Page 11

“All the time,” I admit. “But I think…I think I’m starting to understand it a little better now.

” I take a deep breath, the musty air of the abandoned building filling my lungs.

“You know, my grandmother used to tell me stories about The Transition,” I say, my voice low, cautious even though we’re alone.

“How it wasn’t sudden, but a slow erosion of what people thought was acceptable to feel. ”

Ziva nods, her eyes shadowed with a mix of curiosity and shared understanding. “The salami-slice approach,” she murmurs. “Take away one small freedom at a time, until there’s nothing left.”

“Yeah,” I say, swallowing. “Over time though, people forgot what it was like to feel. They came to see the NeuroMods as a natural part of life, as essential as breathing. Anyone that rebelled was erased from history, their names and deeds consigned to oblivion.”

“Just like my parents,” she whispers, her voice filled with emotion that is quickly suppressed by her NeuroMod.

“Yeah. Mine as well,” I whisper back in understanding.

We move through the room, our footsteps echoing in the emptiness when I spot a doorway. “Shall we?”

We step into the cavernous remains of an old theater, its rows of decaying seats staring back at us like forgotten witnesses to a lost era.

The air is heavy with the scent of mildew and nostalgia as dust motes dance in the dim light.

The faintest echoes of laughter and applause hang in the air, remnants of joy now lost to time.

“Can you imagine?” Ziva breathes, her voice filled with wonder. “Hundreds of people, all experiencing the same emotions together. Laughing, crying, feeling it all.”

Closing my eyes, I try to picture it—the hundreds of people filling these seats and the music that would have filled the air.

“It must have been noisy,” I say, opening my eyes to find Ziva watching me intently.

“But beautiful,” she adds, a wistful smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

We make our way to the stage, our footsteps stirring up dust motes that dance in the dim light of our NeuroMods. I help Ziva up, and for a moment, our hands linger together.

“You know,” I say, my heart beating rapidly, “they say this is where the first protests against emotional regulation happened. Right here on stages like this one.”

Ziva’s eyes widen. “Really? I always thought it started in the factories.”

I shake my head. Grandma Elara always told me stories of the resistance, I think it was her way of keeping my parents memories alive. “That came later. But it was artists who first understood what was happening, who tried to warn everyone.”

We stand there in silence for a moment, the weight of history pressing down on us. Each dusty seat and frayed curtain tells a story of resistance and loss, and I can almost hear the whispers of those who dared to dream before us.

“Do you think we could ever get back to that?” Ziva asks, her voice almost a whisper, even though we’re the only two people in the room.

Meeting her gaze, something stirs inside me—an unnameable sensation that grows harder to ignore. “I don’t know,” I admit, rubbing my thumb along the outside of her hand. “But being here, with you… it makes me want to try.”

Ziva’s eyes lock with mine, a flicker of something raw and unguarded passing between us. For a moment, we’re suspended in time, the crumbling theater fading away until it’s just us, standing on the precipice of something dangerous.

“Look,” she whispers suddenly, breaking the spell. Her slender fingers point to a faded mural on the wall behind us.

We approach it carefully, mindful of the dusty chase and rotting floorboards that creak ominously beneath our weight.

As we draw closer, I can make out vibrant splashes of color emerging from beneath years of grime and neglect.

It’s a scene of people—dancing, embracing, laughing.

Their faces are alive with emotion, so different from the carefully controlled expressions we’re used to seeing.

“It’s…fascinating,” I murmur, drinking in the sight. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Ziva reaches out, her fingertips hovering just above the surface of the painted wall.

“They look so free,” she says, her voice thick with longing.

“Can you imagine feeling that much, Myall? Without fear?” Ziva’s voice trembles with a longing that resonates in my chest, her eyes wide and bright, as if she’s peering into a future she can barely fathom.

I swallow hard, acutely aware of the NeuroMod on my wrist. “It would be terrifying,” I admit. “But also…incredible.”

She turns to me, a fierceness in her voice. “This is what we’re going to fight for, isn’t it? The right to feel like this?”

My heart pounds in my chest, each thump echoing in my ears as if it might betray me to the watchful eyes of The Authority. I want to tell her yes, to match her passion with my own. But caution holds me back.

“It’s dangerous to think that way, Ziva,” I warn, even as every fiber of my being rebels against my own words.

Isn’t this why I brought her here? To share these very thoughts with someone else who feels the same way as I do?

“And living like this—half a life—feels safer to you?” she challenges, her sleeve of her uniform shifting as she gestures emphatically. “Look around us, Myall. This is what we’ve lost. Don’t you want it back?”

I close my eyes, overwhelmed by the conflicting emotions surging through me moments before my NeuroMod dampens them. When I open them again, Ziva is watching me intently, waiting for an answer I’m not sure I’m ready to give.

I inhale slowly. “You’re right,” I say, my voice almost a whisper. “This is what we should be fighting for. But we need to be smart about it.”

Ziva’s eyes light up, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “I knew you felt it too,” she says, her tone a mix of triumph and relief.

Glancing around the abandoned space, reality settles back in. “We can’t keep coming here, though. It’s too far, too risky.”

She nods, her expression turning thoughtful. “We need somewhere closer, somewhere where we don’t need to rely on the Maglev. Somewhere that’s within walking distance, where we can meet regularly without raising suspicion.”

“I know,” I agree, my mind already running through possibilities of old factories and buildings that are within walking distance from the Compliance Monitoring Division. “Maybe there’s a place near work that’s less monitored. We’ll have to be careful, but—”

“But it will be worth it,” Ziva finishes, her gaze intense.

A surge of warmth flares in my chest, quickly tamped down once more by my NeuroMod.

“We should head back,” I say reluctantly, my voice barely a whisper.

“It’ll be curfew soon and we don’t want to risk any drones or Authority Enforcers on our way back.

” The reality of our situation crashes over me like a cold wave, and the thought of leaving this sanctuary fills me with a profound sense of loss.

Reluctantly, we make our way through the winding passages. I’m hyper-aware of every sound, every shadow. We can’t leave a trace, or let any cameras catch us. Ziva glides through the darkness, blending effortlessly into the shadows.

“Remember,” I whisper as we approach the border of the controlled zone, “act natural. We were never here.”

Ziva nods, her face a mask of calm compliance. But I catch the glint in her eye, a spark of defiance that no amount of Harmonization can extinguish. Together we hurry through the streets, making our way back to the maglev station.

We pause at the threshold of the entrance to the station, the stark white corridors stretching endlessly in both directions. The night is eerily silent, interrupted only by the faint whir of drones and the distant approach of the maglev.

When I meet Ziva’s gaze, my breath catches. Her hazel eyes, brimming with hope, stir something deep inside.

“Today was…” I start, struggling to find words that won’t trigger the NeuroMods dampening sequence.

“I know,” she says softly, her eyes meeting mine. There’s a world of understanding in that gaze, a shared secret that makes my heart race dangerously.

I clear my throat. “We should do this again. Find somewhere…to discuss work matters.”

Ziva’s lips quirk in a barely-there smile. “Wasn’t that the plan for today? We need to stay productive.”

The double meaning in her words sends a thrill through me. I want to say more, but not here. Not now.

She whispers, “I’ll figure out how to create a secure channel for us to communicate through. It will be easier than constantly searching for isolated meeting spots.”

I nod, excited about the prospect of being able to communicate more openly and frequently with Ziva. The sound of the approaching maglev pulls me out of my dangerous thoughts.

“Goodnight, Ziva,” I manage, my voice rougher than I’d like.

“Goodnight, Myall,” she replies, her fingers brushing mine as she turns to enter the station.

Walking away, I try to keep my steps steady, though the storm inside me threatens to break.

As I round the corner, out of sight of the cameras, I lean against the wall, eyes squeezed shut against the crushing reality.

Ziva’s laughter, the vibrant mural—both haunt me, vivid reminders of what we’re fighting for.

Her smile, the warmth of her touch, the fire in her eyes when we spoke of freedom—they crash over me in a wave of longing.

What is this feeling? This ache in my chest, this lightness in my step? I’ve never experienced anything like it before. It’s dangerous, I know. Feeling this strongly about anything—let alone another person—is strictly forbidden.

But as I make my way to my living unit, I can’t bring myself to regret it, the thrill of feeling something—anything—pulls me forward into the night.

For the first time in my life, I feel truly alive. And it’s all because of Ziva Emerson.

My NeuroMod begins vibrating, a low, ominous hum that sends a chill down my spine, signaling a warning moments before another hit of the dampener is injected, and my emotions disappear.