Page 5

Over the years, Grandma Elara fed that seed with countless stories that wrap around me like a warm blanket—each word a whisper of forgotten freedom, leaving a hollowness in my chest: an aching reminder of what was and what can never be again.

She spoke of a time when people laughed freely, cried openly, and loved with their whole hearts.

A time when every day was an adventure, full of unpredictable highs and lows.

She never outright condemned The Harmonization Authority, but her nostalgia for the past made it clear where her sympathies lay.

It was Grandma Elara who explained the concept of freedom to me.

Not the kind enshrined in laws and regulations, but the deeper, more personal freedom to be oneself—to feel and express every emotion without fear of reprisal.

Her wisdom came from a place of lived experience, and I drank it in like a man in a desert finding a hidden spring.

I blink, the memories fading as quickly as they came. My throat tightens. She was right. Looking around at my colleagues, I see nothing but empty shells, going through the motions of living without truly feeling alive.

“Hansen,” a sharp, feminine voice cuts through my reverie. “Your productivity has decreased by 3.7% in the last five minutes. Is there a problem?”

Swallowing hard, I force my face into a neutral expression, glancing up at my morning supervisor. “No, ma’am. Just recalibrating my focus.” I say as she continues on her rounds.

Glancing up from my workstation, I catch sight of Ziva across the aisle. Her long, light brown hair cascades down her shoulder as she bends over her NeuroMod console, nimble fingers adjusting its controls. A familiar ache blooms in my chest.

“Ridiculous,” I mutter, forcing my gaze back to my screen. “Quit staring, Myall.”

But my mind wanders, wrestling with the constant internal conflict. The regime’s mantra echoes—emotions lead to chaos. Control brings peace. Yet every fiber of my being strains against it.

Ziva looks up, catching my eye. She quirks an eyebrow, the tiniest hint of a smirk playing at her lips.

“Hansen,” she calls out, her voice carefully measured. “I need your input on this compliance report.”

Standing, I approach her station, wiping my sweaty palms on my pants as I walk. “Of course, Emerson. What seems to be the issue?”

As I lean in to examine her screen, I catch a whiff of her scent—clean and slightly floral. It takes every ounce of control not to close my eyes and breathe deeply.

“See this anomaly?” Ziva points to a graph, her finger barely brushing mine. The contact jolts through me. “It doesn’t fit the standard pattern.”

Focus on the data, not how close you are to her.

“You’re right. It could indicate a malfunction in the citizens NeuroMod, or—”

“Or non-compliance,” Ziva finishes, her hazel eyes meeting mine with an intensity that makes me wonder if we’re still talking about the report. For a moment, I see a flash of something in her eyes—defiance, perhaps?—before it’s quickly masked.

“Thanks for flagging it,” I say, careful to hide the resentment from my tone, “I’ll review the data.”

Ziva’s lips curve upwards in a small, almost melancholic smile. My gaze drifts to her lips, noting the fullness of her bottom lip and the faint scar on her warm tawny skin—right where a dimple would be.

Each day feels like walking a tightrope, the chasm of my emotions yawning beneath me. I cling to my duty, but Ziva’s smile tugs at my heart, tempting me to fall.

Returning to my workstation, my mind wanders again. Is it possible Ziva feels the same frustration, the same longing for freedom? Or am I projecting my own desires onto her, seeing what I want to see?

One thing’s certain—this growing attraction, this connection—is dangerous. But as I steal another glance at Ziva from across the aisle, I can’t bring myself to care. In a world of emptiness, she makes me feel alive.

Leaning back in my chair, I scan the rows of data scrolling across my screen from the citizen that Ziva reported.

My fingers fly over the keyboard, inputting complex algorithms to detect even the slightest deviation in emotional patterns.

It’s ironic, really. I’m using my intelligence to maintain the very system I despise.

“Hansen,” my supervisor’s voice crackles through the intercom at my workstation. “Report on Sector 7’s compliance levels. Now.”

Taking a deep breath, I suppress my irritation and steady myself. “Right away, ma’am.” My voice is calm, betraying none of the turmoil beneath.

I compile the report, acutely aware of the weight of my actions. Each number represents a person, a life constrained by the regime’s iron grip.

“Compliance levels in Sector 7 are at 98.7%,” I announce, my tone neutral. “There’s a slight anomaly in sub-section C, but it’s now within acceptable parameters.”

“Good work, Hansen. The latest dissent appears to have been squashed,” comes the reply. “Keep monitoring.”

I exhale slowly, relief mingling with guilt. I’ve just condemned countless people to continued emotional abuse.

When I landed my job at eighteen in the Compliance Monitoring Division, my goal was to make a positive impact.

It’s been six years now, and I have yet to make a difference for anyone.

Each report I process feels like a chain tightening around my chest, squeezing the breath from my lungs.

It makes me question whether I am the instrument of my own oppression.

As the lunch hour approaches, I feel a desperate need for solitude. Grabbing my regulation nutritional packet, I slip away to a secluded corner of the building’s rooftop garden.

Sitting on a cold metal bench, I stare out at the stark cityscape. The towering gray buildings seem to close in around me, a physical manifestation of the oppression we all live under.

What am I doing here? Am I really making a difference?

Grandma’s stories spoke of a time when people felt freely—laughing, crying, loving with abandon—before The Authority. I think of Ziva, and the spark I see in her eyes. And I feel the weight of all those who can’t feel at all.

There has to be another way. I can’t keep living like this. None of us can.

As lunch ends and I head back to my workstation, I know I have no choice. For now, at least, I must continue to be the perfect Compliance Monitor. It’s the only way to stay close to the heart of the system—and the only way I might one day find a way to bring it down.

As I return to my workstation, I stop dead in my tracks.

Supervisor Krell—the most rigid in our workforce—stands beside my workstation.

His presence looms over me like a shadow, his cold blue eyes drilling into my soul.

My heart pounds, a frantic drumbeat that echoes through my chest, threatening to betray my composure.

“Hansen,” he barks, his voice devoid of any warmth. “Your productivity metrics have shown… fluctuations of late.”

Swallowing hard, I force my face to remain impassive. “I assure you, sir, I am operating at peak efficiency.”

Krell’s thin lips curl into a sneer. “Are you? Perhaps a more thorough evaluation is in order. Perhaps a Harmonization Session will help get you back to peak efficiency.”

My heart hammers in my chest, but I keep my voice steady, even when my NeuroMod vibrates in warning. “With all due respect, sir, I don’t believe that’s necessary. My work speaks for itself.”

“Are you questioning my authority, Hansen?” Krell leans in, his breath hot on my face. I wish my other supervisor hadn’t left for the day.

Standing my ground, I meet his gaze. “No, sir. I’m simply stating facts. My compliance record is impeccable.”

For a tense moment, we stare each other down. I sense my coworkers’ eyes watching the scene unfold.

Finally, Krell steps back. “Very well. But I’ll be watching you closely, Hansen. One misstep, and it’s Reconditioning. Understood?”

“Perfectly, sir,” I reply, my voice betraying nothing of the rebellion brewing inside me.

As Krell stalks away, I sink into my chair, exhaling slowly.

That was too close. I need to be more careful.

The rest of my shift passes in a blur of data and compliance reports. When the end-of-day signal finally sounds, a weight lifts from my shoulders.

Gathering my things, I nod goodbye to my colleagues. I step out into the crisp evening air, my steps quickening as I head towards the security checkpoint, leaving this hellhole behind for the day.