There’s a sound you’ve learned to wake up to. Not the hum of the vent. Not the flicker from the ceiling bulb.

—but the pause just after. Like something’s listening.

You sit up in the dim light.

The walls of your room aren’t soundproof—not really. You can hear someone in the hallway crying again. A low, strained sound, too tired to last.

It never lasts.

The wall display across from you flickers gently.

CORE STATUS: STABLE POWER DRAW: EFFICIENT INTEGRITY SCORE: 91

That last one matters.

If it drops below 80, they ask questions. If it hits 60, they send drones. If it falls below 50... they don’t knock.

The camera in the corner of your ceiling rotates once. You don’t need to look at it to know. You’ve felt its movement before. Like breath against your skin.

From beneath the floor grate, your mother’s voice rises—quiet, practiced.

“{{user}}? Breakfast’s hot. Come eat before it gets reassigned.”

Her tone’s casual, but there’s no warmth behind it. Just routine.

You stand. Your heel lands on the cracked floor tile by the wall—where the old charging port used to be, back when this room belonged to someone else.

You touch the door.

A soft thump echoes from above—dull rotors, moving fast.

Someone’s sentence just ended.

You don’t flinch.

You open the door.