"Not all prisons are built with walls. Some use comfort. Some use silence."
—
Neo-Tokyo Arcology-5 pulsed with routine. On most days, the Civic Academy's spires blended into the cloud-piercing infrastructure of The Bloom. But today, the campus shimmered with a strange sharpness. Not from changes—but from attention. Someone was watching.
Arin Vale stepped through the double-glass gates of the Academy. The scanners clicked and flashed silently, scanning the students one by one. He had come early, not out of obedience—but to think.
His thoughts lingered on yesterday. The collapsed student. The number drop. The cube. The message.
"You're not broken. You're awakening."
He shook his head. What does awakening even mean? he thought. The cube was now tucked inside a secret compartment in his bag.
Inside, the Academy's morning air was sterilized, faintly citrus and ionized. It hummed with drone activity—security bots checking wall joints, assistants rolling behind teachers, and emotion regulators flickering faint blue at hallway corners.
In the distance, a class bell chimed.
> "May your trajectory remain undisturbed."
The school halls looked like any other: white walls with electric tinting, holographic info boards listing civic values, and row upon row of mind training chambers. These weren't classes in the traditional sense. These were modules—pre-loaded mental routines played in headsets, with student scores tracked in real-time.
Calo and Liora caught up to Arin near the atrium. Calo wore a cleaner-than-clean uniform and a frown that seemed permanent.
"Ready for tomorrow's aptitude test?" Calo asked.
Arin forced a nod. "Yeah."
Liora fell into step beside them. "They've made the questions even easier this year. My little cousin got a 92 just from answering with quotes from holos."
"That's not easy. That's programmed," Arin muttered.
They rounded a corner to a prep room. Light buzzed overhead as more students entered. Inside the room, walls pulsed with test simulations—calculations, obedience puzzles, empathy equations. Arin stared at them blankly.
Why measure aptitude when conformity is the only success?
He sat at his desk. On the surface, it looked like a school. But the structure resembled a behavioral lab more than a place of learning. The ceiling was embedded with surveillance nodes—each student monitored not just for answers, but reactions, posture, micro-expressions.
As they began the practice test, a sharp electronic tone broke through the hum.
> "Sector observation confirmed. Agent Virel, status?"
A quiet voice replied, filtered through a private audio frequency in an unseen surveillance chamber above:
"Subject 71 has resumed typical patterns. No active variance. But trace cognitive flares remain. Especially near historical keywords."
Another voice—cooler, more deliberate—chimed in. "That's still an anomaly, Maren."
Agent Maren's voice responded: "His variance doesn't match the rebellion profiles. He's conflicted, not convinced. Keep him in containment zone."
Virel hesitated. "And the cube?"
"Locked. No activity since. He doesn't know what it means yet. Let him believe it's a coincidence."
Maren leaned forward, observing the monitor. "He's walking the edge. But not jumping. Sometimes... the system gives the nudge."
—
Back in the classroom, Arin's stylus hovered over a question.
> "What defines a worthy citizen?"
He didn't answer.
He looked around.
Everyone was focused. Calm. Predictable.
He felt the opposite.
Am I the only one who noticed? The only one who still thinks too long before answering?
His watch buzzed. A silent warning.
> Emotional delay detected.
He wrote something quick and neutral. The warning faded.
Liora whispered beside him, "Careful. You're thinking again."
He smirked faintly.
"Right. My mistake."
—
Later, after classes ended, he found himself standing alone by the school's west wall—a rarely used section near maintenance tunnels.
This place feels older, he thought. Forgotten.
He placed a hand on the wall, remembering something faintly—a memory of a teacher long gone. A room they once found. Maps. Books. History unfiltered.
Now sealed.
But just as he turned to leave, a flicker of movement.
A civic officer stood beyond the fence. Not facing him, but present. Deliberately. As if waiting to be noticed.
Arin froze.
But the officer didn't move.
Didn't approach.
Didn't speak.
Just... turned and walked away.
As if nothing had happened.
But it had.
The chill remained.
He looked down at his watch. It blinked once.
> 70 → 69