He should've turned back.
The silence was too intentional.
Lin stood at the threshold of the facility—an abandoned government data center rumored to predate the public version of the Ledger. The entrance was buried beneath a defunct train station, its nameplate stripped clean, only acid marks remaining on the steel.
The air inside smelled like old circuits and wet plaster. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead—only some. Others flickered in endless boot cycles, trapped in a glow that never resolved.
Wires like roots trailed along the floor. A glass wall, shattered but still somehow intact, separated corridors marked RESEARCH, CORRECTION, and ARCHIVE.
Lin chose the last one.
Each door he passed was labeled in faded government shorthand—Cognitive Morality Alignment, Emotion Index Variants, Empathic Drift Simulations.
His breath grew shallow.
Inside the Archive room, the walls were lined with outdated servers stacked like mausoleum drawers. Beside them, dusty file cabinets with peeling stickers, half-burnt manila folders. Digital and analog, fused by decay.
A projector whirred to life as he passed. Auto-sensing his presence.
[Initializing Visual Record — Trial Log: SUBJECT ZERO]
A screen lowered from the ceiling.
The first image: a child. No older than seven. Sitting in a white room, featureless except for a two-way mirror.
No sound. Only the subtle hum of static.
Lin didn't move.
On-screen, the child blinked. Looked up. Smiled. Then frowned. Then—emptied.
The voiceover came abruptly.
Flat. Machine-filtered.
"Subject Zero failed empathy test at age seven."
Lin felt something press against his skull—not physically, but internally. Like the words had weight.
The screen cut to black. Then again—the same child. Another day. Same room.
The child held a dead bird. Stared at it blankly. No fear. No sadness.
"Subject Zero failed empathy test at age seven."
Over and over.
Room. Child. Slight variations. In some, the child spoke in a language Lin didn't recognize. In others, he mimicked other children's speech. Always the same cold stare. Always that voice:
"Subject Zero failed empathy test at age seven."
The phrase repeated not only from the speakers now—but inside Lin's head. Echoing, recursive. A pattern with no escape.
He stumbled back, clutching the console for support. The screen continued.
A new clip. The child—older. Maybe ten. Dressed in a school uniform. Reciting something. The voice said:
"Simulated autonomy successful. Identity scaffold stable."
Lin's breath hitched.
That wasn't just a child.
It was… him.
Or something that looked like him.
⸻
He tore away from the screen, breathing ragged. The servers around him seemed to hum in agreement. A slow chorus of failing fans and whispering drives.
He found a locked drawer labeled [Experimental Ethics – Gen.3 Ledger Seed] and forced it open.
Inside: blueprints. Memory mapping logs. A page that read:
SUBJECT ZERO INSTALLED IN FIELD OPS CONTEXTS A-E
Current: FIELD C – JOURNALISTIC COVER IDENTITY
CONTINGENCY ACTIVE
He dropped the file.
The words bled off the paper. Literally.
Ink running, as if rejecting his gaze.
He looked down at his own hands.
Were these his?
His left hand moved—but his right didn't register. He touched his face.
Nothing.
No sensation. Just the cold, clean texture of something skin-like.
A memory flickered—his first assignment as a journalist. But it felt… prefabricated. Like it had been placed there. Chosen. Branded.
"Simulated autonomy successful."
He fell to his knees.
Was this what the Curator meant? That he wasn't just compromised—
—but constructed?
⸻
A sharp beep.
He turned. A small CRT screen in the corner blinked on. No video. Just text.
HELLO AGAIN, LIN.
The letters typed themselves.
YOU'VE MADE IT FURTHER THAN MOST. THAT'S PROMISING. BUT YOU NEED TO UNDERSTAND SOMETHING.
YOU NEVER ESCAPED.
YOU WERE NEVER OUTSIDE.
The screen glitched—flickered.
FIELD C IS A LOOP. YOU ARE STILL INSIDE IT.
BUT YOU'VE EARNED A CHOICE.
DELETE. RESET. OR CONTINUE.
The screen held.
Lin stared at the words until they burned into his vision. Even when he closed his eyes, they hovered. Mocking. Waiting.
DELETE. RESET. OR CONTINUE.
He didn't choose.
He ripped the power cable from the wall.
Darkness returned. But the voice remained.
"Subject Zero failed empathy test at age seven."
⸻
He stumbled through the archive, clawing for fresh air. The world outside the corridor now felt thinner. Less anchored. Like the walls would fall if he pushed too hard.
Were there others like him?
Were any of them real?
He stepped back into the hallway. But the signs had changed.
REINTEGRATION
RECOVERY
RECALL
He ran. Again. Not to escape.
But to find the edges of the lie.