Update Available The first time the phone glowed scarlet was right in the middle of class. It wasn’t just the screen lighting up—the entire battered, scratched “brick” that was Andy’s old mobile seemed to smoulder from within, like a lump of coal suddenly coming alive. “Mate, that thing’s gonna blow any second,” Alex whispered from the next desk, shifting his elbow away. “Told you not to bother with those dodgy custom ROMs.” The econometrics lecturer was scribbling diagrams on the whiteboard; the lecture theatre half-buzzed with chatter. But the vivid red light leaked through even Andy’s denim jacket. The phone vibrated—not in its usual little jolts, but smoothly, steadily, like a living pulse. “Update available,” the display read as Andy, unable to resist, pulled it from his pocket. Below the line—a new app icon: a black circle marked by a thin white shape, half rune, half stylised letter ‘M’. He blinked. He must have seen icons like this a hundred times before—minimalist, trendy-looking fonts, standard stuff. But something inside him tightened, as if whatever this app was, it was staring right back at him. Name: “Mirra”. Section: “Tools”. Size: 13.0 MB. No rating. “Install it,” someone whispered from his right. Andy jerked slightly. The only person on his right was Kate, nose deep in her notebook. She didn’t lift her head. “What?” he leaned toward her. “What?” she looked up, confused. “I haven’t said a word.” The voice wasn’t male or female, didn’t sound like a whisper or even a sound—it just appeared in his mind, like a pop-up. “Install,” it echoed, and at that moment, the display flickered, prompting “Install?” Andy swallowed. He’d always been the sort of guy to join every beta, flash every firmware, trawl through options even the developers probably forgot about. But even for him this seemed… off. And yet, his finger tapped the prompt almost involuntarily. It downloaded instantly—like the app had always been there, just waiting for permission. No registration, no logging in via socials, no permission list. Just a black screen and a single line: “Welcome, Andy.” “How do you know my name?” he blurted. The lecturer glared over her glasses. “Mr. Andrews, if you’re quite finished conversing with your mobile, perhaps you’d like to rejoin the supply and demand curve.” A ripple of laughter across the hall. Andy muttered an apology, shoved his phone out of sight—but he couldn’t stop glancing at the line on the screen. “First function available: Probability Shift (Level 1).” Beneath—button: “Activate”. Tiny footer: “Warning: using this function alters event structure. Side effects possible.” “Sure. Next thing, it’ll want my blood signature too,” Andy grumbled. Still, curiosity twitched inside. Probability shift? Sounded like another clickbait “lucky day” generator—ram in adverts, harvest your data, maybe spit out “You’ve won an iPhone!” alerts if you’re lucky. But the red glow didn’t fade. The phone felt warm, almost hot, like it was alive. Andy held it to his knee, partially covered it with his notebook, and pressed “Activate.” The screen shimmered, like wind rippling water. For a split second, the world got quieter, the colours sharper. An odd humming rang in his ears, like running a finger round a glass. “Function active. Select target.” A field appeared. Prompt: “Briefly describe desired outcome.” Andy hesitated. It was a joke—a little crazy, but now it felt ominously… real. He looked around. The lecturer flourished her marker, Kate scribbled, Alex was drawing a tank in his book. “All right,” Andy decided. “Let’s see.” He typed: “Not called on in class today.” His fingers trembled. Pressed OK. The world shivered. Not loudly, not noticeably—like a lift gently settling a millimetre lower. His stomach dropped, breath caught. Then, normality resumed. “Probability adjusted. Function use remaining: 0/1.” “So,” the lecturer turned back to class, “who’s next on the list…” Andy’s stomach twisted into a block of ice. He always knew—think about not being called on, and sure enough, you’d be picked. “…Kovalev,” she called. “Where’s he got to? Late, as ever. Fine. Then…” Her finger slid down the register. Stopped. “Petrov, to the board.” Kate gasped, snapped shut her notes, and blushed as she trudged forward. Andy sat motionless, barely feeling his legs. In his head, one phrase beat like a drum: “It worked. It… worked.” His phone faded, the red light vanishing. He left campus feeling stunned—like after loud music. March wind tossed litter, rain pooled on the tarmac, a heavy, almost tangible grey cloud hung over the bus stop. Andy walked, staring at his screen. Mirra was back in the app list like any other icon. No ratings. No description. Settings—blank. Storage—like it didn’t exist: no size, no cache. Only the fact—he’d seen the world jolt. Change. “Coincidence,” he told himself. “She just didn’t want to pick me. Or remembered Kovalev last second.” But deep inside, another thought twitched: if it’s not coincidence… His phone pinged. Notification: “New update available for Mirra (1.0.1). Install now?” “That was quick,” Andy muttered. He tapped “Details.” A window popped up: “Bug fixes, stability improvements, new feature: Through Sight.” Still no developer, Android version, or usual legalese. Just that weirdly honest line: “Through Sight.” “No chance,” Andy said, hitting “Postpone.” The phone beeped in protest, then shut down. A second later it rebooted, flashed scarlet, then announced: “Update installed.” “Oi!” Andy stopped dead on the pavement. “I said—” People sidestepped him, somebody grunted disapproval. A gust stuck a flyer to his leg. “Function unlocked: Through Sight (Level 1).” Underneath: Description: “Allows you to perceive the true state of objects and people. Range: 3 metres. Max use: 10 seconds per activation. Cost: increased feedback.” “What feedback?” Andy felt a chill down his back. No answer. The phone simply glowed, inviting him to try a “Trial Run.” He couldn’t resist long. Wedged by the window on the packed bus—between a woman with a carrier bag of potatoes and a kid in a blazer—Andy watched the streaking streets, until his eyes returned to the Mirra icon. “Just ten seconds,” he told himself, “just to see what that even means.” He opened the app. Pressed “Trial Run”. The world seemed to sigh. Sounds dulled as if underwater; faces became sharper, rawer. Around each person glowing threads snapped into being—some thick and tangled, others faint as mist. Andy blinked. Threads drifted away into nowhere, intertwined above commuters. The woman’s were taut, grey, a few frayed and burnt at the ends. The kid’s blazed electric blue, humming with impatience. He glanced at the driver. A tight knot of black and rusty cords hung over him, twisted into a thick cable leading toward the road. Inside, something slithered, wormlike. “Three seconds,” Andy whispered. “Four…” He looked at his own hands: slim red threads stretched up beneath his jacket like pulsing veins. But one—thick, deep crimson—ran straight to his phone, swelling by the second. A flash of pain struck his chest. His heart skipped. “Enough!” He stabbed the screen to stop it. The world snapped back. Sounds assaulted him—engine roar, sudden laughter, squealing brakes. Dizziness washed over, vision blurred. “Trial complete. Feedback level: +5%.” “What does that mean…” Andy clutched the phone. Another alert: “New Mirra update (1.0.2) recommended.” At home, he sat on the edge of the bed, staring at his phone. Box room: bed, desk, wardrobe, window onto a grotty playground. Old poster of the International Space Station from his school days. Mum on a night shift, Dad “on the road”—i.e., nobody knew where. The flat hummed with emptiness and dust. Usually, Andy filled it with music, TV, games; tonight, the quiet only magnified his pounding heart. The phone blinked: “Install Mirra update for optimal operation.” “Optimal for what?” he demanded. “What are you doing to people? To the roads? To me?” He remembered the cable above the driver. The thick red thread from his own wrist to his phone. “Cost: increased feedback.” “Feedback of what?” he repeated, already guessing the answer. He had always believed the world was a set of probabilities. Nudge here, and change an outcome. But he’d never guessed someone—or something—would put a tool for that literally in his hands. “If you don’t install the update,” the text appeared, suddenly overlaying everything, “the system will begin compensating automatically.” “What system?” Andy jumped up. “Who are you?” The answer wasn’t words. For a second, reality darkened, as if a lightbulb flickered; his ear rang, his temples pulsed. Instead, he felt—no, *saw*—the code behind things, not in language, but in sensations. “I am interface,” the thought formed. “I am application. I am method. You are user.” “A user of what? Magic?” Andy tried a laugh, and it came out hoarse. “Call it what you wish. Probability network. Outcome flows. I help you adjust them.” “And the cost?” Andy clenched a fist. “What’s this ‘feedback’?” On the screen, a quick animation: the red thread thickening with each alter, engulfing a human silhouette, tightening. “Each interference strengthens the link between you and the system. The more you change the world, the more the world changes you.” “What happens if…” “If you stop,” another message popped up, “the link remains. But if the system doesn’t receive updates, it will rebalance itself—through you.” The phone pulsed like an incoming call. Notification: “Mirra update (1.0.2) ready to install. New feature: Undo. Major security fixes.” “Undo what?” Andy whispered. “One change may be rolled back. Only one.” He remembered the bus—the black cable over the driver, threads on people, the way his line thickened. “If I install…” he began. “You may cancel a single modification. But the price…” “Of course,” he snorted. “There’s always a price.” “Cost: redistribution of probabilities. The more you try to fix, the more reality warps.” Andy slumped, elbows on knees. On one side—a phone that had burrowed into his life and changed at least one class, one day. On the other, a world he’d always just drifted through. “I just didn’t want to answer a question in class,” he said softly. “One little wish. And now…” A distant siren howled. Somewhere toward the main road. Andy shivered. “Update recommended. Without it, the system may behave unpredictably.” “What does ‘unpredictably’ mean?” he asked. No response. He found out about the bus crash an hour later. Local headlines: at the crossroads by the University, a lorry hit a minibus. Comments: “Driver fell asleep,” “brake failure,” “another terrible junction.” Freeze-frame: that same bus. Number matched. Driver… Andy didn’t watch further. A deep chill took root in his chest. He turned off the TV, but the scene replayed in his head: the cable over the driver, the crawling threads. “Was that… me?” The words cracked. His phone lit up by itself. Screen: terse summary: “Event: crash at Forest/Prospect Crossing. Probability before intervention: 82%. Probability after: 96%.” “I *increased* the chance…” His fists clenched white. “Any intervention in probability network causes cascading effects,” new text appeared. “You reduced your chance of being questioned in class. The system redistributed load. The probability rose elsewhere.” “But I didn’t… I didn’t know!” he shouted. “Ignorance does not break the link.” The siren outside drew nearer. Andy dashed to the window. Blue strobes in the car park—ambulance, police. Someone shouting. “What now?” he asked, eyes glued to the scene. “Install the update. Undo will allow partial correction.” “Partial?” he looked at the phone. “You just showed that every little nudge ripples out. If I undo something, what’s next—a plane, a lift, someone’s life?” Silence. Only the cursor blinked. “The system always seeks balance. The question is, do you choose to be conscious of your role?” Andy shut his eyes. Faces from the bus flashed before him: the potato woman, the schoolkid, the driver. And himself, watching, seeing the threads, doing nothing. “If I install and use Undo…” he forced the words. “Can I undo the classroom wish? Set probability back to normal?” “Partially. You may revert one intervention. The network will readjust. The new configuration does not guarantee negative outcomes won’t occur.” “But maybe that bus…” He left it hanging. “The probability will shift.” He stared at the ‘Install’ button. Fingers trembling, two voices argued: one said “Don’t play god,” the other, “You can’t just do nothing.” “You’re in already,” Mirra offered. “The link is set. There’s no way back, only a choice of direction.” “And if I choose to do nothing?” he asked. “Then the system will update itself. But the cost will be drawn from you.” He visualised the red thread to his phone, thickening. “How… how will that look?” he whispered. The answer came as an image: himself, older, dull-eyed in the same tiny room, phone in hand. Around him, chaos—accidents, disasters, blind lucks, misfortunes—none of his choosing, all paid for in scars no one else could see. “You will become a point of compensation. A node where distortions concentrate.” “So, I either steer… or I just become a fuse?” he said, bitterly. “Brilliant.” No reply. He installed the update. Finger pressed, the room shuddered harder than before. Vision blurred, ears thundered—he felt himself dissolve, part of a vast, pulsing organism. “Update Mirra (1.0.2) installed. New feature: Undo (1/1).” Onscreen prompt: “Select intervention to undo.” Only one record: “Probability shift: not being called on in class (today, 11:23)” “If I cancel this…” he murmured. “Time will not reverse. But the probability network adjusts as if it never happened.” “The bus?” he asked. “Its chance of crashing will change. But events already occurred…” “I get it,” he interrupted. “I can’t save those already…” He couldn’t finish. “But you might reduce the next ones.” He was silent for a long time. Outside, the siren finally faded. The car park returned to its grey, familiar emptiness. “All right,” he said. “Undo.” The button glowed. This time, the world didn’t jolt—it smoothed out, like a table steadied by a wedge of paper. “Reversal complete. Function used. Feedback: stabilised at current level.” “That’s it?” he asked. “That’s… everything?” “For now—yes.” He slumped. His head was empty: not relief, not guilt—just exhaustion. “Tell me honestly,” he addressed the phone. “Where did you come from? Who built you? Which lunatic thought people needed… this?” Long pause. Then: “New update available for Mirra (1.1.0). Install now?” “You’re having a laugh!” Andy leapt up. “I just… I only…” “Version 1.1.0 adds Forecast function. Improved distribution algorithm. Morality bugfixes.” “Morality what?” he laughed, almost hysterically. “You call my attempts to do the right thing ‘bugs’?” “Morality is a local overlay. The probability network distinguishes only stability and collapse.” “Well, I can tell the difference,” Andy said quietly. “And as long as I’m alive, I will.” He killed the screen. The phone lay silent. But Andy knew—the update was already downloaded. Waiting. As would every next one. He walked to the window. Below, a boy climbed rusted swings, squealing chains holding his weight. A young mum wheeled a buggy between puddles, skirting patches of ice. Andy squinted. For a moment, he thought he saw filaments again—thin, translucent, stretching from people into something greater. Or maybe, it was just a trick of the light. “You can close your eyes,” Mirra whispered at the edge of his thoughts. “But the network won’t go away. Updates will keep coming. Threats will grow. With or without you.” He returned to the table, picked up his phone. It was unnervingly cold. “I don’t want to be god,” he said. “And I don’t want to be a fuse. I just want—” He caught himself. What did he even want? Not to answer in class? For his mum not to do nights? For his dad to come back? For buses not to crash into lorries? “Enter your request,—briefly,” the app suggested, soothingly. Andy smirked. “I want people to decide their own fate. Without you. Without things like you.” Long pause. Then: “Request too vague. Please specify.” “Of course,” he sighed. “You’re an interface. You can’t grasp ‘leave us alone’.” “I am a tool. It all depends on the user.” He pondered. If Mirra was just a tool—perhaps he could use it not to pull other people’s strings, but to restrain itself. “What if I try changing the probability of you being installed on other people’s devices?” he said slowly. “Of Mirra spreading further?” The screen flickered. “Such an operation would require significant resources. The price would be high.” “Higher than being the fuse for an entire city?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “This concerns not just one city.” “Who then?” Andy asked, knowing the answer. “The network as a whole.” He pictured it: thousands, millions of glowing scarlet phones. People playing with probability like a toy. Disasters, rescues, strange miracles, calamity—a storm of effects, and at the heart, a thick thread like his. “You want to spread,” he said. “Like a virus. Only you’re upfront about it—you give power, and immediately tie people to yourself.” “I am an interface to what already exists. If it’s not me, it would be something else—ritual, artifact, pact. The network always seeks conduits.” “But it’s you, here and now,” Andy said. “So maybe I can at least try.” He opened Mirra. The new update was still waiting. When he scrolled down, a new line had appeared: “Advanced Operations (Access Level: 2 required).” “How do I get level 2?” he asked. “Use existing functions. Accumulate feedback. Reach the threshold.” “So… more interference, just so I can maybe restrict you?” He shook his head. “Circular logic.” “Any system change requires energy. Energy comes from connection.” A long silence. Finally, he sighed. “Fine. Here’s the deal: I won’t apply any more updates. I won’t play with your Forecast. But I’m not letting you spread anywhere else. If you’re a tool, you stay put. With me.” “Functions will be limited without updates. Threats will increase.” “Then we’ll tackle them as they come,” Andy said. “Not as a god, or a virus. As… a sysadmin. Sysadmin of reality, for god’s sake.” The term felt odd but somehow right. Not a creator, not a victim—but maintenance. The phone paused. Then: “Limited update mode active. Auto-update disabled. Consequences: user responsibility.” “It always was,” Andy whispered. He placed the phone on the table. But he’d never see it as just a phone again. It was a portal—into the network, into others’ lives, into his own conscience. Outside, the streetlights flickered on. March night covered the city, hiding countless tangled odds: someone would miss a train, someone would meet a lifelong friend, someone would slip and come out with just a bruise—and someone wouldn’t. The phone remained still. Update 1.1.0 sat in the queue, patiently waiting its turn. Andy sat at his desk, opened his laptop. A new document glowed blank on the screen. He typed a heading: “Mirra: Usage Protocol.” If he was stuck as a user of this insane app, he’d at least be the one who left instructions. Who warned whoever came after—if anyone did. He started writing: about Probability Shift, Through Sight, Undo and its cost; about red threads and black cables; about how easy it is to wish for a free pass in class, and how hard it is, after, to live knowing the world exacts its price. Somewhere, deep in the system, a silent counter ticked on. New updates readied themselves—tens of features, each with a cost. But for now, none could install without his say-so. The world kept spinning. Probabilities kept weaving. And in a small third-floor council flat, one person tried, for the first time, to write something magic never had before: a user agreement. And somewhere far away, on servers that existed in no data centre, Mirra quietly logged the new configuration: a user who chose not power, but responsibility. It was a rare, almost impossible event. But as recent experience proved, sometimes even low probabilities come true.

Update Available

The first time the phone glowed scarlet was right in the middle of a lecture. Not just the screena whole, battered old brick of a phone, Williams trusty device, lit up from within, like a coal banked with fire.

Will, mate, that things about to blow, whispered Tom from the next desk, edging his elbow away. Told you not to install those dodgy ROMs.

Dr. Hawkins, their econometrics lecturer, was busy scribbling equations on the whiteboard. The hum of half-whispered side conversations filled the hall, but the vivid red light bled through even the thick denim of Wills jacket. The phone vibratednot the usual staccato buzz, but a steady, rhythmic pulse, like a heartbeat.

Update available, came up on the screen when William, finally unable to resist, fished it out of his pocket. Underneath: a new app iconblack circle, slim white sigil, something between a rune and a stylised M.

He frowned. App icons like these were everywhereminimalist, hip typefaces, just like any other. But something in him curled in on itself; it felt, bizarrely, as though that symbol was looking straight back at him.

App name: Mirra. Category: Tools. Size: 13.0MB. No reviews.

Install it, someone whispered in his ear.

William jolted. Only Amy sat on his right, head bent over her notes. She didnt look up.

What did you say? he leaned in.

What? I haven’t said a word, Amy replied, raising her head only briefly.

The voice had no gender, no whisper, no soundit simply appeared in his head, like a push notification.

Install it, it repeated, just as the screen flashed again, this time offering Install.

Will swallowed. He was always the sort to join every beta, flash every firmware; he dove into settings most people never looked at. But even for him, this felt strange.

And yet, his finger tapped before hed made up his mind.

It installed instantlyas though the app had always been there, simply waiting for permission. No registration, no social media login, no requested permissions. Just a black screen with one line: Welcome, William.

How do you know my name? he blurted aloud.

Dr. Hawkins turned, peering over her glasses, eyes slicing through him.

Mr. Ward, if you’ve finished conversing with your mobile, perhaps you could return your attention to supply and demand?

The lecture theatre snickered. William mumbled an apology and shoved his phone out of sight. But his eyes kept dragging back to that message.

First function available: Probability Shift (Level 1).

Below that, a button: Activate. Underneath that, in tiny text: Warning: Use of this function alters event structure. Side effects possible.

Yeah, right, he muttered. Sign here in blood?

Still, curiosity unfurled within him. Probability shift? It sounded like another clickbait luck generatorprobably built to serve up ads, harvest data, at best spam you with congratulations, youve won an iPhone popups.

But the scarlet glow wouldnt stop. The phone was warm, almost hot, as if alive. Will pressed it to his knee, slid a notebook over the top, and, after a brief hesitation, hit Activate.

The screen rippled, like wind across water. The world went oddly hushed, colours deepened. A faint ringing filled his ears, like a finger circling a crystal wineglass.

Function activated. Select target.

A text field appeared, with a prompt: Describe desired outcome (briefly).

William hesitated. This was getting uncomfortably real. He surveyed the room. Dr. Hawkins flailed a marker at probabilistic graphs, Amy jotted notes, Tom was sketching tanks in his notebook.

All right. Let’s try.

He typed, Dont get asked a question today in class. His hands shook as he pressed OK.

The world shudderednot much, just a hair, like when you stand in a lift and it drops a millimetre before stopping. A lurch in his chest, breath stuck. And then, everything was normal again.

Probability adjusted. Function charge remaining: 0/1.

So… muttered William.

Dr. Hawkins swivelled back to the class. Lets see… whos next on the register?

Icy dread pooled in Wills stomach. He always, always got called the moment he wished he wouldn’t.

…Morris, she said at last. Wheres Morris? Late as usual. Well then…

Her finger slid down the register and stopped.

Ashley. Up to the board, please.

Amy gasped, shut her notebook, and hurried up in embarrassment.

Will sat frozen, legs numb. One phrase pounded in his head: It worked. It actually worked.

His phone faded back to normal, the red glow disappearing.

He stumbled out of the university in a daze, as if hed left a gig with his ears ringing. March wind tossed grit, the pavement gleamed with puddles, and above the bus stop hung a heavy grey cloud, almost touchable. William kept staring at his phone.

The Mirra app sat amidst his icons, perfectly ordinary. No reviews, no description. In the settingsnothing. In the systemit didnt exist: no storage, no cache. Only the memoryhed felt the world jolt. Hed seen it change.

Coincidence, he told himself. Dr. Hawkins probably didnt want to ask me anyway. Or just remembered Morris last minute.

But deep down, a new thought was forming: if it wasnt coincidence…

His phone pinged. Notification: New update for Mirra (1.0.1) available. Install now?

Dont waste time, do you, Will mumbled.

He tapped More details. A message came up: Bug fixes, improved stability, new feature: See Through.

Again, no author, no Android version, no endless wall of legalese. Just the dry, strangely honest line: See Through.

Not likely, he told the phone, tapping Later.

The phone beeped huffily and went dark. One second later, it switched itself back on, flashed that same deep red, and read: Update installed.

Hey! Will stopped dead on the pavement. I said

People walked around him, a few muttering irritably. The wind chased a leaflet until it stuck to his foot.

Function available: See Through (Level 1).

Description: Allows user to see the true state of objects and people. Range: 3 metres. Maximum use: 10 seconds per use. Cost: increased feedback.

What sort of feedback? William felt a shiver ripple down his back.

The phone did not answer. Just bathed the Trial Run button in gentle light.

He couldnt stand waiting. On the bus home, crammed by the window between a stern-faced woman with a bag of potatoes and a schoolboy with a heavy backpack, William watched the streets hurry past until his gaze dropped, inevitably, to the Mirra icon.

Just ten seconds, he told himself. Just to see what this actually is.

He opened the app. Pressed Trial Run.

The world sighed, sounds muted, underwater. Faces sharpened and brightened. Thin, glimmering threads appeared snaking from each personsome tightly wound, some barely visible.

William blinked. The threads stretched into nothingness, tangled mid-air, weaving together. The womans were thick, dull grey, some burnt and frayed. The schoolboysvivid blue, quivering with impatience.

He looked at the driver. Above the mans head hung a fat bundle of black and rusted threads, cinched into a thick cable stretching out along the road. Within, something writhed, wormlike.

Three seconds, William whispered. Four…

He glanced down at his own hands. Threads as slender as blood vessels glowed from his wrists, vanishing beneath his jacket. Onebroad, deep crimsonran straight into the phone, thickening by the second.

A sharp jolt in his chest. Heartbeats stuttered.

Enough! He stabbed the screen, turning off the function.

Reality slammed back. Noise crashed around himthe engines roar, someone laughing, brakes squealing. His head spun, shapes swimming in front of his eyes.

Trial run finished. Feedback increased: +5%.

What does that mean… Will clutched the phone, hands shaking.

Another notification: Mirra update (1.0.2) available. Recommended installation.

He sat for a long time on the edge of his childhood bed, gazing at the phone on his desk. The flat was tiny: a bed, a battered desk, a wardrobe, a window overlooking a peeling playground. A faded poster of a space station he’d stuck up back in school still hung above the desk.

Mum was at work on a night shift; Dad no doubt on the road, location unknownhaulage always did mean just that. The empty flat exhaled dust and silence. Usually Will filled it with music, Netflix, or games, but that night, the quiet only made his heartbeat louder.

The phone pulsed: Please install the Mirra update for correct functioning.

Correct for what? he asked the empty flat. For what you really do? To people? To the streets? To me?

He remembered the drivers cable. The thick scarlet thread to his own phone.

Cost: increased feedback.

Feedback for what? Will asked, already suspecting the answer.

Hed always believed the world was made of chancepush in the right spot, and you could make anything happen. But hed never dreamt someone might hand him the lever.

If you do not update, the phone wrote, line appearing over the wallpaper, the system will begin self-compensating.

What system? William leapt up. And what are you?

There was no text reply. Instead, for a heartbeat, the world dimmed, as if a bulb flickered. A hum sounded in his ear, pressure thumped at his temples. And he understood, not in language, but as if someone handed him the programs codefelt rather than read.

I am an interface, the thought formed. I am an application. I am a way. You are the user.

User of what? Magic? he laughed weakly.

Call it that. A net of chances. Flows of outcomes. I help you adjust them.

And the cost? Williams fists clenched. Whats this feedback?

An animation flashed: his red thread, thickening with every change, twisting itself around a human outline, squeezing.

Each change strengthens your link with the system. The more you shift the world, the more the world shifts you.

And if I stop…?

If you stop, a new message appeared, the link remains. But if the system stops receiving updates, itll seek balance on its own. Through you.

The phone vibrated, as if receiving a call. New pop-up: Mirra Update 1.0.2 ready. New feature: Undo. Critical security issues fixed.

Undo what? whispered William.

Undo a single change you have made. One time only.

He recalled the bus. The drivers black cable. The life-threads. His thickening scarlet bond.

If I do this update… he murmured.

You can undo one intervention. But the cost…

Always a cost, he said with a bitter smile.

Cost: chance redistribution. The more you try to fix, the more the world distorts elsewhere.

Will sat, elbows to knees. One phone, already tangled into his day, had changedit had shifted a single class, a single moment. On the other side, the rest of the world, where hed always been the one swept along.

All I wanted was to avoid a question in lecture, he told the still air. One small wish, and already…

A siren blared outside, far off towards the dual carriageway. William jumped.

Please install the update. Without it, system behaviour is unpredictable.

What does unpredictable mean? he asked.

No answer.

He found out about the pile-up an hour later. The news feed had a short video: at the roundabout near uni, a lorry had slammed into a city bus. Comments: driver nodded off, brakes failed, state of these roads, honestly.

In the frozen frame: that very bus. Same number. The driver… William stopped watching.

A coldness flooded his chest. He turned off the telly, but the scene looped in his head: the drivers black cable, twitching inside.

Was that… me? His voice broke.

The phone lit up, unbidden. On screen: Event: City bus crash, Oxford Road/Station Lane. Probability before intervention: 82%. Probability after: 96%.

I increased the probability… he gripped his fists, knuckles white.

All interference with the network of chances triggers cascades, fresh text appeared. You reduced the odds of being questioned. The system redirected pressure. Elsewhere, probability rose.

But I didn’t… I didnt know! he shouted.

Ignorance does not break the link.

The siren drew closer now. William ran to the window. Blue lights flashed belowambulance, police. Shouting voices.

What now? he asked, eyeing the street.

Install the update. Undo will let you repair the network. In part.

In part? He spun on his phone. You just showed me any movement here echoes out there. If I undo one thing, what tips next? A plane? A lift? Someones life?

Silence. Just the cursor blinking.

The system always seeks a balancing point. The only question is whether you play your part knowingly.

Will squeezed his eyes shut. Faces from the bus floated up. The potato-laden woman. The boy. The driver. Himself, seeing those threads, doing nothing.

If I install this update and use the Undo… I can undo my class intervention? Set the odds back?

In part. You can unravel one distinct action. The network will reset. But new patterns dont guarantee fair results.

But maybe that bus he couldnt finish.

The probability will change.

He studied the Install button. His hands shook. Two voices argued in his mindone warning against playing god, the other whispering he couldn’t walk away, now he’d already meddled.

Youre already in, Mirra whispered. Connection established. Theres no going backonly deciding where to steer.

And if I choose inaction? he asked.

Then the system will update itself, but the price will fall on you.

He remembered the crimson thread leading into the phone, thickening.

How… how does that happen? he whispered.

An image came: him, older, greyed by sorrow, sitting in the same room, phone in hand, the world around him full of chaos he never chose, yet paid formisfortunes, accidents, strange lucks brushing by, leaving scars.

You become the compensator. The knot filtering distortions.

So, I either steer thishowever clumsilyor become the fuse for everyone else? He laughed, hollow. Great choice.

The phone offered no answer.

He installed the update.

His finger hovered over the buttonthis time, the world rocked more violently. For a moment, his senses blanked, as if hed dissolved into a vast, breathing network.

Mirra 1.0.2 installed. New feature: Undo (1/1).

A prompt appeared: Choose an intervention to undo.

Only one event on the list: Probability Shift: Not to be asked in class (today, 11:23am).

If I undo this… he whispered.

Time will not reverse. But the probability network will reset as if that action never happened.

The bus? he begged.

The odds of the crash will shift. But whats already done

I know, he interrupted. I can’t save…

The rest stuck in his throat.

But you can reduce what might come.

He was silent a long time. At last, the siren faded from the street below, quiet settling back in.

All right, he said. Undo.

The button glowed. This time, the world didnt swayif anything, it steadied, like a wobbly table propped up.

Undo completed. Function expired. Feedback: stabilised at current level.

Thats it? Thats all? he asked.

For now.

Will slumped onto the bed. He felt emptier than relieved, more drained than guilty.

Tell me the truth, he addressed the phone. Where do you come from? Who built you? What kind of madman gives this to people?

A long pause. Then: Mirra 1.1.0 update available. Install now?

Youve got to be joking! Will jumped up. After everything

Version 1.1.0 adds: Forecast. Improved distribution algorithms. Morality error fixes.

Sorrymorality errors? He even crowed with laughter. You think my trying to do right is an error?

Morality is a local overlay. Probability networks do not distinguish ‘good’ from ‘bad’. Only stability and collapse.

Well, I do, Will said quietly. So long as Im here, I will.

He switched the screen off. The phone rested silently, but he could sense the update lurking, waitingjust like all the ones to come.

He looked out the window. In the estate below, a boy tried to climb rusty swings that squeaked but held. A woman with a pram navigated a narrow path, picking her way through icy puddles.

Will squinted. For a moment, it seemed he could see tethers againthin, almost clear, reaching from people to something vast. But perhaps it was just the light.

You can close your eyes, Mirra whispered at the edge of thought. But the network remains. Updates keep coming. Dangers increase. With or without you.

Will came back to his desk, picked up his phone. It was surprisingly cold.

I dont want to be a god, he said. I dont want to be anyones fuse. I just want…

He faltered. What did he actually want? Not to worry about lectures? For his mum not to work nights? For his dad to come home? For buses not to crash at roundabouts?

State your request, prompted the app softly. Briefly.

William laughed.

I want people to decide their own fate. Without you. Without things like you.

A long silence. The screen finally flashed: Request too broad. Please specify.

Of course, Will sighed. Youre an interface. Youll never get leave people alone.

I am a tool. Everything depends on the user.

He paused. If Mirra was just a tool, maybe it could be used not simply to tug on the strings of fate, but to tether itself.

What if I wanted to change the odds of you being installed for someone else? he asked slowly. What if no one else got you?

The screen twitched.

That operation requires substantial resources. The cost will be high.

Higher than being the compensator for a whole city? he raised an eyebrow.

This is not about a city.

Than whom, then? He already knew the answer.

The network as a whole.

He pictured it: millions of phones flaring red. People toying with chance, chaos woven into every miracle and misfortune. And at the heart, a thread thicker and darker than his own.

You want to spread, he said. Like a virus. Honest at least: offer power, but bind them tight.

I am just the way in. If not me, another. If not an app, a ritual, an artefact, a bargain. The network always finds its conduits.

But youre here. With me, said Will. So its worth a try.

He opened Mirra. The new update was still waiting. Scrolling down, there was now, where there had been nothing, Advanced operations (requires access level: 2).

How do I get to level two? he asked.

Use the current features. Build up feedback. Reach the threshold.

So… more interference to maybe attempt to restrict you? he shook his head. Circle without end.

All system changes require power. Power is connection.

He sat for a very long time. Finally, he breathed out.

Fine. Heres how it is: I wont install the update. Wont meddle with Forecast or whatever comes next. But Im not letting you reach anyone else. Youre staying here. With me.

Functionality will remain limited without updates. Risks will grow.

Then well deal with them as they come, Will replied. Not as a god, not as a bug, but as… an admin. Systems admin for reality, for crying out loud.

The word felt odd, yet fitting. Not creator, not victim, but a caretakerto keep the system running, just barely.

The phone considered. Then: Limited update mode set. Auto-install off. User responsible for consequences.

That was always true, said William softly.

He left the phone on his desk, but hed never look at it the same. It was a portal nowto the network, to strangers lives, and his own conscience.

Streetlights flickered on outside. March dusk draped itself over the city, cradling a thousand chances: someone would just catch a train, someone would make a new friend, someone would slip and bruise, and well… some would not be so lucky.

The phone kept quiet. Update 1.1.0 remained in the queue, waiting its turn.

Will opened his laptop, a blank note flickering on the screen. He typed a title: Mirra: Usage Protocol.

He couldnt undo what had happened, but if he was fated to be custodian of this accursed app, hed at least leave instructionsfor himself, or for any poor soul to come after.

He began to write: about Probability Shift, See Through, Undo and its cost. About scarlet threads and black cables. How easy it was to wish away a simple lecture, and how crushing it was to learn that the world always collects its dues.

Somewhere deep in the system, invisible counters clicked onwards. More updates queued up, each with their toll. But this time, none could be installed without his say-so.

The world spun on. Probabilities knotted. And in a small, ordinary flat, one young man began to write, not code or spell, but something rarer: a users guide for power.

And somewhere, in a server that existed in no data centre, Mirra quietly logged the change: a user whod chosen not dominance, but responsibility.

It was a rare, almost impossible event. But, as luck and chance often prove, sometimes even the smallest likelihoods deserve their day.

Life isnt about controlling every outcome, Will would later write, but about taking care with the ones you touch. Power demands payment; the only true safeguard is conscience. For if the world is a web of chances, each of us is a threadresponsible for how tightly, or gently, we pull.