I didn't go to class the next day.
I told the system I was sick — sent a message through the student portal, knowing it would be logged, knowing they'd check. Then I stayed in my room, door locked, earpiece on the desk, dead.
The drive sat in my palm like a stone.
I had to move fast.
Not emotionally.
Not blindly.
With precision.
Because if I failed, I wouldn't just be silenced.
I'd be erased — recalibrated, medicated, made into another ghost in the archive.
So I did what Veridian taught me, without knowing it:
I studied the system.
For three hours, I scrolled through the files I'd copied — not just Luka's video, but logs, access records, internal memos.
Project Alpha Protocol: Objective – Develop a self-correcting leadership model through behavioral shaping and social reinforcement.
Funded by The Apex Circle — a private consortium of alumni, investors, and policy architects.
One name appeared again and again in the approvals:
Dr. Elira Moss — listed not as a psychologist, but as Lead Architect.
And beneath her: a list of test subjects.
Not just Luka.
Three others before him.
All "discontinued."
All removed from records.
Then I found the broadcast schedule.
Every six weeks, Veridian hosted the Ascension Gala — a private event streamed to Apex members worldwide. A showcase of excellence. A celebration of the new Alpha.
This year's event:
In 11 days.
Live.
Global.
Unencrypted.
A perfect stage.
But I couldn't just upload the files.
They'd be taken down in seconds.
Traced.
Buried.
I needed the truth to land where it couldn't be ignored.
So I opened a new tab.
Typed:
Veridian Academy – Media Partners
Listed at the bottom:
The Chronicle, a national education outlet.
One reporter assigned:Mira Tan – Investigative, Youth Systems & Ethics.
I found her on social media.
Not many followers.
But sharp questions.
Recent post: Why do so many "perfect" schools have perfect silences?
I didn't message her name.
Instead, I created a new email:
Attached nothing.
Sent nothing.
Just one line:
They said he jumped. He was pushed. If you want to know how, meet at the Holloway Diner. 7 p.m. Friday. Come alone.
Then I printed three copies of Luka's final message.
Folded them.
Put one in Nia's locker.
One in the hollow of an old oak behind the east wing — a spot students used to pass notes.
One in the pocket of a donated coat I left on a bench in the city bus terminal.
Insurance.
Not because I trusted anyone.
Because I didn't.
That night, I reactivated the earpiece.
Put it back behind my ear.
Let it hum.
Let it report.
Let them think I was broken.
Because the best way to disappear
is to look like you've given up.
And the best way to win
is to make them believe
you've already lost.