Mara didn't uninstall apps the way other people did.
Most students deleted things like they were clearing clutter: swipe, confirm, forget.
Mara deleted things like she was disarming a trap.
In the library study room, Lark's phone still sat on the table with a perfect, untouched 72:00:00 glowing like fresh bruising. Nina stared at it like it was an impossible math problem. Theo kept glancing at the glass walls, watching their own reflections as if the room might rewrite them mid-blink. Jace was the only one who looked at Mara instead of the timer—like he could feel the decision forming in her before she made it.
Mara opened Notes and typed, slow enough that her hands stopped shaking:
I'M OPTING OUT.
She turned the screen toward them.
Nina's eyes widened. She typed back fast, almost angry:
NO. THAT'S WHAT IT WANTS. IT SAID "RISK ADJUSTMENT."
Theo's message came next, jittery:
OPT-OUT = NEW CONTRACT. IT'S STILL CONSENT. IT'S A CHOICE THEY BUILT.
Jace didn't type immediately. He watched Mara's face, then finally wrote:
IF YOU DON'T TRY, WE DON'T LEARN.
Mara's pulse stuttered.
That was the cruelest thing about being the one who read the fine print: everyone eventually looked at you like you were the tool. Like your fear was useful.
Mara typed:
I'LL DO IT IN A CONTROLLED WAY. SCREEN RECORD. SCREENSHOT EVERYTHING.
She slid her phone to the center of the table so everyone could see the timer in the corner and the Student Perks interface beneath it.
68:41:03.
She didn't let herself think about what happened when it hit zero. Thinking about the end made the present feel thinner.
She opened the app and went straight to Settings.
A clean menu loaded instantly, cheerful as always.
ACCOUNTPRIVACYELIGIBILITYOPT-OUT (AVAILABLE)
Mara tapped OPT-OUT.
A new page appeared with a single sentence at the top:
We value your choice.
Under it, a thin checkbox.
☐ I confirm I want to opt out.
And below that, in smaller text that made Mara's stomach curl:
Opt-out is subject to risk adjustment.
There it was. The phrase that sounded like finance. The phrase that made your future feel like an insurance claim.
Mara started a screen recording.
Her finger hovered over the checkbox.
Nina's hand slid across the table and stopped just short of touching Mara's wrist—stopping because touch was still real, and they were all learning to treat "real" like it was fragile.
Nina didn't speak. She typed a single line and turned her phone:
IF YOU DO THIS, DO NOT PANIC OUT LOUD.
Mara nodded once.
Then she checked the box.
A second line appeared.
☐ I acknowledge that stability may be recalculated.
Mara checked it.
A third line.
☐ I authorize outcome stabilization across connected systems.
Authorize.
The word hit like a slap. Consent language wearing a friendly name tag.
Mara hesitated. The timer ticked. The library air felt too still.
She checked it.
A final button brightened.
CONFIRM OPT-OUT
Mara pressed it.
The phone vibrated—deep and satisfied—like a lock clicking shut.
A banner slid across the screen.
OPT-OUT REQUEST RECEIVED.RISK ADJUSTMENT IN PROGRESS.THANK YOU FOR CHOOSING YOUR FUTURE.
Her screen went black for one second.
Then white text appeared, centered, like a verdict:
YOU MAY NOW DELETE THE APP.
Theo's eyes flicked up, wide. Jace's jaw tightened.
Mara ended the recording and didn't breathe until she saw it saved.
Then she held down the app icon.
Delete.
Confirm.
Student Perks vanished from her home screen.
For half a heartbeat, Mara felt a wave of relief so sharp it almost hurt.
Then her phone buzzed anyway.
Not from Student Perks.
From her email.
One rejection.
Then another.
Then another.
Then another.
Then another.
Five subject lines stacked like identical coffins:
Update on Your ApplicationUpdate on Your ApplicationUpdate on Your ApplicationUpdate on Your ApplicationUpdate on Your Application
Mara opened the first.
"We regret to inform you…"
She opened the second.
Same.
Third.
Same.
Fourth.
Same.
Fifth.
Same.
Only the sender names were different—scholarship office, internship partner, summer program, tutoring platform, even the library database.
Nina's breath made a sound like it was trying not to become a word.
Theo's hands trembled as he took a screenshot of Mara's inbox like evidence of a crime.
Jace's face went very still. His fearlessness didn't help him here. This wasn't danger you could punch.
Mara's phone vibrated again.
A system-style popup—plain, OS-clean—appeared as if the operating system itself was speaking.
Eligibility could not be verified.Please confirm your identity.[CONFIRM] [NOT NOW]
Mara didn't touch either option.
She tried to open her school portal.
Loading.
Then: ERROR.
She tried her banking app.
LOGIN FAILED.
She tried the dining hall balance.
ACCOUNT NOT FOUND.
Nina's hands flew over her phone, typing in the group chat:
Nina P.: IT'S SPREADING THROUGH EVERYTHING.Theo V.: "CONNECTED SYSTEMS." IT SAID CONNECTED SYSTEMS.Jace L.: so opt-out isn't leaving. it's… getting kicked out.
Mara's throat tightened hard enough to hurt.
Getting kicked out.
Not just from the app.
From the life the app had stitched itself into.
Mara stood up too fast, chair scraping. The sound echoed too loudly. She froze, waiting for her timer to punish her for existing loudly.
Nothing.
But the quiet that followed felt worse—like the world had stopped reacting because it had stopped acknowledging her.
She shoved her phone into her pocket and walked out of the library without looking at the cameras.
By the time she reached the main doors, Halcyon had become slightly… hesitant.
The entrance scanner usually chirped the second it saw a badge. Today, it paused like it was thinking.
Mara held her ID up.
The scanner blinked yellow.
Then red.
UNVERIFIED.
She tried again.
Yellow.
Red.
A student behind her sighed impatiently. "Come on."
Mara stepped aside, cheeks burning, and watched as the student behind her scanned in instantly—green light, chirp, welcome.
Mara tried once more.
This time, the screen displayed text.
Please confirm your identity.
Two options appeared.
[CONFIRM] [ASSISTANCE]
Mara's stomach turned.
Confirm meant consent. Confirm meant feeding it.
She tapped ASSISTANCE instead.
A security guard approached, bored expression already on his face like this was going to be her fault.
"Problem?" he asked.
Mara opened Notes on her phone and typed fast:
MY BADGE WON'T SCAN.
She showed him the screen.
He looked at it, then at her badge, then at her face. Something flickered—confusion, then mild irritation—like his brain couldn't decide where to place her.
"What's your name?" he asked.
Mara's fingers went numb.
Names were dangerous now. Names were anchors.
She typed it instead and held it up:
MARA R.
The guard squinted at her phone, then frowned at his tablet. He tapped once, twice, as if the device was misbehaving.
"I'm not seeing you," he said finally.
Mara's heart thudded. She wanted to say I'm right here, but the last time someone tried that, a door refused to open.
She typed again, forcing her hands steady:
I'M A STUDENT. SCHOLARSHIP BADGE. CHECK CLASS ROSTER.
The guard's tablet made a soft error chime.
He tried again.
Then his expression shifted into something Mara recognized from Sera's face last night—the beginning of panic held under a thin layer of "this can't be real."
"Huh," he muttered. "That's weird."
Mara watched his eyes slide away from her for half a second, then come back as if he had to remind himself she existed.
He glanced over his shoulder toward the cameras. "Go to Admin," he said, voice flat. "They'll sort it."
Admin.
Where files lived.
Where records mattered.
Where "not seeing you" became permanent.
Mara turned away from the entrance and walked, fast, toward the admin wing.
As she passed a hallway display screen, she saw it—her face in the corner of the rotating "Top Scholars" slideshow.
For a split second, it was normal.
Then the image pixelated.
Then it blurred.
Then her name under it flickered like a dying cursor.
MARA R—M—RA—
And then the slideshow advanced to the next student, smooth and cheerful.
Mara stopped so abruptly a student bumped her shoulder.
"Sorry," the student mumbled without looking at her—already scrolling their phone.
Mara's skin went cold.
She pulled her own phone out.
No Student Perks icon.
But the timer was still there, embedded at the top of her screen like a scar.
68:07:13.
Below it, a new line she hadn't seen before:
RISK ADJUSTMENT: ACTIVEStability recalculation in progress.
Under that, in smaller text:
For best results, confirm your identity.
Mara's phone buzzed again.
A push notification—new sender name, as if the system had simply changed masks.
ACCEPT ALL (System Service): We noticed you're having trouble.ACCEPT ALL (System Service): Re-enrollment available.
Two buttons.
[RE-ENROLL][CONTINUE OPT-OUT]
Mara's breath caught.
Re-enroll.
Like a school.
Like a religion.
Like a club you couldn't quit without consequences.
In the reflection of her black screen, she saw her own face—pale, eyes too wide—like she was watching herself fade in real time.
And then her phone displayed one more line, quiet and devastating:
CONNECTION REQUIRED: prior consent source detected.
Prior consent source.
Not her.
Someone else.
Someone who had signed before she ever could.
Mara's hands went numb as she realized the opt-out penalty wasn't the worst part.
The worst part was the implication:
She might not have been opting out of something she chose.
She might have been trying to opt out of something she inherited.
To be Continued
© Kishtika., 2025
All rights reserved.