"A cage doesn't need bars when the bird forgets how to fly."
---
2149. Neo-Tokyo Arcology-5.
Locals called it The Bloom—a city so meticulously sculpted it looked less like an urban sprawl and more like a living algorithm. Its skyline shimmered under a synthetic sun, casting light across polished metal towers that stretched endlessly upward like chrome vines. Glass corridors webbed between buildings, arteries for a civilization engineered to never pause.
Below, the transit loops flowed with precision, each tram gliding silently on magnetic rails, their hums almost meditative. The air was clean—but not in the way forests used to be. It was sterile, processed, like everything else. The faint scent of ozone lingered—metallic, artificial, familiar.
Inside Tramline 7, students in matching graphite-gray uniforms sat in perfect rows. Posture straight. Eyes forward. Hands aligned neatly on their knees. Their silence wasn't disciplined. It was designed.
A quiet ping would alert them if their emotional metrics—tracked in real-time—deviated from expected norms.
Among them sat Arin Vale, Number 71.
His expression was neutral. Too neutral. His eyes scanned the moving skyline outside the tram, but he wasn't really looking at anything. Just... observing the city that never stopped observing back.
> Emotions: licensed. Thoughts: synchronized.
It was printed on school walls, echoed through morning holos, embedded in civic pledges. Once a warning. Now a promise.
His wristwatch flickered—green. Stable. No deviation.
Safe.
For now.
---
The Civic Academy rose like a gleaming lotus from the educational district's center, its outer shell resembling an enormous iris: metallic petals curved outward, watchful and unblinking. Students filed out from trams into open corridors lined with biometric gates and motionless surveillance drones.
As Arin stepped off, a patrol unit scanned him with a soft flash of blue light. Routine.
> "May your patterns remain pure," droned a synthetic voice overhead, melodic yet devoid of empathy.
The scent of disinfectant and ionized air coated everything. It was always clean here. Sterile. Empty.
Under the archway of the academy, two familiar figures waited.
Calo Wynn stood tall and rigid, his jet-black hair neatly combed, uniform crisp like folded paper. His badge sat perfectly centered on his chest.
"You're late," Calo said, glancing at Arin without turning his head fully. "Again."
"You say late," came a drawl from beside him, "I say rebelliously punctual."
Liora Fen gave a crooked grin. Her coat was half-unbuttoned, badge tilted, hair tied messily like she had dared the rules to do something about it. Somehow, she always hovered just below the recalibration threshold.
Calo's frown deepened. "That kind of attitude will earn you a neural scrape."
Liora rolled her eyes. "Only if someone remembers I exist."
Arin offered a small smile. It didn't reach his eyes. It rarely did anymore.
> Smile when expected. React when calibrated. Live without deviation.
The rules weren't printed. They were coded into life.
They moved together through the hallways—clean, chrome-white, lit by ambient light that never changed. Digital vines climbed the walls, simulating a lost world no one really missed anymore. Holo screen posters flashed civic slogans, always with children smiling mid-salute.
Some students whispered to each other in tones too even to be real. The silence was louder than their words.
---
Then, the intercom pulsed.
> "All students, report to Central Atrium. Guest address in ten."
That was unusual.
The three of them exchanged glances. Rarely did anything break routine—let alone without warning.
The Central Atrium was a massive amphitheater—circular, with sky-glass walls and suspended observation drones hovering like silent vultures. As students filed in, automated systems locked each seating row into place with soft mechanical clicks.
Even among hundreds, there was no noise. No shifting. No questions.
The air was thick with sterilized tension—over-clean, as if the place were hiding something under the polish.
From above, a figure descended along a retractable ramp.
His footsteps echoed with authority.
Kael Vale.
Even before the name passed through whispers, Arin already knew.
> Same rigid posture. Same calculating eyes.
His older brother.
It had been years. Since the transfer. Since the calls stopped. Since he left home and never looked back.
Kael stepped into the spotlight—literally. A soft halo encased him as he stood on the central stage, clad in the sharp silver-gray of a Government Official.
> "It is my honor to speak to the next architects of the Republic," he said, voice steady and smooth. "In your precision lies the future."
His speech was measured. Empty. Like it had been written by the system itself.
But Arin wasn't listening.
Because something was happening.
Three seats to his left—a student had collapsed.
No warning. No cry. Just—down.
Not a soul flinched.
Kael didn't even pause.
A drone descended immediately, scanned the student's vitals, tagged the body, and lifted it with metallic precision—like clearing spilled coffee from a desk.
> "May your mind mend swiftly," said the overhead voice.
The speech resumed. The audience stayed still.
But Arin's world had already shifted.
He stared at the empty seat.
And then—his watch beeped.
71 → 70.
His heart seized.
He turned sharply. Liora saw the flicker in his expression.
"You good?"
"Yeah," he muttered.
He wasn't.
His thoughts raced.
Why didn't anyone react?
Why did Kael glance at me—but look away?
Why does this feel… normal?
Because that's what scared him the most.
It was normal.
The speech ended. Rows of students rose in eerie unison and began to exit like programmed shadows.
Arin remained seated.
Until a faint glow flickered beneath the auditorium floor—red, brief, and final.
> VALE, ARIN
Status: Observed
Class: Deviant Threshold Monitoring
And then—it disappeared.
Just like that.
But the chill it left didn't fade.
He stood alone in the massive, empty room.
The walls didn't move. The lights didn't flicker.
But he felt it.
Somewhere, someone had just marked his name.
And nothing—not even perfection—could stop what came next.