The hum of the vent was the only constant noise.
A low, rattling breath drawn through an unseen throat, pulsing faintly through the walls and ceiling. I listened to it. Counted the seconds between each stutter, each pitch shift. Even noise had a rhythm, and I needed rhythm to think.
I sat up.
The cuffs around my wrists were the older kind—titanium alloy, analog locks. No security link. No failsafe override. Just steel and screws. No skill could unlock them, and that was the point.
My arms ached.
My legs were sore.
But my head—my head was clear. For now.
There were no guards inside. No caras I could see. No red lights blinking in the corners. Just , the pale glow of an overhead fixture, and a tray of food by the far wall, untouched. The bread had gone stiff. The soup was a film of grease.
I focused on the silence.
Not the absence of sound—but its shape.
The hum. The distant clatter of machinery far below. A door that hissed open, sowhere deep down the hall. The minute crackle of artificial temperature control. Every sound ant movent. Every vibration, a routine.
They weren’t watching now. That much was clear. Not closely. That was the mistake.
I lowered my head and breathed through my nose.
Activate: Strategist (Lv. 5).
The effect wasn’t flashy. No surge. No icons. Just... clarity. A thread tightening through the fog. A pattern erging in the ss.
What’s worse is that when 3829 cos back, I’ll likely forget details of whatever plan I made and so Strategist did it’s best to avoid that.
It gave tactics when I was low on tools. Possibilities when mory started failing. Redundancies, routines, and failsafes—plans I could run even if I lost the ability to rember why.
If I forget this, the pieces need to remind .
I scooted toward the wall, wrists dragging against the concrete. A slight bend in the right cuff’s edge gave a scraping point. I leaned it against a tal floor plate and pressed.
Slow. Repetitive. Quiet.
One stroke. Then another. And another. Tiny lines at even intervals. Not deep enough to draw attention. Just noticeable. Countable.
Three to the left of the drain.
Two to the right.
Those weren’t random.
That’s where I drop. That’s when I move.
I stood, using my shoulder against the wall to balance. Walked to the far corner. Kicked the bowl slightly—just enough to knock the spoon under the bench. The tray scraped as it turned.
One notch of the tray handle bent upward.
Another cue.
They wouldn’t see it for what it was.
But I would. Later. When it mattered.
That was the core of it.
3829 didn’t erase data. He erased process. Disrupted the path between intention and execution. You could still think. Still want. You just... couldn’t follow through.
But with enough careful planning, I should be able to bypass this. Though I guess I’m a fool for not listening to 3830’s warning about relying on my skills too much.
I pressed my heel against one tile that sat slightly misaligned. Then shifted it again. Not enough to fix it—just enough to look deliberate.
That was where I’d lunge. If I rembered.
No, when I rembered.
The tile. The marks. The spoon. The tray.
They’d tell .
Hours passed.
I couldn’t tell how many. But the cold deepened. The lights stayed dim. At so point, I drifted. Half-conscious. Breathing shallow. Muscles twitching like they dread of moving.
I snapped awake when a static pulse hit my skull like a warning shot.
Instinct Trigger: System Interference Detected.
No visual cue. No icon. Just a ripple through my spine. Like a predator had breathed down my neck.
I sat up.
Breathing harder now.
My thoughts had slowed.
Not much—but enough to notice.
I clenched my jaw and muttered:
"Door. Left turn. Two seconds. Then down. Wait for the static. Then move."
It sounded hollow. Distant. Like I was speaking into a well.
I looked to the spoon.
Did I leave it that way?
I couldn’t rember.
Why was the tray turned?
I checked the cuff marks. Three left. Two right.
Was that for sothing? A code?
No. No, wait. That was placent. That was—
My head throbbed.
I shut my eyes.
Rember. Rember.
But the thread was slipping. Strategist could only hold so much without my help.
I tried again.
"Wait for the static. Then move. Three left. Two right."
It sounded absurd.
Like a mantra carved from a fever dream.
I turned toward the wall—looked at the tile.
That one.
It ant sothing.
Didn’t it?
I stared.
I almost... reached down to fix it. It was crooked. Annoying.
My fingers brushed it.
Stopped.
A whisper of doubt: Don’t touch it.
My hand pulled back.
My breath trembled.
Sothing inside still knew.
So part of rembered not to rember.
The door hissed open.
Cold air swept in with the chanical breath of sterilized space.
Boots. Three sets. And wheels. Cart. Equipnt.
No shouting. No commands. Just muted movent.
Clinical.
A researcher entered first. Sa one as before. Thin glasses. Scars along the scalp like old tech had once been threaded beneath it.
Behind him: a woman. Pale. Carrying a tray with injection tools and calibration nodes.
A third stood in the doorway—taller, stockier. Guard uniform, but no gun. He didn’t need one. Not when 3829 could snap us back to baseline with a blink.
They didn’t look at like a threat.
Just... cargo.
"Still docile," the first muttered, adjusting a valve on the cart. "Didn’t even attempt anything overnight."
The woman smirked. "Told you. Overrated reputation."
I didn’t speak.
Didn’t flinch.
Let them believe I was gone.
The hum began.
That sa awful build-up from before. A low-frequency diagnostic tone ant to resonate through nerves. Designed to keep us still, uncoordinated.
From the ceiling, the collar dropped again. The clamp’s padded arms flexed.
I watched it descend.
And then—
A flicker.
Soone moved wrong. Too far left. The tray’s shadow misaligned.
It hit like a knife through fog.
Everything reassembled.
The tray. The cuff marks. The spoon. The tile.
The crooked angle. The three and two.
The mantra.
The static.
Wait for the static. Then move.
It was all back.
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