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Ziva

As the day winds down, I’m alone in my section of the workroom, waiting for the next group of employees to arrive. Glancing around to ensure no one is watching and no cameras are swiveled in my direction, I carefully pry open the casing of the device on my wrist.

The closer I lean over the circuitry, the heavier the weight of what I’m doing feels, a cold sweat trickling down my spine. I wish I could do this in the comfort of my own home, but the necessary tools are restricted to this facility and closely monitored by security.

I trace my calloused fingers along the wires, trying to discern their purpose.

Each component seems to hold the key to our emotional suppression.

It’s why I became a NeuroMod Technician in the first place—to understand how it all works.

I’ve been surviving here for the past four years since completing my education.

If I can just figure out the right combination, the right sequence to disable the NeuroMods hold…

Lost in thought, I barely register the click of heels approaching. I hastily snap the casing back into place, my hands trembling slightly as I look up to see my supervisor standing before my workstation.

Her eyes narrow, her lips pressing into a thin line as she stops before my workstation.

The silence stretches between us, thick with unasked questions.

She doesn’t speak right away. Instead, her gaze flits to my NeuroMod, then back to my face.

The silence between us stretches, and I wonder if she can hear my pulse pounding in my throat.

“Emerson, what are you still doing here?” Her voice slices through the silence—sharp, accusatory, laced with authority that makes my skin crawl. Her scrutiny pins me like a spotlight, each second stretching into eternity as my mind scrambles for an excuse.

Forcing myself to meet her gaze, I swallow hard, my mind scrambling. My heart is a wild animal in my chest, desperate to escape. “Just running some final diagnostics, ma’am. Wanted to ensure everything was in order before I left for the day.”

My NeuroMod vibrates in warning as she looms closer. The air turns thick and suffocating, each breath a reminder of the risk I’m taking under her gaze.

“Is that so? And what exactly were you doing with the casing open?”

I force myself to meet her stare. The pulse in my temple throbs like a drum, drowning out the sounds around me. My device vibrates a second time. “I noticed a slight irregularity in the output. I wanted to check for loose connections before reporting it.”

I take a deep steadying breath, forcing my heart rate to slow.

For a moment, she says nothing, and I fear she sees right through my lie.

But then, miraculously, she gives a curt nod.

“Very well. But in the future, any irregularities should be reported immediately to a Compliance Monitor. We can’t have our Technicians taking matters into their own hands. ”

“Of course, ma’am. It won’t happen again.” I keep my voice steady, even as relief floods through me.

She gives me one last, lingering look before turning to leave. “See that it doesn’t. I’ll see you tomorrow, Emerson.”

As her footsteps fade, I release a shaky breath, my knees still wobbling. That was too close. I know I’m treading on dangerous ground, but I can’t stop now. Not when I’m so close to understanding the truth behind these devices that control our every emotion.

As I readjust the NeuroMod casing, a flicker of movement at the edge of my vision catches my attention.

It’s Myall, his piercing green eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that makes my spine stiffen.

Something unnamable flickers in his expression as his gaze stays fixed on me across the row of workstations.

I thought he’d left. Did he see what I did? The way he watches me—it’s like he’s weighing a truth I’m not ready to share.

A flush creeps up my neck. I drop my gaze, pretending to focus on the device in my hands. But even as I pack up my belongings, I can feel his eyes on me, studying me.

Please, don’t report me.

I risk a glance and find myself drawn to the strong line of his jaw, to the way his dark, unruly hair falls across his forehead. He’s not like the others—with their blank stares and robotic movements. There’s something alive in him. Something real.

Lost in thought, I almost miss the hushed conversation nearby as employees trickle in for the next shift. As I strain to listen, snippets of their words reach my ears. Two Technicians, their voices hushed and urgent.

“Did you hear about the graffiti in Sector 7?” The Technician with a stock of dark curls says. His voice dropping to a whisper, urgency lacing every syllable as if the very walls might betray his words. I lean closer, straining to catch every word.

“No, what happened?” his companion replies, glancing furtively around to ensure they’re not overheard.

“Someone spray-painted a message on The Authority’s Detention Center. ‘Emotions are not a crime,’ it said. Can you believe it?”

I don’t register the approach of heavy footsteps until it’s almost too late. Jerking my head up, I see a patrol of Authority Enforcers marching down the aisle, their black uniforms and gleaming badges a harsh reminder of the power they wield.

Panic surges through me, setting my nerves alight. My heartbeat roars in my ears, drowning out everything else. They’re headed straight for the workstation where the hushed conversation happened.

Acting on instinct, I lurch to my feet, sending a tray of tools clattering to the ground. The noise echoes through the cavernous room, drawing every eye in my direction—including those of the Enforcers.

For a heartbeat, I freeze, certain that my guilt is written all over my face. As the squad leader’s gaze bores into me, I force myself to meet it with a look of wide-eyed innocence.

“I’m so sorry,” I stammer, my voice trembling with a carefully measured mix of fear and contrition. “I didn’t mean to disturb the peace. It won’t happen again.”

His helmeted gaze lingers, and my throat tightens as I fight to stay calm. Behind that visor, he could be calculating my every move, deciding if I’m a threat. With a curt nod, he motions for his squad to continue their patrol through the room, leaving me weak-kneed with relief.

As I bend to gather the scattered tools, I catch a glimpse of the two Technicians who had been discussing the graffiti.

They’re studiously focused on setting up their workstations, their faces carefully blank, but I can see the glimmer of gratitude in their eyes as they meet my gaze for the briefest of instants.

I glance back at Myall’s station, hoping he’s gone—but he’s still watching, his expression unreadable.

Shit.

I quickly gather the rest of my tools and head out, passing through the security checkpoint with my head down and expression carefully neutral.

The streets are empty when I exit the facility at last, as they usually are after work hours.

In a truly harmonious society, there’s no need for socializing or recreation.

Everyone goes home, eats their prescribed meals, and sleeps the recommended eight hours.

It’s efficient. It’s predictable. It’s absolutely fucking soul-crushing.

On my way home, I pass The Authority’s propaganda lining the city walls.

Bright posters plastered on the walls depict idyllic scenes of citizens smiling vacantly, their eyes glazed with compliance.

The slogans—‘Harmony is Happiness’ and ‘Balance is Bliss’—seem to mock those who dare to feel anything deeper than surface-level satisfaction.

I’ve seen the broadcasts too many times to count—smiling, vacant faces proclaiming the joy of submission, the bliss of emotional regulation.

It’s absurd, almost laughable, but beneath it all, I know that’s what they want us to believe.

The real tragedy is how many of us do. They tell us harmony is happiness, but I wonder—what’s the point of a world that only wants you to feel what it’s told you to?

I still remember the day The Authority took my parents.

I was six years old, and we were eating dinner—real food, not the nutrient packs we have now.

I remember the warmth of my mother’s laughter, rich and full, mingling with the aroma of her favorite strawberry pie baking in the oven.

That night felt like a dream, one that shattered into a thousand pieces when the door swung open.

A squad of Authority Enforcers marched in and declared my parents emotionally unstable.

They gave them a choice—submit to recalibration or face indefinite detention.

My parents chose detention. I never saw them again. I’ve asked the detention center for updates more times than I can count—always told my parents aren’t on any list.

They were fools. Brave, beautiful fools.

Reaching my building, I take the stairs two at a time. There’s an elevator, but I prefer the exertion. Unlocking the door to my apartment, I slip inside, shutting out the world and its oppressive calm.

Inside, my apartment is small and sparsely furnished, just enough to meet The Authority’s standards for a single occupant. The walls seem to close in around me, a monochrome palette of grays and whites. I tell myself it’s a blank canvas, though I’ve never had the courage to add color.

I head to the tiny kitchen and pour myself a glass of water, then make my way to the bedroom. There, in the bottom drawer of my worn dresser, beneath a pile of old clothes, is my most dangerous possession—a notebook.

Taking it out, I run my fingers over the leather cover. It’s worn and soft, like an old friend. Opening it to the last page, I read the words I wrote last week.

Why do we fear our own feelings? Are we even alive if we can’t feel?

I grab a pen and start writing, the words spilling out like a burst pipe.

I miss them so much. It’s been eighteen years now. Every day I wonder if they’re still alive, if they’re still the people they were. Would things have been better if they’d just submitted instead of resisting? Would I be better off if I gave in too?

The pen feels foreign in my hand, heavy with the weight of unspoken truths.

Each stroke on the page is a rebellion, a tiny act of defiance against the numbness that threatens to envelop me.

These are questions I already know the answers to, but admitting them, even in the privacy of my own home, is dangerous.

Closing the notebook, I press it against my chest, as if somehow the paper and ink can protect me.

It’s all I have left of the real me, the part they can’t touch.

A knock startles me. I shove the notebook into the drawer and check the peephole. It’s Wren, my neighbor two doors down. She’s holding something, but I can’t tell what.

I open the door a crack. “Yeah?”

“Ziva, hi.” Wren’s voice is too bright—annoyingly cheerful, the kind that makes me wonder if her NeuroMod’s malfunctioning. Her voice rings loud in the quiet I cling to. Maybe that forced cheerfulness is just a mask—one hiding the same fears that gnaw at me at night.

“Do you have any sugar? I’m all out.”

Sugar.

The black market for contraband items like sugar and spices has grown in recent years, a sign that people are starting to crave more than just emotional variety. I have a small stash, but I hesitate.

“Since when do you bake?” I ask, eyeing the empty cup in her hand.

She shrugs. “Thought I’d give it a try. Something to do, you know?”

I sigh and open the door wider. “Wait here.”

I grab a small container of sugar from the back of the cupboard. I don’t know why I hoard it—I never use it. Maybe it’s the idea of having something illicit. Something with flavor.

Walking back to the door, I hand Wren the container. Her eyes light up. “You’re a lifesaver. I’ll bring back whatever I don’t use.”

“Keep it,” I say. “I don’t need it.”

She starts to turn away, then pauses. “Hey, Ziva… A bunch of us are getting together to watch the new Balance is Bliss episode. You should come.”

I suppress a groan. Balance is Bliss is a fabricated reality show created by artificial intelligence. The last thing I want is to sit through an hour of propaganda, especially with a group of true believers. But saying no outright would raise suspicions.

“I’ll see if I have time,” I say, noncommittally.

Wren smiles, and for a moment I think it looks genuine. “We’d love to have you. It’s always more fun with friends.”

Friends.

I force a smile, close the door, and lean against it, exhaling slowly. I’ve made it this far by keeping to myself, never letting anyone get too close. The more you care, the more vulnerable you become.

I think of my parents again, of the life they wanted for me. A life with real connections, real community. A life with friends.

The thought of friends, of connections, leaves a hollow ache in my chest. I know I can’t risk exposing my true thoughts and feelings about The Authority. But this loneliness—it’s a weight I can’t carry anymore.