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Chapter 2 - Ch 2: The Quiet Unraveling

"A memory isn't lost when forgotten. It hides where silence grows."

Arin Vale's apartment was tucked twenty floors up in one of the Bloom's countless residential towers. Each unit was indistinguishable from the next—grayscale walls, square windows that filtered artificial daylight, and furniture that molded to state regulations. Comfort wasn't designed. It was assigned.

The door hissed shut behind him, and silence wrapped around him like thermal mesh. A dim light adjusted to his presence, casting a sterile glow over the room. No scents, no textures. No identity. The gentle hiss of the recycled air system was the only sound, humming faintly in the background like a tired whisper.

He dropped his school bag on the low table and sank into the single-cushion bench by the window. The city's skeletal skyline blinked back at him. Drones whirred past in clean lines, like thoughts too obedient to deviate.

His parents weren't home yet. But they would be. Same hour, same lines, same nods. They had become background noise in a world already tuned too low.

The wall panel flickered. A standard message.

"Evening stability check: 0.02 deviation. Maintain equilibrium."

Arin exhaled slowly, tapping his fingers against the armrest. His mind circled the events of the morning like an orbit decaying too fast.

The speech.

The fall.

The number—dropping.

And Kael. Stoic. Polished. Absent, even in presence.

"It's easier when you don't ask. That's the real trick, right? Forget what used to be."

The door hissed again.

His parents stepped in. Same coordinated steps, regulation smiles. His mother's hair pinned in the same style worn by every Level-2 worker. His father's uniform crease still sharp from the press of the Civic Ward's machine lockers.

"Evaluations today?" his father asked as he unbuttoned his cuffs.

"Yes."

"Emotional variance?"

"No."

"Good."

His mother placed their nutrient packs on the table. "Dinner in twenty. Clean up."

He nodded.

A flicker passed across their faces—brief, unreadable—and then they turned away, settling into evening rituals like code running through lines.

Arin moved toward the corner shelf—half filled with old objects he was never told to throw away, but never asked to explain. Toys, certificates, a crumpled ticket stub to a festival long buried under reform.

His gaze settled on a small cube.

It was a toy from childhood. Color-faded. Edges dulled. A puzzle. Never solved.

He picked it up, thumb brushing its surface. Something about it felt heavier than before. As if time had compacted into the plastic. He sat, absentmindedly twisting a face, aligning the fractured colors.

Red to red. Green to blue. Why did that seem... wrong?

His hand moved faster. Not conscious. Just rhythm, instinct, memory. His thoughts churned alongside it:

— Why did no one move when the student fell?

— Why did Kael look through me?

— Why does it feel like we've rehearsed everything—except waking up?

Click.

The final turn.

The colors aligned.

And the cube clicked open.

Inside was a folded strip of worn, yellowed paper. Unmarked. Unsealed. Just ink. Rough strokes. Half legible. The handwriting wasn't unfamiliar—but it was old. It was real.

"They don't want you to ask. Because asking is remembering. And remembering... is the key."

"You're not broken. You're awakening."

Arin stared at the note, his breath hitching. His pulse felt slower, yet louder. Like the beat of something ancient just beginning to stir.

Then a flicker outside.

From outside, the hum of drones passed again. But one—just one—slowed. Stopped. Hovered beside the tower.

It didn't announce. It didn't scan. It simply... observed.

Inside, Arin stood too still. His own reflection in the dark window pane stared back—unblinking.

On the rooftop above, a figure lowered their wrist communicator.

"Target cube activation confirmed. Partial Nexis response. Initiate Phase 2."

The voice was crisp. Professional.

But under it—a silence too calculated to be human.

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