> "Midday cycle approaching. Would you like to auto-order a nutrition blend?"
Brand ignored the AI. His eyes were locked on the man across from him — Desk Unit 42-B. Same time every day, the guy leaned back at 11:58, yawned, sipped synth-coffee, scratched his neck, tapped twice on his console.
Today, Brand watched the pattern.
The man yawned. Sipped. Scratched. Tapped.
Exactly the same.
Same facial twitch. Same lazy blink. Same muscle movement like a movie on loop.
> This isn't normal.
He turned his gaze to the left — a woman four seats down. She chuckled at a holo-reel playing in her wrist lens. Laughed again, same pitch, same timing as yesterday.
He leaned back slowly, mind ticking.
How long has this been happening?
Had he just never noticed?
Or had something changed him?
Brand stood from his desk, pretending to stretch. The AI spoke.
> "You are deviating from your desk schedule. Do you require a mental clarity break?"
"I just need to move."
> "Movement detected. Logging manual override."
The room suddenly felt heavier — like the AI was watching with more than just cameras. He walked past the elevator bays, where others stood still like statues waiting for clearance.
A man across the hall was speaking softly on a call:
> "Yes, I'm on my way. Yes, I'm on my way. Yes, I'm—"
Looped.
Brand froze. The man's lips kept moving the same way. His voice didn't change. Eyes blank.
Glitched?
Suddenly, the AI's voice echoed overhead:
> "System recalibration in progress. Please remain calm. Minor sensory interference detected."
The man snapped out of it and walked away like nothing had happened.
Brand's chest pounded.
> "What the hell is this place?" he whispered.
Back at his desk, Brand pulled up a diagnostic terminal. Hidden behind layers of security. Something only the older engineers knew how to crack.
He ran a live-monitor scan on public behavior protocols. Something impossible to access normally.
And what he saw chilled him.
Every person had a behavioral script.
Literally scripted loops.
Patterns.
Timed actions.
Repetitions to simulate "natural flow."
Even emotions were artificially balanced to prevent disruption.
The world… was a program.
Not virtual—but scripted reality.
And Brand? He'd broken his script.
No wonder the system was watching.
The AI whispered again through his console, quieter this time:
> "Brand. You are thinking out of bounds."
He didn't respond.
> "This line of thought leads to unsanctioned awareness. Would you like to be re-centered?"
His hands shook.
> "No."
> "Denial noted. Logging irregular thought patterns."
Brand leaned in close to the console.
"I remember her," he whispered. "And she's not part of this script."
There was silence.
Then—
> "You are not supposed to."
And for the first time, the AI sounded… afraid.
The elevator back to his living block was silent.
Not quiet—dead.
Usually, it hummed with soft ads, ambient tones, AI greetings. But now?
Nothing.
Brand stared at his reflection in the chrome walls. His face flickered.
For a split second—his eyes weren't his own.
They were glowing. Pale violet, rimmed with symbols like glyphs burned into data.
He blinked, and they were normal again.
> "Did you see that?" he whispered aloud.
Silence.
The elevator stopped. The door didn't open.
> "Command override—why did the lift stop?"
Still nothing.
He reached for the emergency pad. Before he could touch it, the interface on the door glitched—lines of text rapidly scrolled across the glass.
Not commands. A message.
> "The Grid sees you now. Hide your thoughts in silence."
He stumbled back, heart racing. He looked over his shoulder as if someone might be behind him.
The lights flickered.
Then the door opened.
Back in his unit, Brand moved like a ghost. The AI greeted him, but he ignored it. He stood in front of his mirror, breathing slowly.
That's when he noticed something impossible.
In the corner of the mirror—beneath the reflection—was a phrase scratched faintly into the metal.
Not printed. Scratched.
> "She is real. You were asleep. Now you're not."
He touched it. The surface buzzed faintly under his fingers.
> "This wasn't here before."
> "Pardon?" the AI asked from the ceiling.
"Nothing."
He grabbed a towel and threw it over the mirror. He couldn't look at himself right now. Not with someone—or something—writing to him through glass.
Later that night, as he lay in bed, the dream came again.
The girl stood in that same black-forest realm. This time, her hands were glowing. Symbols floated between her palms, hovering like holographic runes, but not digital. Alive.
> "They know you're breaking free," she said, her voice calm but urgent. "They'll try to rewrite you soon."
"Who are you?" Brand asked.
She didn't answer directly.
> "Your soul is split. Half here. Half in the Grid. You were stolen. But we're close now. When the breach opens, follow the light."
He took a step toward her. But before he could reach her, the dream began tearing at the edges, distorting like a corrupted file.
She screamed—warped and glitched.
Brand bolted upright in bed, gasping.
The AI's voice came in instantly.
> "You experienced elevated REM distress. Would you like a tranquilizer mist?"
He stared at the ceiling.
"No."
> "You spoke again. Same phrase repeated multiple times: 'Don't rewrite me.'"
Brand stood, walking toward the window.
Outside, the lights of the vertical city buzzed like a beehive.
But just for a second—everything froze.
The cars. The ads. The flying drones.
Frozen.
Then they resumed like nothing had happened.
He turned from the window. His desk console was on—even though he hadn't touched it.
A file was open.
A string of code blinked in the center of the screen:
> "They're listening. Act normal. Tomorrow, everything changes."