They said freedom was a birthright.
But when Azel was born, they said he was broken.
It started with a box.
Every newborn in the capital district was given one — a pale silver ring, no wider than a coin, placed against the skin just before the first cry. It clicked into place with a soft glow and stayed there, forever. Wrapped around the temple like a halo, it filtered their thoughts, wiped their pain, guided their loyalty.
Azel didn't get one.
They told him his brain chemistry was incompatible. Some rare defect in his neural field. His parents were "reassigned," and he was transferred to Unit 9 of the Clarity Wards — a sterile block of concrete halls, state-issued meals, and cold instructors with voices that echoed like machines.
At seven, he realized he was alone.
At nine, he stopped asking questions.
At twelve, he began to watch.
Every day began with The Recital.
Azel stood among the other students, hands behind his back, spine straight, eyes forward. The others wore Clarity Rings, glowing a soft blue. Peaceful expressions blanketed their faces like masks carved from wax. The instructor's voice boomed through the overhead system.
"Unity is clarity."
"Clarity is peace."
"Peace is freedom."
The children spoke in perfect unison — except for Azel. His lips didn't move.
He stared ahead, outwardly calm, inwardly raging.
The words never made sense to him. Not really. If this was peace, why did it feel so tight? Why did the smiles never reach anyone's eyes? Why did they all blink at the same time?
He tested it once. During Recital, he dropped his pencil. No one looked. But three students blinked—in unison—exactly one second later.
It wasn't a reaction. It was programming.
After Recital came Mind Conditioning, where lessons streamed directly into students' minds through their Rings. Azel was given a "manual alternative" — a glowing slate and a stylus.
Today's lesson: "The War That Never Was."
The opening line read:
"Before the Accord, the world was nothing but hatred and noise. The Rings saved us."
But Azel's stylus paused.
He remembered a dream he'd had the night before — only it didn't feel like a dream. It felt like a memory.
A voice. Soft. Familiar. Female.
Someone holding his face and whispering:
"Don't forget who you are."
He looked around. Everyone else sat still, blank stares locked onto their streams. Their Rings glowed blue… except one.
To his right, a boy named Kain. His Ring flickered yellow for a split second.
Then blue again.
Azel's eyes narrowed.
After lessons, the students were released into the Reflection Courtyard — a square of dry grass and glass benches surrounded by silent towers. The sky above was always gray, even when it wasn't cloudy.
Azel sat alone under the broken holo-tree.
The other children sat in neat circles, discussing their reflections. "I felt joy when I repeated the Recital." "I felt calm when I didn't resist." "I felt shame when I looked away from the Unity screen."
Their conversations sounded like scripts.
He reached for the small notebook he'd hidden under a loose stone. It was illegal to write anything unsanctioned. But he didn't care. It was his. His handwriting. His words.
He flipped to the last page:
"They don't remember what they forgot. That's what scares me most."
Before he could write more, a voice pierced the air.
"Azel."
It was Kain.
The boy never spoke to him before. His face looked the same as always — smooth, calm, almost hollow — but there was something in his eyes.
Flickering. Like a match daring to spark.
Azel stood slowly. "What?"
"I had a dream."
Azel's breath caught.
"In the dream," Kain continued, his voice barely a whisper, "there was no Ring. No Recital. No school. Just… music. And a woman with dark eyes. She said—"
"Don't forget who you are."
They said it in unison.
The silence that followed was loud. Too loud.
The sky above flickered. Just slightly.
Azel looked up.
Was that… a crack?
No. A shadow. A drone.
The device buzzed once and moved on, disappearing behind the tower.
Kain sat beside him, looking shaken. "I think something's wrong with me."
Azel handed him the notebook.
"You're not broken," he said. "You're just starting to wake up."
That night, Azel dreamed again.
But this time, the woman wasn't alone.
She stood beside a man — tall, weathered, marked with symbols on his neck.
The man looked directly at Azel and said:
"You are not the first. But you may be the last."
Then the dream shattered.
Azel awoke with his hand clenched into a fist.
Inside it was a chain fragment. Small, metallic, and ice-cold.
Where it came from, he didn't know.
But for the first time in his life, Azel smiled.