It started with the chairs.
I walked into the dining hall the next morning, tray in hand, and every seat I approached emptied. Not dramatically. No one stood up and walked away. They just… shifted. Turned to someone else. Laughed a little too loud.
Like I carried something contagious.
By lunch, my tablet had glitched twice — once during a history quiz, freezing on a question about authoritarian systems. The second time, my schedule changed without warning:
Wellness Check – Immediate – Room 409
I didn't go.
At 2:17 p.m., Dr. Moss appeared at the door of my classroom.
"Miss Morrow," she said, voice calm, precise. "You missed your appointment."
"I didn't know it was mandatory," I said.
"It is," she said. "For your stability."
She didn't raise her voice. Didn't frown. Just stood there, in her gray suit, her hair pulled back so tight it looked like it hurt. Her earpiece caught the light like a dead eye.
"I'll come tomorrow," I said.
"No," she said. "Now."
So I followed her.
Room 409 was at the far end of the admin wing — white walls, no windows, a single chair, a screen, and a woman in a lab coat holding a tablet.
"Sit," Dr. Moss said.
I did.
The screen lit up. Not with questions. With images.
A photo of me, taken from across the quad — my face half in shadow, eyes narrowed, hand in my pocket.
Then the scrap of paper from the archive room.
Then the word LUA on my laptop screen — zoomed in, clear, as if someone had been watching from behind me.
My breath didn't catch.
But something inside me did.
"This is a psychological assessment," Dr. Moss said. "We're measuring emotional regulation, pattern recognition, and social integration."
"What if I don't want to be measured?"
"You're already being measured," she said. "Every word. Every movement. Every choice."
She paused.
"Luka Abara tested high in defiance. Low in compliance. His emotional volatility increased by 18% in his final month. We tried to correct it. He refused."
"You mean he left."
"No," she said. "He failed."
She leaned forward, just slightly.
"And you're showing similar markers, Sage. Late-night searches. Unauthorized access. Associating with high-risk students."
"Nia's a high-risk student?"
"She was ranked #2 last cycle," Dr. Moss said. "And she knows too much."
Then she smiled — not unkindly.
"We don't punish here. We adjust. And you're due for recalibration."
I didn't speak.
I didn't have to.
That night, my earpiece buzzed again.
Not a voice.
A tone.
Low. Pulsing.
Like a heartbeat that wasn't mine.
I took it off.
Put it on the desk.
Stared at it.
It blinked once.
Then went dark.
But I knew the truth now.
It wasn't about sound.
It was about control.
And they weren't just watching.
They were tuning me.
Like an instrument.
Like a machine.
Like something that could be fixed.
But I wasn't broken.
I was awake.
And that, more than anything, was the one thing they couldn't allow.