I didn't report the crack in the panel.
Didn't mention the voice.
Didn't say a word about the way the room had breathed—not literally, but energetically. Like something living had moved through it and was now sitting quietly behind my skin.
I told myself it wasn't a lie.
Just… a delay in processing.
But when the panel chimed again the next morning, and Julian's face filled the screen with its usual softness, I couldn't look him directly in the eye.
He noticed.
Of course he did.
But he didn't press.
Not then.
He just asked if I'd slept, and I told him yes.
That was a lie.
The changes started subtly.
The light in the room would pulse just half a second before the food panel chimed. Always. As if I could sense the system initiating—no, before it initiated. Like I was synced to its decision loop.
When I brushed my fingertips across the floor one afternoon, I felt a thrum. Gentle. Steady. But reactive.
I tested it.
Stood still. Focused.
The walls dimmed.
