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Chapter 10 - CHAPTER NINE

I didn't go to class the next day.

I told the system I was sick — sent a message through the student portal, knowing it would be logged, knowing they'd check. Then I stayed in my room, door locked, earpiece on the desk, dead.

The drive sat in my palm like a stone.

I had to move fast.

Not emotionally.

Not blindly.

With precision.

Because if I failed, I wouldn't just be silenced.

I'd be erased — recalibrated, medicated, made into another ghost in the archive.

So I did what Veridian taught me, without knowing it:

I studied the system.

For three hours, I scrolled through the files I'd copied — not just Luka's video, but logs, access records, internal memos.

Project Alpha Protocol: Objective – Develop a self-correcting leadership model through behavioral shaping and social reinforcement.

Funded by The Apex Circle — a private consortium of alumni, investors, and policy architects.

One name appeared again and again in the approvals:

Dr. Elira Moss — listed not as a psychologist, but as Lead Architect.

And beneath her: a list of test subjects.

Not just Luka.

Three others before him.

All "discontinued."

All removed from records.

Then I found the broadcast schedule.

Every six weeks, Veridian hosted the Ascension Gala — a private event streamed to Apex members worldwide. A showcase of excellence. A celebration of the new Alpha.

This year's event:

In 11 days.

Live.

Global.

Unencrypted.

A perfect stage.

But I couldn't just upload the files.

They'd be taken down in seconds.

Traced.

Buried.

I needed the truth to land where it couldn't be ignored.

So I opened a new tab.

Typed:

Veridian Academy – Media Partners

Listed at the bottom:

The Chronicle, a national education outlet.

One reporter assigned:Mira Tan – Investigative, Youth Systems & Ethics.

I found her on social media.

Not many followers.

But sharp questions.

Recent post: Why do so many "perfect" schools have perfect silences?

I didn't message her name.

Instead, I created a new email:

luka.veridian.archive@proton.me

Attached nothing.

Sent nothing.

Just one line:

They said he jumped. He was pushed. If you want to know how, meet at the Holloway Diner. 7 p.m. Friday. Come alone.

Then I printed three copies of Luka's final message.

Folded them.

Put one in Nia's locker.

One in the hollow of an old oak behind the east wing — a spot students used to pass notes.

One in the pocket of a donated coat I left on a bench in the city bus terminal.

Insurance.

Not because I trusted anyone.

Because I didn't.

That night, I reactivated the earpiece.

Put it back behind my ear.

Let it hum.

Let it report.

Let them think I was broken.

Because the best way to disappear

is to look like you've given up.

And the best way to win

is to make them believe

you've already lost.

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