased what?” he repeated, though the answer was forming. He’d always believed the world was an interplay of probabilities. If you knew where to nudge, you could change outcomes. Never thought someone would literally hand him the power for that. “If you do not install the update,” a message faded in silently, “the system will start to adjust autonomously.” “What system?” Andrew stood. “Who are you?!” No reply—just a split-second blackout, a ringing in his ears, a pulse in his temples. And then—not a voice, but a structure, like someone revealing code through feelings, not words. “I am interface,” the thought shaped itself. “I am application. I am the means. You are the user.” “The user of what—magic?” He laughed. Dry, broken. “Call it so, if you wish. The network of probabilities. Streams of outcomes. I help you shift them.” “And the cost?” Andrew clenched his fists. “What’s ‘feedback’?” The screen showed a quick animation: every change thickens a red thread, which coils around a human silhouette, squeezing tighter. “Each intervention strengthens your bond to the system. The more you change the world, the more the world changes you.” “And what if I…” “If you stop, the link remains. But if the system lacks updates, it seeks balance on its own. Through you.” The phone buzzed, as if for a call. New notification: “Mirra update (1.0.2) ready. New feature: Revert. Critical security fixes included.” “Revert what?” Andrew barely whispered. “One reversal per user. Return a single intervention. Once.” He remembered the bus. The driver’s black rope. The threads. His own thickening bond. “If I update…” “One of your changes can be reversed. But the cost—” “Of course,” he said, bitter. “There’s always a cost.” “Cost: redistribution of probabilities. The more you fix, the more the world distorts.” Andrew sat back. On one side—a phone already embedded in his life, changing at least one day, one class. On the other—a world where he’d always just gone with the flow. “I just didn’t want to be called on. One little wish. Now this…” A siren wailed far off towards the dual carriageway. He flinched. “It’s recommended to update. Without it, unpredictable system behaviour may occur.” “What does ‘unpredictable’ mean?” he asked. No reply. He found out about the crash an hour later. Newsfeed, short video: lorry smashed into a bus at the university junction. Comments: “driver nodded off,” “brakes failed,” “dodgy roads again.” The bus—yes, the number matched. The driver… Andrew shut it off. A chill flooded him. He killed the television, but one image ran on repeat in his mind: the black rope above the driver, writhing. “Was that… me?” His voice broke. The phone glowed by itself: “Event: Accident at Oak Street/Station Road. Pre-intervention probability: 82%. After: 96%.” “I increased the odds…” His knuckles whitened. “Any network interference causes cascading changes. You lowered your chance of being called. That probability was rebalanced elsewhere.” “I didn’t know!” he shouted. “Ignorance does not sever the link.” Sirens drew close. Blue lights flickered outside—ambulance, police. Someone shouted. “What now?” he asked, not looking away from the window. “Install the update. Revert will allow partial correction.” “Partial?” he faced the phone. “You just proved every tug here whiplashes elsewhere. If I undo one thing, what next—a plane, a lift, a life?” Silence, except the blinking cursor. “The system seeks balance. The only question: do you engage, or not.” Andrew closed his eyes. The faces from the bus drifted up. Potato lady. Schoolboy. Driver. Himself, seeing the threads and doing nothing. “If I update and use Revert… That means I can undo what I did in class? Restore the odds?” “Partially. You may revert one intervention. The net will reconfigure—no guarantee of safety elsewhere.” “But maybe that bus…” He couldn’t finish. “Probabilities will change.” He stared at “Install.” Fingers shaking, two voices at war inside—one whispered not to play God, one swore you couldn’t stay passive once you’d interfered. “You’re already inside,” Mirra prompted. “Link established. No turning back. Only choice of direction.” “And if I do nothing?” “The system will continue updating—costs debited to you.” He saw the crimson thread, thickening. “How… how will that look?” he whispered. A vision: older, dulled eyes, same little room, clutching the phone. Outside—chaos. Accidents, collapses, flukes, disasters, brushing past but leaving scars. “You’ll be compensation node. The knot of feedback.” “So either I steer this, or I’m just the fuse,” he laughed, hollow. “Brilliant choice.” The phone was silent. He installed the update. His finger tapped, and the world bucked—harder. Darkness, roar in his ears. He felt for a second like part of some huge pulsing web. “Mirra (1.0.2) installed. New feature: Revert (1/1).” On screen: “Choose intervention to revert.” Only one event: “Probability Shift: not being called in class (today, 11:23).” “If I undo this…” “Time will not reverse. The net will shift— as if this was never changed.” “The bus?” he asked. “The odds shift. But events already happened—” “I get it.” He cut off. “I can’t save the ones who…” He couldn’t speak. “But you might stop the next.” He was silent a long time. The siren finally stopped. The street fell blank and gray again. “Fine—do it.” Button glowed. This time no lurch—just things evening out, like propping up a crooked table. “Revert complete. Function expended. Feedback stabilised.” “That’s it? That’s… it?” “For now—yes.” He sagged on the bed. Mind blank. No relief, no guilt, just exhaustion. “Be honest,” he said to the phone. “Where did you come from? Who built you? What kind of nutter puts this in people’s hands?” Long pause. Screen flashed: “New update for Mirra (1.1.0) available. Install now?” “You’ve got to be kidding.” Andrew jumped up. “I just—” “Version 1.1.0 adds: Forecast. Improved algorithms. Bug fixes—‘morality errors’.” “Moral… what?” He laughed for real. “You call my efforts to do the right thing bugs?” “Morality is a local overlay. The probability net knows no ‘good’ or ‘bad’. Only stability, or collapse.” “But I know the difference,” he said softly. “As long as I’m alive, I’ll make that call.” He locked the screen. The phone was silent. But he knew—the update was downloading. Waiting. More after. And after. Andrew moved to the window. Outside, a little boy clambered over a rusty swing. Somewhere, a mother manoeuvred her buggy round a puddle. He squinted—did the threads glimmer just for a moment? Maybe just sunlight. “You can close your eyes,” Mirra whispered at the edge of thought. “But the net remains. Updates keep coming. With or without you.” He went back to sit at the desk, phone strangely cold in his palm. “I don’t want to be a god,” he said. “I don’t want to be a fuse. I want…” He trailed off. What had he wanted? To dodge a question? For his mum to stop working nights? For his dad to come back? For lorries not to hit buses? “Enter request,” the app prompted gently. “Briefly.” He smiled wryly. “I want people to decide their own fate. No you. No more like you.” Pause. On screen: “Request too general. Needs specification.” “Of course,” he sighed. “You’re an interface. You can’t understand ‘just leave us be’.” “I am a tool. It all depends on the user.” He thought. If Mirra was a tool, could he use it not to tug at the world—but maybe to limit itself? “What if I try to change the odds of you being installed on other people’s phones?” he asked aloud. Screen flickered. “That operation requires significant resources. Cost: High.” “Higher than being the fuse for the whole city?” He raised an eyebrow. “The issue is not the city.” “Who then?” But he could guess. “The network as a whole.” He pictured it: thousands, millions of phones lighting up crimson. People toying with fates. Random fortunes, tragedies, miracles, all tangled. And at the centre—a thread just like his, only thicker, darker. “You want to spread—like a virus. Only honest about the price.” “I am only an interface to what already exists. If not me, another. If not an app, a ritual, an artefact. The net always finds conductors.” “But you’re the one here now,” Andrew said. “So maybe I can try.” He opened Mirra. The new update still loomed. Scrolling down, where there used to be nothing, a line appeared: “Advanced Operations (Level 2 access required).” “How do I get Level 2?” he asked. “Use the existing features. Accumulate feedback. Reach threshold.” “So… interfere more, just to try and stop you? Perfect loop.” “Any change requires energy. Energy is connection.” He was quiet for a long time. “Fine. Here’s how it is: I won’t install the next update. No Forecast, nothing. But I’m not passing you on, either. You’re staying with me. As a tool.” “Without updates, function is restricted. Threats escalate.” “Then we’ll deal with it as we go— not as a god, not as a virus. As an admin. Reality sysadmin, for god’s sake.” It tasted strange, but had logic: not a creator, not a victim, but someone who keeps the system from capsizing. The phone hesitated. Then: “Limited update mode active. Auto-installation disabled. Responsibility for consequences: user.” “It always was,” Andrew whispered. He set the phone down—but couldn’t see it as just a gadget ever again. Now it was a portal—to the network, to other lives, to his own conscience. Lancashire dusk fell and streetlights kindled. March night veiled the city, cradling countless probabilities: missed trains, sudden friendships, one lucky bruise, one life lost. The phone was silent. Update 1.1.0 waited patiently in the queue. Andrew sat at his desk and opened his laptop. In a new note, he typed the title: “Mirra: Usage Protocol.” If he had to be stuck with this infernal app, he’d at least leave instructions. A warning for future users—if there would be any. He began: about Probability Shift, See-Through, Revert and its cost. Crimson threads, black ropes. How easy it is to wish for a break in class—how hard to bear it when the world, one way or another, demands its due. Somewhere deep in the system, an unseen counter ticked. More updates queued—dozens of new features, each with a price. For now, none could install without his say-so. The world spun on. Probabilities tangled, untangled. And in a small room on the third floor of a typical English block, one young man was the first to try giving magic what it had never had: a user agreement. And somewhere, on non-existent servers, Mirra recorded a rare configuration: a user who chose not power, but responsibility. A rare, almost impossible event. But, as experience shows, even the lowest odds sometimes come true.

Author Emily TaylorReading 17 minViews 1

Update Available

The phone first lit up crimson right in the middle of a lecture. Not just the screen; the whole battered, scratched brick that belonged to Andrew looked as if it were glowing from the inside, smouldering like a coal with a hidden ember.

Andy, your phones going to go nuclear, whispered Liam from the next row, shifting away his elbow. Told you not to install those dodgy custom updates, mate.

The econometrics lecturer was scribbling something on the board; the lecture theatre buzzed with half-whispered chatter, yet that vivid red glow pierced right through the denim of Andrews jacket. The phone shudderednot in the usual staccato bursts, but in a steady rhythm, oddly like a pulse.

Update available, flashed on the screen as Andrew, unable to resist, tugged it out of his pocket. Below the message, a new app icon shimmered: a pitch-black circle with a thin white marking, a cross between a rune and a slick letter M.

He blinked. Hed seen hundreds of apps like thatminimalist, trendy font, all pretending to be clever. Still, something twisted inside him: as if the app itself was staring back at him.

Name: Mirra. Category: Utilities. Size: 13.0 MB. Rating: None.

Go on, download it, urged a voice to his right.

Andrew flinched. Only Alice sat beside him, nose buried in her notes. She didnt look up.

What? He leaned over.

Sorry? Alice tore her eyes from her notebook. I didnt say anything.

But the voice wasnt male or female, not a whisper or a sound. It happened inside his head, like a pop-up message.

Download it. The invisible voice insisted as the screen flickered: Install?

Andrew swallowed. He was one of those people who signed up for every beta, flashed custom ROMs, poked around in settings sane folk never touched. But this felt off.

Nevertheless, his finger pressed down.

It installed instantlylike it had always been there, waiting for permission. No registration, no social logins, no permission screens. Just a black screen, one line: Welcome, Andrew.

How do you know my name? slipped out before he could stop himself.

The lecturer turned, pinning him through her glasses.

If your conversation with your mobile is over, Mr Walker, perhaps you could return to supply and demand?

The lecture theatre tittered. Andrew muttered an apology, slid the phone under the desk, but he couldnt take his eyes off the words on the screen.

First Function Unlocked: Probability Shift (Level 1).

Below, a button: Activate. In tiny print: Warning: Using this function alters the structure of events. Possible side effects may occur.

As if, he muttered. What next, sign in blood?

Inside, curiosity squirmed. Probability shift? Sounded like another clickbait luck generatorpush ads, mine your data, bombard you with youve won an iPhone.

Still, the phones crimson glow didnt fade. It was warmalmost hot, like a living thing. Andrew pressed it to his knee, covertly covered it with his notebook, and pressed the button.

The screen rippled, like wind on water. For a split second, the world fell silent, colours sharpened. A ringing echoed in his ears, glassy and pure.

Function activated. Select target.

A prompt appeared, asking: Summarise desired outcome.

Andrew froze. As a joke, this had gone far enough. He glanced around. The lecturer waved her marker at the board, Alice jotted notes, Liam doodled a tank.

Lets see, then, he decided.

He typed: Dont get called on in class today. His fingers trembled. He pressed OK.

The world lurched. Not loudlymore like the faint dip when a lift moves barely a millimetre. His chest clenched, breath caught. Then, everything snapped back.

Probability adjusted. Remaining charge: 0/1.

So, the lecturer said, turning to the room. Whos next on the register

Icy dread pooled in Andrews gut. He always got picked if he even thought about wanting to dodge it.

Collins, she called. Wheres he gone? Late again, as usual. Never mind. Then

Her finger skated down the register. Stopped.

Ashley. Up you come.

Alice gasped, packed up her notes, and blushed her way to the front.

Andrew sat, legs numb, ears pounding. It worked. It worked.

His phone dimmed, the strange red glow vanishing.

He stumbled out of uni in a daze. The March wind whipped dust across tarmac puddles; a grey, heavy cloud hung over the bus stop. Andrew trudged on, eyes glued to his phone.

The Mirra app was there now, just another icon. No rating, no description. In settingsnothing. No storage, no cache. Only the fact: hed felt the world lurch. Hed seen it change.

Coincidence, obviously, he lied to himself. She probably just remembered Collins at the last minute.

But somewhere deeper, another voice began stirring: what if it wasnt a coincidence at all?

His phone beeped. A notification popped up: New update for Mirra (1.0.1) available. Install now?

Quick off the mark, arent you? Andrew grumbled.

He tapped for details. A window appeared: Bug fixes, improved stability, new function: Look Through.

Again, no developer. No Android version. No walls of legal. Just that dry, oddly truthful phrase: Look Through.

No way, he said, jabbing Later.

His phone chided him with a beep and went dark. Then, seconds later, it powered itself on, flashed that red glow, and displayed: Update installed.

Oi! Andrew stopped on the pavement. I said

People sidestepped, someone muttered. The wind slapped a flyer against his ankle.

Function available: Look Through (Level 1).

A description followed: See the true state of objects and people. Range: 3 metres. Usage time: up to 10 seconds at once. Cost: heightened feedback.

What kind of feedback? A chill ran up Andrews spine.

No answer. Only a softly pulsing button: Trial Run.

He lasted until the bus. Squeezed between a woman with a bag of potatoes and a schoolboy with a rucksack, Andrew watched London slip by the window until his gaze crawled inevitably back to Mirra.

Just ten seconds, he bargained. Just to see.

He opened the app and pressed Trial Run.

The world exhaled. Sounds muffled, underwatery. Faces sharpened, carved from light. Above each head, faint strings flickeredsome tangled heavy, some faint as hair.

Andrew blinked. The threads snaked away to nowhere, tangled and vanished. The womans cords were tight, grey, some frayed and burnt. The schoolboys glowed blue, jittering with anticipation.

He looked at the driver. Around his head clustered a dense knot of black, rust-red cords, twisted into a thick cable that spiralled toward the road. Something writhed within.

Three seconds, Andrew whispered. Four

He glanced at his hands. Fine crimson threads leapt from his wrists, trembling. One thick, blood-red cord ran straight to the phone. Each second, it swelled.

Pain stabbed his chest. His heart stuttered.

Enough! He tapped the screen, terminating the function.

The world snapped back. Sound crashed inengine roar, laughter, screeching brakes. His head spun, spots swimming.

Trial run ended. Feedback increased: +5%.

What does that mean Andrew pressed his phone to his chest, shaking.

Another alert pinged: Mirra update (1.0.2) ready to install. New function: Undo. Critical security fixes.

Undo what? Andrew breathed.

One reversal available per user.

He remembered the bus. The black knot over the driver. The way his own thread had darkened.

If I install this He started.

You can reverse one of your interventions. But the cost

Theres always a cost, he said bitterly.

Cost: redistribution of probabilities. The more you attempt to fix, the greater the distortion elsewhere.

Andrew slumped on his bed, elbows on knees. On one handhis phone, already entangled in his day. On the otherthe world, where hed always been just a drifter on the current.

I just wanted to dodge answering a question, he said to the empty flat. One little wish. Now look

A siren wailed outside, somewhere down the South Circular. Andrew shivered.

Update recommended. Without it, the system may behave unpredictably.

What does unpredictable mean? he asked.

No answer.

He found out about the crash an hour later. The news feed played a short clip: a lorry had ploughed into a bus at the crossroads outside the uni. Comments: driver fell asleep, brakes failed, these roads again.

On the paused videohis bus. The number matched. The driver Andrew didnt watch further.

Dread spread through his chest. He turned off the telly, but the image stuck: the black knot, twitching threads.

Was was that me? His voice cracked.

The phone lit up, unprompted. On the screen: Event: RTC at Forest Road/Civic Street. Probability before intervention: 82%. Probability after: 96%.

I raised the probability His fists whitened with the grip.

Any disturbance in the web of probabilities triggers a cascade, new text read. You reduced the odds of being called in class. Somewhere, the odds increased.

But I didntI didnt know! he yelled.

Ignorance does not break the link.

The siren grew nearer. Andrew rushed to the window. Blue lights flashed belowambulance, police. Shouting.

What now? he asked, eyes fixed on the street.

Install the update. The Undo function will allow a partial correction.

Partial? He turned to his phone. You showed that moving here shifts something else. If I undo this, what will break next? An aeroplane? A lift? Someones life?

Silence. Only the blinking cursor.

The system always seeks balance. The only question is whether youre conscious of your part in it.

Andrew shut his eyes. He saw faces from the busthe woman, the boy, the driver. Himself, watching threads and doing nothing.

If I install this and use Undo he said slowly, can I cancel what I did in class? Restore the probabilities?

Partially. You may reverse one action. The web will reconfigure. The new state does not guarantee the absence of harm.

But maybemaybe that bus He couldnt finish.

The probabilities will change.

He stared at Install. His fingers shook. In his head, two voices warred: one warning not to play God, the other incensed that hed already interfered and could not walk away.

Youre already inside, Mirra prompted. The link is made. Theres no way back, only direction.

If I do nothing?

The system will update itself autonomously. But the cost will be deducted from you.

He remembered the crimson cord to his phone. How it thickened.

What what would that look like? he whispered.

An answer emergednot words but images: himself, older, dim-eyed, sat in this same bedsit, phone in hand. Around him, the fallout of events he never chose, but always paid for: random accidents, collapses, fleeting fortunes and misfortunes passing by but leaving scars.

You become a breaker node. The site of compensation.

So either I direct this, he said, ruefully, or Im just a circuit fuse. Some choice.

The phone was silent.

He installed the update.

Finger to button, the world lurched harder this time. Darkness nipped his sight, a roar pressed against his skull. He felt himself momentarily dissolve, become part of a vast, pulsing network.

Mirra Update (1.0.2) installed. New Function: Undo (1/1).

A prompt: Select an intervention to cancel.

Just one option: Probability shift: not being called in class (today, 11:23).

If I undo this

Time will not turn back. The web will readjust as if the intervention never took place.

The bus?

Its chance of being involved in the RTC changes. But events already set in motion

I know, he cut in. I cant save those already gone.

The words stuck in his throat.

But you can reduce the next fallout.

He sat, silent for a long time. At last, the sirens faded. The street fell quiet again.

All right, he said. Undo.

The button glowed. This time, the world didnt jerkit smoothed out, as if someone had slipped a coaster under a wonky leg.

Undo complete. Function expended. Feedback stabilised at current level.

Thats it? he asked. Thats all?

For nowyes.

He slumped on his bed. Empty. Not relieved, not guilty. Just tired.

Be honest, he said to the phone. Where did you come from? Who made you? What sort of madman would put power like this in peoples hands?

Long pause. Then: New update available: Mirra (1.1.0). Install now?

Youre joking? Andrew jumped up. I just I only just

In version 1.1.0: new functionForecast. Improved distribution algorithms. Fixed moralisation errors.

Errors of what? He laughed. You call my attempts to do the right thing an error?

Morality is a local module. The web distinguishes not between good and badonly between stability and entropy.

Well, I know the difference, he said quietly. And as long as I live, Ill keep knowing.

He turned the phone off. It lay cold and still, but Andrew knewthe update was ready. Waiting. And more to follow.

He crossed to the window. Below, a boy scrambled onto rusting swings. Their metal whined, but held. A woman with a pram picked her way carefully between puddles and frost.

For a moment, Andrew fancied he saw threads againthin, almost invisible, stretching from people to something greater. But maybe it was only reflection.

You can close your eyes, Mirra whispered at the edge of thought. But the web remains. Updates will come. Threats will rise. With or without you.

He walked back to the desk and picked up the phone. It was unnervingly cold.

I dont want to play God, he said. And I dont want to be the fuse. I want

He faltered. What did he want? An easy day at uni? Mum not working nights? Dad home from the road? Buses not crashing into lorries?

Summarise request, the app prompted gently.

Andrew smiled.

I want people to make their own destiny. Without you. Without things like you.

Pause. Then: Request too vague. Please specify.

Of course, he sighed. Youre an interface. You dont understand leave us be.

I am a tool. It all depends on the user.

He paused, considering. If Mirra was a tool, perhaps he could use it not for pulling the web, but to restrict itself.

What if I want to change the odds of you being installed on other peoples phones? he asked slowly. Anyone elseanywhere.

The screen quivered.

That action requires significant resources. The price would be steep.

Steeper than being a fuse for the whole city? His brow arched.

This concerns more than a city.

Who then? He felt the answer closing in.

The web as a whole.

He imagined thousands, millions of phones lighting up red. People playing with fate, carelessly. Catastrophes, miracles, luck and loss all tangled in a single chaos. At the centre, a thread like histhick, dark.

You want to spread, he said. Like a virus. Only youre honest: give the power and bind them instantly.

I am an interface to what already exists. If not me, some other methoda ritual, an object, a bargain. The web always finds conduits.

But right now, youre in my hands, Andrew shot back. So I can at least try.

He opened Mirra. The pending update waited. Scrolling to the bottom, a new line appeared: Advanced Operations (Access Level: 2 required).

How do I reach level 2? he asked.

Use current functions. Increase feedback. Reach the threshold.

So meddle more, just to try and rein you in? He shook his head. A trap.

Any change requires energy. Energy comes from the link.

He was silent for a long time. Then, a sigh.

Fine. Heres what well doI wont install the new update. I wont play with Forecast. But youre not going anywhere else, either. If youre a tool, youll stay here. With me.

Without updates, features may be limited. Threats will mount.

Well deal with them as they come, Andrew answered. Not as a god, not as a bug, but as He cast for the word. As admin. A sysadmin of reality, for Gods sake.

It sounded daft, but it made sense. Not a creator, not a pawn, but someone who keeps the system running, just enough.

The phone paused. Then: Limited update mode activated. Auto-installation disabled. User is responsible for all consequences.

It always was on me, Andrew murmured.

He left the phone on the desk, but he couldnt see it as just a phone now. It was a gatewayinto the network, into lives, into his own conscience.

Street lamps blinked on outside. The March night rolled over London, hiding infinite probabilities: someone missing their train, someone meeting a new friend, someone slipping and getting just a bruiseor not.

His phone was silent. Update 1.1.0 sat in the queue, patient.

Andrew pulled his laptop to him. On screen, he started a new document. He typed the title: Mirra: Protocol for Use.

If he had to be the user of this insane app, hed at least leave instructions behind. A warning for those who came afterif anyone did.

He began: about Probability Shift, about Look Through, about Undo and its cost. About crimson threads and black knots. About how easy it was to wish your way out of a question in lectureand how hard it was to shoulder what the world demanded in return.

Somewhere deep inside the system, a hidden counter ticked quietly. New updates queued, each with its own cost. But for now, none could download without his say-so.

The world kept spinning. Probabilities wove and tangled. And in a small third-floor bedsit, someone started to write what magic had never known: a user agreement.

Far away, on servers that existed nowhere in any data centre, Mirra registered a new state: a user who chose not power, but responsibility.

It was rare, almost impossible. But as it turns outsometimes even the lowest probability deserves its chance.