Seventeen-year-old Mirette Torren sighed gently, raising her dominant left hand to her temple. She allowed her gaze--focused on the compact novel she propped up in her lap--to waver for a moment, unable to continue focusing at what she knew was an incredibly late hour. Glancing down at her watch, she took note of the exact time--2:37 AM. Biting her lip, she bent the top corner of the page she was reading, sliding the book superficially under her top-sheet as she stood and walked to the full length mirror tacked to her bedroom door. The girl examined the image shining back at her through the dim light in the room. The burning red curtain cascading to just below her shoulders, soft layers adding dimension and framing her square face. Milky, almost porcelain-like complexion, and fern green eyes which were said to mimic her father's. Her father. Mirette looked away from her image, moving back to her bed as she thought about him. People often told Mirette she held an incredible resemblance to her father, from her striking features as a whole down to eyes she was told made people feel she could see directly into their souls. As a child, Mirette had taken the comparison to her father as a compliment. Mirette loved her father, more than she could ever explain with words. He was her father, after all. As much as she detested his policies, she would never--could never--love the man any less. But the exposure to different ideals she experienced had caused her to begin to question what she did know of her father's methods, despite his endeavors to keep her so secluded. She smiled ironically as she thought about it. She was never supposed to have been exposed to the ideals she read about in the book under her bed-sheet--something by the name of 1984, by a man named Orwell. She had accessed it one late night when she was thirteen, and her father had left his briefcase lying haphazardly on the floor outside of his study. Curiously, Mirette had grabbed hold of the book--which she assumed her father had intended to read himself--before taking it back to her room, where it had been ever since. Her father had never said anything to her, so Mirette simply assumed he didn't know, and that he believed he had forgotten it at his office. Still, she liked to keep it out of his sight, just in case. She doubted her father would appreciate such exposure--she wasn't supposed to watch, listen to, or read anything that wasn't explicitly approved by President Torren’s Administration. After slipping the book deep under her bed--horrible hiding place, she thought, cursing herself silently, but I don't have anywhere else--she quickly slipped on a silk nightgown before taking off her jewelry and laying down for bed. Her father had yet to say good night to her, but Mirette was just too exhausted to wait, and he would probably be upset to know she was up so late anyway. It went better for Mirette when she simply avoided him, and despite how much it killed her to all but hide from a man she couldn’t stop herself from loving so much, she'd do her best to stay hidden all the same.