The sirens did not scream anymore.
They breathed.
Low. Mechanical. Endless.
Elias learned, long ago, that silence was more dangerous than noise. Noise meant the war was far enough away to be heard. Silence meant it had arrived.
He sat on the cold floor of his family's flat, knees pressed to his chest, listening to the breathing sirens through the cracked concrete wall. The sound vibrated in his bones, not loud enough to hurt, but loud enough to remind him that the world was still owned by Mancheister.
Owned. That was the word they used.
Not ruled. Not governed. Owned.
Outside the small, grimy window, the sky was the color of ash. It had been that way for years, though Elias could not remember when it had first changed. His mother once told him stories of blue skies, of white clouds shaped like animals. He had asked her why the clouds now looked like smoke.
She never answered.
The loudspeakers crackled.
Elias froze.
Every citizen froze when the loudspeakers spoke. It was instinct now, carved into them through fear and repetition.
A man's voice followed. Calm. Deep. Unfeeling.
"Citizens of Sector 12," it said. "Remain compliant. Remain loyal. Remain alive."
Remain alive.
It was not a promise. It was an instruction.
Elias stared at the floor.
Remain alive meant survive today.
Tomorrow was not guaranteed.
A heavy knock came from somewhere down the corridor. Metal against metal. Sharp. Final.
Elias stopped breathing.
Boots followed. Slow. Measured. Unhurried.
Enforcers.
Even the walls seemed to shrink when they walked.
He had seen them only once, up close. Tall figures wrapped in black coats, faces hidden behind smooth masks with no mouths. Only glass eye lenses. Reflective. Empty.
They did not shout. They did not threaten.
They simply arrived.
And people disappeared.
The boots stopped.
Elias counted in his head.
One.
Two.
Three.
A door slammed open somewhere nearby. A woman screamed. It was cut short, like someone had turned off a machine.
Then silence.
Then boots again.
Walking away.
Elias exhaled.
He had survived another inspection.
For now.
He turned his head slowly toward the far corner of the room.
His father sat there, unmoving.
Watching the wall.
He had been watching that same spot for weeks.
"Father," Elias whispered.
No response.
His father's eyes were open, but they did not see Elias. They saw something else. Something distant. Something broken.
The war had taken his voice long before it took his strength.
Elias stood and crossed the room carefully, as if sudden movement might shatter what remained of him.
"I'll get water," Elias said softly.
Still nothing.
Elias lifted the dented metal cup and walked toward the sink. The pipes groaned as he turned the handle. Brown water trickled out, thin and reluctant.
He waited.
He always waited.
Eventually, it cleared enough.
He filled the cup halfway.
Water was rationed now. Everything was rationed. Food. Heat. Light.
Even words.
He returned and placed the cup beside his father.
His father did not reach for it.
Elias lowered himself back onto the floor.
He remembered when his father used to speak.
Used to laugh.
Used to tell him stories about a Britain that did not belong to Mancheister.
A Britain that belonged to its people.
Those stories were illegal now.
Truth was illegal now.
Elias leaned his head against the wall.
He closed his eyes.
And listened.
Not to the sirens.
Not to the boots.
But to something deeper.
A faint sound beneath everything else.
A hum.
It came from the walls.
From the ceiling.
From the ground.
Mancheister was always listening.
Everyone knew it.
No one said it.
Because saying it made it real.
And reality was dangerous.
A sudden flicker of light filled the room.
Elias opened his eyes.
The television.
It had turned on by itself.
It always did.
The screen glowed white for a moment before forming the symbol.
The Eye.
A perfect black circle surrounded by sharp lines, like cracks spreading outward.
The symbol of Mancheister.
Elias felt his stomach tighten.
The voice returned.
"Citizen Elias Ward."
His blood froze.
They had said his name.
He had done nothing wrong.
He was sure.
He had followed every rule.
Spoken only when allowed.
Eaten only when permitted.
Thought—
He stopped.
Thought was the one thing they could not measure.
Or so he hoped.
"Citizen Elias Ward," the voice repeated. "Stand."
He did.
Slowly.
Carefully.
His legs trembled, but he forced them to hold.
"Approach."
He stepped closer to the screen.
His reflection stared back at him in the glass.
Thin.
Pale.
Eyes too old for his age.
"You have been observed," the voice said.
Observed.
Not accused.
Not yet.
Observed.
His heart pounded so loudly he was certain they could hear it.
"Yes," Elias whispered.
The voice did not respond to his answer. It never responded to answers. It only delivered instructions.
"You are now of qualifying age."
Qualifying.
That word again.
Words in Mancheister always sounded harmless until you understood them.
"Further evaluation will occur."
Evaluation.
Elias knew what that meant.
Children disappeared at qualifying age.
Some returned.
Different.
Empty.
Most did not return at all.
"You will comply," the voice said.
It was not a question.
"Yes," Elias said.
Because no other answer existed.
The screen went black.
The room felt colder.
Elias stood there, staring at his own reflection long after the symbol vanished.
He did not recognize the boy staring back.
That boy looked afraid.
Elias did not feel afraid.
He felt something else.
Something worse.
Something dangerous.
He felt aware.
He turned slowly toward his father.
For a moment, he thought nothing had changed.
Then he saw it.
His father's eyes were no longer fixed on the wall.
They were fixed on him.
Focused.
Present.
Alive.
His father's lips moved.
Barely.
A whisper.
The first word Elias had heard from him in months.
"Run."
Elias froze.
The word echoed louder than any siren.
Run.
Not comply.
Not obey.
Run.
His heart raced.
His mind screamed.
No one ran.
Running meant death.
Running meant worse than death.
His father's hand twitched weakly, gripping Elias's sleeve with surprising strength.
His voice came again, fragile and breaking.
"They are lying."
Lying.
The forbidden word.
The most dangerous word.
Elias stared at him.
He had never heard his father say anything like that.
Not before the war.
Not after Mancheister.
"They watch," his father whispered. "But they do not see everything."
His grip weakened.
His eyes began to fade again.
The moment was ending.
Whatever strength had returned was leaving.
"Remember," his father said, barely audible. "Truth lives beneath."
Beneath what?
Elias wanted to ask.
But his father's hand fell.
His eyes returned to the wall.
Gone again.
Elias stood there, shaking.
The sirens breathed.
The walls hummed.
The Eye slept.
But something had changed.
For the first time in his life, Elias understood something Mancheister never wanted anyone to understand.
Fear was not the strongest weapon.
Awareness was.
And now—
He was aware.
Outside, somewhere in the dead streets of Great Britain, the war continued.
But inside Elias Ward, something far more dangerous had begun.
A question.
And questions were the beginning of rebellion.