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Lena doesn’t acknowledge my response, simply turning back to her work. Her hands move with precision, yet I notice a slight tremor, as if her body remembers what it once felt. Does she feel the same longing I do, the same desire for something more than this monotonous existence?

I keep watching her, wondering what kind of life we might have had. What friendships we could have formed—if only we were allowed to feel it.

But these days, authentic connection is a fantasy.

How can you truly know someone when you’re numb? When every word, every look, is monitored?

My fingers itch for the calibration dial.

Just one nudge. A tiny shift in the settings—enough to let a flicker of something real slip through.

Just enough to prove the human spirit can’t be silenced.

But I hold back.

Even the smallest act of defiance could cost me everything.

My hands move on autopilot while my mind drifts to forbidden places. A world where we could love, laugh, cry—where our feelings were truly ours. Not muted, not controlled by these cold, unfeeling devices strapped to our wrists.

A sudden commotion by the entrance pulls me back.

Two black-uniformed Harmonization Enforcers drag a middle-aged man into the room.

His face is twisted—half fear, half defiance. “Please, I didn’t mean to feel! It was an accident!” he pleads, his voice raw with emotion.

Watching in morbid fascination, they force him into a chair beside a workstation, restraining his limbs with cold efficiency. One of the Enforcers adjusts the man’s NeuroMod, and his cries fade into a dull, lifeless monotone.

“Citizen, you have violated Emotional Regulation Code 371. Your NeuroMod will be recalibrated, and you will be monitored closely for further infractions.”

The man’s eyes glaze over, his face slackening into the familiar mask of apathy. A shiver runs down my spine as I witness the brutal suppression of his emotions.

Marcus, a fellow Technician, is tasked with the recalibration.

From across the room, I see the tension in his neck—the reluctance in his movements.

The restrained man is led away, his spirit crushed.

A flicker of anger ignites inside me.

How can they do this to us?

How can they erase the very essence of humanity?

My NeuroMod vibrates sharply—warning of my rising emotions.

My fingers itch with restless energy, my heart hammering against my ribs.

The urge to defy the system surges—but I have only seconds before the NeuroMod doses me into numbness.

Each second ticks down like a countdown.

Sweat beads at my temples, trickling down my cheek—a sharp reminder of the risk I’m about to take.

Instead of a full rebellion, I settle for a small, subtle one.

I reach up and tug at the collar of my dark gray uniform, loosening it just enough to reveal a sliver of skin at my neck.

It’s tiny—barely noticeable—but it makes me feel alive, holding on to a shred of individuality in this sea of conformity.

I glance around carefully. No one has caught the slight transgression.

Fuck it.

I make a snap decision.

A few quick taps, and I lower my NeuroMod’s sensitivity—just enough to let a trickle of real emotion slip through.

For a brief, thrilling moment, fear, excitement, hope rush through me—intoxicating.

A glimpse of the life I’ve been denied.

But I know I can’t hold this without the Sentinel system flagging me.

Reluctantly, I reset my NeuroMod to its standard numbness.

My face returns to its mask of dutiful compliance.

Turning back to my workstation, my gaze meets a pair of deep green eyes across the room—Compliance Monitor Myall Hansen.

He watches me, a flicker of curiosity in his expression.

He pushes his unruly dark brown hair from his eyes, biceps flexing beneath his uniform.

My heart skips.

For a moment, I’m thankful for the muted emotions the NeuroMod forces on me—without it, my flushed face would betray me.

Myall steps around his workstation and approaches, his movements fluid and graceful despite his rugged exterior.

“Everything alright, Ziva?” His voice is low, meant only for my ears as he leans his tall, muscular frame against my workstation’s bench.

I nod, my tongue suddenly feeling too large for my mouth. “Just a glitch in the system. Nothing I can’t handle.” The words come out more breathless than I intend.

A ghost of a smile plays at the corners of his lips. “I have no doubt.”

His gaze lingers on mine for a moment longer than necessary, and I feel a flutter of something in my chest, a whisper of an emotion that shouldn’t be possible.

But the moment shatters with the sharp click of heels against the tile floor. My supervisor, Penn, her face pinched with disapproval, strides towards me—no doubt making her final rounds for the day.

“Emerson, what’s the meaning of this?” She gestures to my slightly disheveled uniform.

Shit.

Straightening, my fingers fumble to adjust my collar and cover up the sliver of tawny skin peeking out. “Apologies, ma’am. It won’t happen again.”

Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t press further. “See that it doesn’t.” With a final, pointed look, she continues on her rounds.

I exhale, heart pounding in my ears.

Catching Myall’s eye, he gives a small, almost imperceptible nod before returning to his work.