"I wish for one different life," I said, and the room answered. A sphere of light dropped from the ceiling like a second moon and landed on the coffee table with zero apology. "Wish logged," the sphere said. Its voice was small and exact. "Seeker: Emmie Butler. Initiating contract sequence." I shoved my mug aside. "What contract? Who are you?" "Designation: Wish System. You are eligible. Offer: Spirit Spring Chamber and assignments. Conditions will be displayed." "Conditions?" I stared at the light. My apartment smelled like cheap detergent and yesterday's takeout. The ceiling had a water stain shaped like an upside-down map of a country I couldn't afford to visit. "Three sentences." The sphere blinked. "Spirit Spring Chamber is a private pocket that heals and stores items you seed into it. Only items you own may enter. Missions are restoration tasks for anonymous believers; success grants rewards and further assignments." That was three sentences. No brochure, no lawyer with an umbrella. Just clean lines and a ping in the back of my skull that said this might actually be real. "What's the price?" I asked. "Price: variable. Non-disclosure until mission specifics. Accepted by taking first transfer." The sphere's light tightened. "Demo? Yes or no?" My fingers found the only thing of any sentimental value in the apartment—a cheap silver locket my mother left me. It was nicked from living in a drawer for too long. It had no photo inside. It had nothing