Why…
Why are they all silent?
And why does my neck feel like it's remembering something I've forgotten?
The silence was not emptiness, but a dense mass, as if the air itself had been stripped of any desire to vibrate.
Successive, steady footsteps struck the ground in a single rhythm—impossible to miss, impossible for anyone to own.
Victor was walking among the crowd.
He did not know when he had started walking, nor why he had not stopped.
He was looking.
No… he was not looking. He was observing.
The eyes functioned, the mind received, but understanding… was missing.
Faces without expression. Eyes open without focus. Mouths closed, as if speech had become a forbidden act, or a memory from an unauthorized time.
Why don't they speak?
Why do they move only when ordered?
They stood in long rows, straight with a cutting geometric precision, as if chaos had been abolished by an administrative decision.
Everybody knew its place. Every step knew its timing.
Victor… did not.
His head ached.
At first a light pain, then a hidden pressure, like an invisible hand pressing inward on his memory.
As if I… forgot something.
No—not something.
A forgetting without a name, without an image, without features.
A painful forgetting.
He muttered to himself—or tried to.
The noise existed only inside him, a scream without sound.
In the middle of this enormous line, a man approached him.
A black suit, its fabric absorbing light instead of reflecting it.
In his hand, a gun… not a familiar one. No clear barrel. No traditional trigger.
And around his neck…
Something coiled, curved, pale yellow, like a living metallic ribbon, pulsing with a faint glow.
It began to emit a sound.
Not a buzz, not a whistle… but a command.
A low rhythm that pierced bone before ear.
Victor understood.
He did not know how, but the understanding was instant and absolute:
Calm down.
Fear washed over him.
He tried to speak.
He failed.
As if language itself had withdrawn from his body, leaving behind a cold emptiness.
The line moved.
He moved with it.
He had not decided to.
His body obeyed something else—something higher, or deeper.
He passed people wearing identical gray work suits, unified, with identification cards hanging dully on their chests.
One by one… they disappeared behind a gate.
Until it was his turn.
A mechanical voice, toneless and indifferent:
Victim 307… proceed.
Something inside him trembled at the word.
Victim.
But his body stepped forward.
He entered a machine.
Its walls were smooth, cold, touching his skin like a medical file.
Light passed through him—through his eyes, his bones, his thoughts.
Then… green.
The green light.
The sign of safety.
The sign of validity.
He exited the gate.
The place beyond it was immense.
A hall with no visible end, divided into identical squares, sharp angles, merciless straight lines.
At every corner: a desk, a computer, a notebook.
Nothing else.
A faint smell—metal, old sweat, air recycled thousands of times.
The smell of work.
This… was a workplace.
He did not know who told him, but he believed it.
He went to a desk—his desk—and sat down.
He opened the browser.
The screen lit up.
But his mind… was empty.
What do I do?
What… do I do?
The pain returned.
Harsher this time.
A direct pressure at the back of his neck, as if a hot finger were pressing an internal button.
He raised his hand.
Touched something.
Burned.
A silent scream exploded in his chest.
It was the same thing.
The same yellow device coiled around his neck.
He looked around.
Everyone was wearing one.
The difference…
They did not feel it.
Immersed in their screens, fingers moving at inhuman speed, eyes that did not blink.
Machines with skin.
He noticed glances.
The observers.
Their eyes caught him like a statistical error.
He returned to the computer.
And suddenly…
Everything poured in.
Information.
Commands.
Ready-made knowledge—complete, effortless.
He began to work.
No—he did not begin. He was used.
Organizing files, writing code, modifying, correcting.
Intense, continuous work, without pause.
As if he were a battery connected to an inexhaustible source.
Time shattered.
Ten minutes.
Half an hour.
An hour.
Two hours.
Drowsiness crept in, like a small animal crawling along the edges of his awareness.
He reached out… to grab something.
Nothing.
He froze.
Where am I?
What was I looking for?
He examined the desk.
Nothing.
Behind the computer… nothing.
Under the table… nothing.
Yet the feeling remained.
A tangible loss.
Then…
A command.
Unspoken.
Invisible.
Work.
And with an involuntary motion, he slammed his head against the desk—directly on the back of his neck.
Blood flowed.
Hot.
Sticky.
His ear began to bleed.
He stood up.
He had not decided to stand.
His legs moved on their own.
He headed toward a door, where an observer stood.
Suddenly…
The walls turned into screens.
The face of an elderly man appeared, his features harsh, his eyes carved from cold stone.
His voice filled the space:
Do what must be done.
You are under my service.
Work for me… and for the advancement of science and the world.
You have no place beyond this.
Something in Victor's chest contracted.
He did not understand every word, but he understood the tone.
Ownership.
The observer emitted that sound again.
The same command.
Victor understood it.
And replied with a similar sound.
He entered the restroom.
The water was cold. Harsh.
He washed the blood from his face.
Stared at his reflection.
He did not recognize himself.
He returned to his desk.
Sat down.
And whispered, like an incantation:
I am doing my job.
I am doing my job.
But at the far end of the hall…
There was a window.
A massive city stretched beyond it.
Towers, lights, endless lines.
Work.
Place.
Why can't I speak?
Why does no one speak?
Why am I doing this?
Why does this old man control me?
Why am I wearing this suit?
Why am I here?
And where… Am I?
The questions piled up.
The pain intensified.
What keeps me here?
An internal scream tore apart.
I want to leave.
But… where?
Emptiness.
Who am I?
What is my name?
The pain in his neck pulsed—clear now.
This device… was the cause.
He reached for it.
Tried to remove it.
Burned.
He recoiled.
Then…
He smiled a desperate smile.
I'll endure.
He pulled it—hard.
Smoke rose.
The smell hit him—copper, ozone, and something sweetly organic. His own flesh, cooking.
His scream tore through his chest before escaping.
The pain…
Unbearable.
The device fell to the floor.
Silence.
Void.
He said, hoarsely:
"The pain… is gone."
But he did not realize.
The room… turned red.
The room was no longer a room.
Red was not merely an alarm, but a psychological transformation, as if the world had suddenly decided to bare its teeth.
The light grew heavier.
The air thickened.
The faces—the observers' faces—moved.
They ran.
No… they lunged.
Victor saw the movement before he understood it.
His body preceded his awareness once more.
He bent down, picked up the device from the floor. Something in it was still warm, as if it had been alive seconds ago.
He did not think.
Running erupted within him.
He tore off the suit as he ran, the fabric ripping like dead skin, then the shirt.
His breaths were short and sharp, as if his chest had not been designed for this much freedom at once.
The window.
The glass before him was not an obstacle, but a promise.
He struck it.
It exploded.
Shards flew, sharp flashes, a sound like a brief collective scream.
Victor jumped.
In the moment after the leap—
that brief void between decision and consequence—
He felt something like a memory.
A laugh?
A voice?
A name?
Then… the fall.
The city opened beneath him.
Towering buildings, luminous lines, roads intertwining like the circuits of a giant brain.
The air slapped his face—cold, pure, different from the air of the hall.
He hit the water.
The shock tore the breath from his lungs. Water filled his mouth, his nose, his eyes.
Cold bit into his body.
He sank.
Seconds…
An eternity.
Then he rose, gasping, coughing, striking the water with trembling arms.
He emerged.
He was on a surface.
A large water container, its faded blue plastic saving him as if it had been placed there for him.
He sat, sprawled, his chest rising and falling violently.
His body hit water—deep, shockingly deep.
Too deep for a rooftop container.
As if the building itself had decided to catch him.
He looked around.
A rooftop.
Eerily quiet.
No one.
"It seems they… lost my trail."
Cold.
His skin trembled.
"I need… clothes."
He found them hanging on a line.
A sports shirt.
Simple pants.
He did not hesitate.
He put them on.
He descended the building—long stairs, gray walls, the smell of dampness and rust.
No one noticed him.
The city.
The streets were wide, excessively clean.
People moved… yes.
But their movement was unnatural.
Synchronized steps.
Calculated stops.
Limited turns.
As if the entire city operated on a single system.
Victor said quietly:
"They… don't behave like I do."
He watched a woman pass by him.
Her face was empty, but her hand suddenly rose to adjust something behind her neck.
The device.
"It seems this device… has a role."
His stomach growled—a primitive protest.
"I'm… hungry."
He entered a restaurant.
No waiter.
No customers speaking.
He sat.
Suddenly, a floating electronic sign appeared before him—transparent, filled with symbols he did not recognize.
"What is this language…?"
He tried to read.
Failed.
"I don't understand anything… I'll choose anything."
He pressed randomly.
The sign vanished.
He looked around.
"This is strange… no trace of any human."
The table shook.
Then opened.
The food emerged.
No hands.
No sound.
A metal plate, light steam, a strange smell—not foul, but soulless.
He ate.
Hunger was stronger than doubt.
But with the first bite…
The headache returned.
Pressure in his head, the same place, the same old sensation.
He stopped.
"No… I won't eat this."
He pushed the plate away.
"It reminds me of something… before."
He stood.
He noticed a machine near the wall that dispensed bags.
"This is good."
He took a bag, placed the food inside.
"I'll examine it later."
Another sign appeared—a large number.
"A bill… probably."
He looked around.
"I didn't pay at the bag machine… so I won't pay here."
He smiled sarcastically.
"It seems payment… isn't necessary."
He left.
At the door, he automatically pressed a small button labeled ALERT in red.
He didn't notice.
He moved through the street, searching for a bag shop.
He found none.
An old woman passed beside him, carrying a bag.
He stopped.
Something inside him said: Take it.
He approached.
Reached out.
She pulled the bag back forcefully—stronger than he expected.
"Why is she clinging to it like that…?"
He said angrily:
"Give it to me… you don't have feelings."
He pushed her.
She stumbled… but did not let go.
Anger surged.
He saw the device behind her neck.
He grabbed it.
Pulled it off.
The old woman gasped.
Staggered.
Fell.
Tears streamed from her eyes.
He took the bag.
Then…
Something unexpected.
The old woman looked at him.
Her eyes… were present.
Her eyes cleared—the first real eyes he'd seen. They held galaxies of loss.
She said, brokenly:
"My dear…"
"I'm sorry…"
"I couldn't find you… yet."
She collapsed.
Victor froze.
He knelt.
Checked her pulse.
Nothing.
"She's… dead."
He stood with a strange coldness, as if his brain had disconnected from his heart.
"It doesn't matter."
He took her identification card.
He did not understand the writing.
But the name…
It was read inside him.
"Mai… Noctis?"
The name unlocked something—a door in a hallway he couldn't see.
Her eyes, clear now, held him.
"My dear…" she whispered, blood on her lips. "I'm sorry… I couldn't find you… yet."
Yet.
The word hung between them, a promise broken by her last breath.
He should feel something.
All he felt was the ghost of a memory: Someone else had died saying "yet."
He placed the food in the bag.
People passed.
No one stopped.
No one looked.
A narrow alley.
He sat.
He removed his formal shoes—worn, torn.
He held the device.
Examined it.
"This is strange…"
It was dead.
No green light.
But… red.
"The others were green… this one is red."
Footsteps.
Three.
He raised his head.
Three observers.
Surrounding him.
He stood quickly.
Bare feet.
He slung the bag over his shoulder.
Strange sounds came from them—an incomprehensible language.
But
the guns… were clear.
Victor understood the message.
The three observers aimed their weapons.
Victor stood barefoot, the bag heavy on his shoulder.
One thought echoed: Run.
But where?
```
To be continued…
Author's Note: This novel explores memory, control, and the silence between orders. If you enjoyed this chapter, consider leaving a rating or comment. New chapters every [Monday/Friday] .