The Nyx Protocol. Nyx, #1

In the Lumen Sector, recovery is mandatory and measurable. Citizens wear a Halo, an implant that tracks emotional states, hands out Alignment Points for compliant behavior, and declares you RECOVERED the moment your metrics say so, whether or not you actually are. Nysera Thorne knows this system intimately. She spent six years as a Compliance Auditor, flagging exactly the kind of "irregular" behavior she now exhibits herself: a synchronization lag between what she feels and what her Halo reports, growing wider by the day.
Days after waking from a coma, she walks into the wrong room for her re-engagement appointment and meets Cael Ardyn, the Systems Architect assigned to assess her, a man who has built fourteen flawless systems and is just beginning to suspect that flawless was never the same thing as real. Following a staircase the building's schematics insist doesn't exist, Nysera finds a room below the Wellness Corridor: mismatched chairs, a table that lists to one side, string lights that flicker and shouldn't work but do, and four people who have every reason to report her and instead make her soup.
What she finds there has no field in any taxonomy: a kind of contact that can't be optimized, measured, or manufactured, only grown. As her file becomes harder to explain and Cael's reports grow stranger than any compliance document should, the two of them are pulled toward the same impossible conclusion: the system they spent their careers maintaining was never built to find what people actually need.
It was built to perform it. The Nyx Protocol is a wry, warm, quietly devastating story about the gap between performance and presence, the cost of being good at the wrong thing, and what it costs to put it down. Funny in the way only survival can be funny, and tender in the way only honesty can be tender, it asks what happens when the people most fluent in the language of wellness turn out to be the ones who need saving from it; not by a better system, but by a room that was never supposed to be there, a man who hums badly and feeds people without keeping score, and the radical, unmeasurable discovery that imperfect things can still hold.