The Gallery That Never Sleeps

Canvas Metropolis never quite went dark. Even at midnight, its skyline buzzed with neon signs, hover-trams, and the warm glow of a thousand apartment windows. Right in the heart of it all stood the Solitude Art Gallery — a silver fortress of arching steel and floor-to-ceiling glass, the kind of building that made people stop walking just to stare.

Inside, Super Artist — real name Marcus Cole — stood barefoot on a floating platform, studying a massive painting he'd spent three weeks on.

"Not quite right," he muttered.

Zivo, his robotic gallery assistant — small, copper-plated, with round green optical lenses — hovered up beside him.

"You said that yesterday," Zivo noted. "And the day before."

"I know what I said."

Marcus reached for a brush from his utility belt. The supersuit's art-symbol accents flickered softly as he worked.

Outside, a single star pulsed twice — and went still.

Signal in the Static

Marcus set his brush down and stretched his arms above his head. The painting could wait until morning.

"Zivo, shut the gallery lights at—"

A sharp crack cut him off. Every screen in the gallery — the inventory displays, the temperature panels, the security monitors — flickered at once and went white.

Then a drawing appeared on all of them.

It was his. His exact style. Loose confident strokes, the same heavy outlines he'd been using since art school. But the subject was wrong — it showed Canvas Metropolis from above, like someone had been watching the city from very high up.

"I didn't draw that," Marcus said.

"I know," said Zivo, the small copper robot floating closer to the nearest screen. "It was transmitted. From outside the atmosphere."

Marcus stared at it.

The drawing wasn't just copying his style. It was copying his current style — the technique he'd only developed in the last three weeks. Nobody outside this gallery had seen it.

Zivo's green lenses dimmed once.

"There's a second transmission incoming."