You ever walk into a room so quiet, you're sure someone just got murdered?
Yeah. That's Tuesday in Echelon.
It's not even the creepy sterile silence that gets me. It's the way everyone pretends it's fine. Like we all didn't sign our souls away to Big Brother for the price of no emotional outbursts and a fridge full of nutrient cubes.
Anyway.
There I am. Arden Vale. Thirty-eight. Gray at the temples. Suit so stiff it could stand without me. Walking into the Hall of Neutrality (yes, that's its real name), about to ruin someone's perfectly suppressed day.
"Citizen 4486-F, remove the hat," I say, because rebellion starts with accessories.
The guy blinks. One beat. Two. Then he slowly peels the knitted monstrosity off his head like I just asked him to strip naked. Knitted. With bright yellow smiley faces.
Illegal. Obviously.
I log the violation with one hand while sipping recycled coffee with the other. Bitter. Lifeless. Like my marriage—before she decided emotions weren't for her anymore. Literally.
And that's when she shows up.
Lyra Vale.
Walking sarcasm. Hair like a crime scene. And eyes? Trouble. Dressed like the revolution spat her out and said, "Not today, but maybe tomorrow."
She doesn't recognize me, of course.
Because 1) I haven't seen her in ten years, and
2) Last time I did, she was screaming at me for selling out to the regime and hiding behind emotional sedation pills.
You know. Light father-daughter stuff.
She's carrying a box labeled: "Recreational Books." Which is already suspicious, because books are only legal if they don't make you feel anything. And Lyra? She has feelings in italics.
She catches me staring and smirks. Smirks.
"You lost, officer? Or just stunned by the majesty of my smuggled YA romance novels?" she says, loud enough to make the monitors twitch.
"Cute. Step away from the contraband," I say.
But she doesn't. Of course not. That'd be too easy. She saunters forward and drops the box—right at my feet—like she's daring me to open it. Like she knows. Like she remembers.
My heart? Does something weird.
Probably indigestion.
"Go ahead," she says. "Flip through. I recommend Enemies With Benefits. It's the emotionally unstable one with knife play."
I blink. Once. Twice. Because she's not just flirting. She's taunting me.
Which, in Echelon, is foreplay.
I lean down. Crack the box open. And yep—books. Paper books. Covers with people clinging to each other like they've just survived a zombie apocalypse and a love triangle. All banned.
"What exactly is your job, citizen?"
She leans in. Close enough to smell like vanilla and crime.
"I'm an emotional courier. I deliver feelings the government can't."
Of course she is.
"And your permit?"
"Filed under 'mind your business.'"
And that's the moment the scanner chirps. Right in my pocket. A red ping. Priority Target Identified.
I glance down. Her face. Full color. Rebel Leader Code Name: Havok.
Of course. Of course she's the one leading the anti-sedation movement. The girl who used to cry at dog food commercials? The one who wrote diary entries like Shakespeare on caffeine?
Yeah. Makes sense.
I look up. She's watching me. Still smirking.
"You okay there, Officer Spreadsheet?" she asks. "Need a tissue?"
Oh, the irony.
I should arrest her. Right now.
Instead, I say, "You know, books like these can get you twenty-five years in isolation."
She shrugs. "Better than twenty-five years of pretending this world isn't batsh*t."
Fair.
I clear my throat. Shift back into my regulation tone.
"Lyra Vale, you are under arrest for possession of unsanctioned emotional materials and failure to suppress personal expression. You have the right to remain—"
"Emotionless?" she cuts in.
I blink.
She smiles.
And then?
She bolts.
Of course she bolts.
Right past me, down the hallway, books flying like emotional confetti. I take off after her, half-dodging a falling paperback titled Kiss Me, Kill Me, Then Cry About It (mood), and shout into my comms.
"Suspect is fleeing. Red priority. Send backup to Hall of Neutrality."
My boots echo. She's fast. But I'm trained. And pissed. And kind of… impressed?
She crashes through a maintenance hatch like she's done this before. I follow. Down a stairwell. Left at a steam vent. Into what looks like a defunct therapy wing.
And then… she's gone.
Nope.
Hiding.
I slow down. Sweep the shadows. No sound. No movement. Except for—
"Boo."
She drops from a vent and slams me against the wall with more strength than I thought her arms could pack. I'm not even mad.
I'm… distracted.
We're too close. She smells like revolution and lemon shampoo. Her fingers dig into my uniform. Her eyes flick to my badge.
She leans in. Whispers.
"You have two choices, Daddy Dearest. Arrest me. Or let me walk."
Ah. So she does recognize me.
"Option three," I say. "We go together."
Her brows rise. "What?"
"You come with me. Quietly. No cuffs. No arrest. We talk. Somewhere safe."
She snorts. "You gonna buy me a guilt-free tea and trauma muffin too?"
"I'm serious."
"I know. That's why it's terrifying."
She hesitates.
One beat.
Two.
Then she steps back.
"Fine," she says. "But I get to choose the safe place. And I swear, if you turn me in…"
"I won't," I say before I know I believe it.
Because I should. I should turn her in, drag her to the Chancellor's podium and get my badge shined for loyalty.
But I can't.
Because she's not the threat.
She's the truth.
And the silence?
Yeah. It just got a whole lot louder.