They gave me a new schedule.
No more free periods. No library access after 6 p.m. Mandatory wellness checks every 48 hours. A note in red at the bottom:
Subject exhibits early markers of cognitive divergence. Monitor for escalation.
I didn't fight it.
I followed the rules.
Went to class.
Ate on time.
Wore the earpiece.
But I didn't turn it on.
I left it charged, clipped behind my ear, but deactivated — a tiny switch inside the casing, pried open with a needle from the art room. It looked live. It beeped when it was supposed to. But it wasn't connected.
They didn't know.
Yet.
Then, on Thursday, after Ethics Seminar, Nia waited for me at the end of the hall.
Not at the usual table.
Not with tea.
Here.
Now.
"You're being recalibrated," she said.
I didn't answer.
"You skipped your last check. They logged it. Dr. Moss filed a Tier Two alert."
"How do you know?"
She didn't smile. "I have access."
"To what?"
"To enough."
She stepped closer. "They're going to move you to Observation Track. Solitary study. Medicated focus sessions. They did it to two students last year. One transferred out. The other stopped talking altogether."
I felt it then — not fear.
Cold clarity.
"They won't expel me," I said. "They'll make me compliant."
Nia nodded. "And when you are, they'll re-rank you. Lower. Safer. Forgotten."
"So what do I do?"
She looked down the hall. Empty. Quiet.
Then back at me.
"You stop working alone."
"I don't even know if I can trust you."
"No," she said. "But you know you can't survive without someone who does."
She handed me a folded slip of paper — thin, like receipt paper.
"Server room. Basement level. Door 17.
Friday. 1:12 a.m.
The system cycles then. The cameras reset for 90 seconds."
I looked at her. "Why help me?"
"Because the Index is a lie," she said. "And the only way to break a lie is with a truth no one expects."
Then she walked away.
I opened the note.
Not a time.
Not a place.
A number:
3.72
And beneath it, a single word:
Kieran