Time of Entry: Unknown
Subject ID: 32A
They tell you that when you lose your freedom, you'll feel it like a chain around your neck.
But I didn't feel the weight.
I felt the silence.
The van that brought me here had no windows. No sound but the hum of electricity and tires chewing gravel. My cuffs were tight, but not painful. My blindfold itched, but I didn't move. I didn't ask where we were going. Asking meant I believed there were answers. I'd stopped believing in those a long time ago.
When the doors opened, I expected noise—guards shouting, dogs barking, the chaos of intake. But there was only the whisper of wind and the hiss of a pneumatic seal breaking.
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere.
"Welcome, inmate. Your rehabilitation begins now."
No name. No number. Just a sentence wrapped in plastic calm.
They removed the blindfold. White walls. Seamless. No corners, no shadows. A single black line ran down the middle of the floor, like the spine of a closed book.
I followed it.
They didn't need guards. The walls moved for me, doors sighing open before I could reach them. I felt watched, but never saw a camera. I passed no one. Not until I reached the room.
Cell 42.
He was already inside. Sitting on a steel bench like he owned it. Broad shoulders, shaved head, the kind of face that looked better bruised. He looked up when I entered. One glance, and I knew he'd done time before. He had that animal stillness. The kind that only comes when the fight-or-flight part of your brain has been replaced with something colder.
"Great," he muttered. "They gave me a roommate."
I didn't answer.
The door closed behind me. No click, no slam. Just silence.
We sat in opposite corners for a long time. The only sound was the faint hum—like distant power lines or a barely tuned radio. I tried to trace it. It came from the walls. Or maybe my own skull.
I studied the room. No sink. No toilet. No vents. Just a cot, a bench, and the man.
And the voice.
"Subject 32A and Subject 47B. Compatibility trial initiated. Emotional baselines will now be established."
The lights shifted slightly, almost imperceptibly. Cooler. Bluer. The bench under me pulsed once—like a heartbeat.
The man snorted. "That's new."
I looked at him. "You've been here before?"
He grinned. It wasn't friendly. "Enough to know they like to play tricks on you."
I nodded slowly. "Name's Jonah."
He didn't offer his. Just leaned back and closed his eyes. "Doesn't matter in here. Nothing does."
I wanted to disagree. But the longer I sat, the more I realized I couldn't remember the last time I'd spoken my own name. Not aloud. Not to someone real.
If he even was real.
I clenched my fists, nails digging into palms. That pain was real. That counted for something.
"Why are you here?" I asked.
He cracked an eye open. "Why is anyone? Bad decisions. Worse luck."
"No." I swallowed. "I mean, what did they say you did?"
He paused. Then shrugged. "I don't remember anymore. It changes."
That stopped me cold. "What do you mean it changes?"
He looked straight at me then. Really looked.
"They get in your head. Rewire things. First, it's little stuff—your name, your birthday. Then it's bigger. Where you lived. Who you loved. What you did."
"You're saying... they make you forget?"
"I'm saying they make you question. Until you're not sure if you ever had a truth to begin with."
I stared at the floor. That black line again. It led right to the middle of the room and stopped.
I looked back up.
"Jonah," I said again. Louder. Firmer. "My name is Jonah Harper. I'm a journalist. I was arrested for—"
But I stopped. Because suddenly, I couldn't remember what the article was about.
I knew I'd written it. I remembered the fallout. The protests. The blackout. My editor's scream echoing down the phone line.
But the words were gone. Like someone had deleted them from my brain.
I looked at the man across from me, and for the first time, I felt afraid.
He leaned forward, eyes dark.
"Welcome to the program, Jonah."