I didn't sleep after the message.
At 3:17 a.m., I opened my laptop and typed: Luka Abara.
Not Veridian student. Not alumni. Just his name.
A few results. A regional news snippet: Local Teen Accepted to Prestigious Academy. A grainy photo of him at a science fair, grinning, holding a trophy. A deleted Instagram account. That was it.
No obituary.
No memorial.
No mention of him at all on the school site.
I opened the student directory — a public PDF on the Veridian site. Scrolled through the Class of 2024.
He wasn't there.
Not missing.
Not marked as transferred.
Just… gone.
Like he'd never existed.
At breakfast, I found Nia again. Same table. Same tea. This time, I didn't ask to sit. I just did.
She didn't look up. "You're awake early."
"They erased him," I said.
She stirred her tea. "Who?"
"Luka. His name's not in the directory. No record. Nothing."
Nia set the spoon down. "You went into the archive room."
"I saw the binder. The torn pages."
She studied me. "And the note?"
"It said, They watch the watchers."
For the first time, something flickered in her eyes. Not fear.
Recognition.
"You're not like the others," she said.
"I don't want to be."
She leaned forward, voice barely above a whisper. "Then stop looking for answers in the past. Look at the present."
She slid her phone across the table.
On the screen: a live campus map. Blue dots moved slowly through the halls — students, tagged by ID. At the edge of the screen, a single red dot pulsed in Room B12.
Medical Wing – Restricted Access
"Kieran Vale was in there last night," she said. "For twenty-three minutes."
"So?"
"So the Alpha doesn't do wellness checks," she said. "He is the system. And if he's going to Medical at midnight, it's not for a check-up."
I thought of the earpiece. The voice last night.
Sleep improves compliance.
"What's in B12?" I asked.
She closed the phone. "Where they keep the ones who don't adjust."
That afternoon, I took a wrong turn.
Not really.
I walked toward the east wing, past the labs, down a narrow corridor marked ADMIN – STAFF USE ONLY. The door at the end had a keypad and a small camera above it.
I waited.
Twenty minutes later, a nurse came out, swiped her badge, and held the door open for a second.
I slipped in behind her.
The hall was colder here. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Doors with no names, only numbers. At the end: B12.
I tried the handle.
Locked.
But through the small glass panel, I saw shelves — not medicine, not files.
Hard drives.
Racks of them, blinking green and red.
And on the wall, a monitor displaying a single line of text:
INDEX – ACTIVE – NEXT UPDATE: 03:00
I stepped back.
Too late.
A voice behind me: "You're not supposed to be here."
I turned.
Kieran Vale stood in the hall, hands in his pockets, face unreadable.
I didn't run.
"I was lost," I said.
He looked at the door. Then at me.
"You don't seem like the type to get lost."
"No," I said. "I don't."
He didn't report me.
But that night, my earpiece didn't speak.
Instead, my screen lit up with a single message — no sender, no trace:
STOP DIGGING.
OR YOU'LL END UP LIKE HIM.
I stared at the words.
Then I opened a new file on my laptop.
Typed three letters at the top:
LUA
And beneath it, one line:
They can erase your name.
But not your truth.