Chapter 1
The room was quiet in the way important places usually were.
Rows of screens glowed softly inside the orbital monitoring centre, washing pale blue light over tired faces and half-empty coffee cups. Outside, the city slept. Inside, the night shift watched the sky.
"Orbit looks clean," a technician muttered, scrolling through telemetry. "No debris, no drift."
"Lucky night," another voice replied. "Don't jinx it."
A low hum filled the room—machines breathing, servers whispering to each other. Then one screen flickered.
Just once.
"Did you see that?" the first technician asked, sitting up straighter.
"See what?"
"Screen twelve. It… paused."
Paused wasn't the right word. Satellites didn't pause. They followed math. Predictable, perfect math.
The technician retrieved the data. "It's gone now."
Before anyone could answer, a sharp tone cut through the room. Not loud. Not urgent. Just wrong.
A new window opened on its own.
UNIDENTIFIED SIGNAL DETECTED
The supervisor frowned and stepped closer. "That system doesn't generate alerts anymore. Who authorised that?"
"No one," someone said quietly. "It's not even connected to civilian channels."
Numbers began to scroll.
DURATION: 0.47 SECONDS
SOURCE: UNKNOWN
The room grew still.
"Run a diagnostic," the supervisor ordered.
"It already did," the technician replied, confused. "Automatically."
Another line appeared.
CLASSIFICATION: KEY-LEVEL ACTIVITY
Silence dropped hard.
"That's impossible," someone said. "Those protocols were shut down years ago."
The supervisor leaned in, jaw tight. "Search the registry. Biological keys, legacy signatures, anything."
Fingers flew over consoles. The system searched deeper than it was ever meant to—past firewalls, past redacted files, into places marked DO NOT ACCESS.
"No match," the technician said. "Nothing. It's like the signal came from… nowhere."
The screen blinked.
All the data vanished.
"What just happened?" someone asked.
The alert window closed. Logs rewrote themselves. The satellite feed returned to normal—steady, obedient, boring.
The supervisor stared at the blank space where the warning had been. "Did anyone record that?"
A pause.
"No," the technician said slowly. "The system wiped it before I could."
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then the supervisor straightened. "All right. If it's gone, it's gone. We note a minor fluctuation and move on."
"Sir," the technician said, uneasy, "what if it comes back?"
The supervisor looked up at the moving image of Earth—blue, calm, unaware.
"It won't," he said. "If it mattered, it wouldn't erase itself."
High above the planet, the satellite adjusted its orbit by a fraction too small for humans to notice.
Deep inside its dormant systems, something shifted.
A locked process changed status.
STANDBY
And far below, in a city full of sleeping people, someone unknowingly stood at the centre of it all. The street below Alina's apartment never truly slept.
Even at night, Astra City hummed—soft footsteps on metal walkways, distant engines gliding along elevated lanes, public screens glowing with muted announcements about safety and compliance. Lights shifted in slow, controlled patterns, designed to calm more than illuminate.
Above it all, a surveillance drone drifted between buildings.
Its movement was smooth, patient, almost lazy as it scanned windows one by one. Most were dark. Some showed families gathered around approved entertainment. Others displayed neat rooms with sanctioned study programs running quietly in the background.
The drone slowed when it reached Alina's window.
Inside, a girl sat alone at her desk.
She was exactly where she should be.
The drone's lens adjusted, zooming in just enough to read posture and motion. Alina leaned forward slightly, eyes focused, hands resting near a tablet. Lines of text scrolled at a steady pace—educational material approved for late-night study.
No sudden movements.
No restricted hardware.
No unauthorised signals.
From the street below, Astra City looked sto pped.
That was the lie it always told first.
I wached it through the narrow slit of my window: people moving in straight lines, heads down, shoes keeping time with the signals embedded in the pavement. Screens wrapped around buildings whispered news and safety reminders. Drones slid between towers like insects that had learned how to count.
Nothing unusual. Nothing is worth stopping for.
That mattered.
A low hum crept closer.
I didn't look up right away. Looking up too fast always felt like admitting guilt.
The drone drifted into place outside my window, its dark lens tilting as it scanned the building. I felt it before I saw it—the faint pressure behind my eyes, the sense of being measured. It hovered there, patient, waiting for the room to tell its story.
Okay, I thought. Showtime.
I let my shoulders slump the way tired students did. My fingers tapped the desk once, twice—slow, unfocused. On the surface in front of me, approved study material bloomed into place: text blocks, diagrams, and a practice test I'd already memorised.
From the outside, that was all there was.
The illusion wrapped the room neatly, sealing every angle the drone could see. Light softened. Shadows behaved. Even the small crack in the wall vanished, replaced by smooth, harmless white.
The drone lingered.
I held my breath.
Then it moved on, gliding down the street toward someone else's window, someone else's life.
Only when the hum faded did I let myself breathe again.
The illusion thinned—but didn't disappear.
I was still careful.
Inside my room, the air felt closer, warmer, like it always did when I dropped the mask just enough. The desk in front of me shimmered, the false pages peeling back to reveal something else underneath. Lines of light threaded together across the surface, bending in ways paper never could. Shapes formed, collapsed, reformed.
Not a gadget.
Not yet.
Something unfinished.
Something that didn't want a name.
I leaned closer, lowering my voice without realising it. "That's not right."
The pattern shifted in response, as if it had heard me. That made my stomach tighten. I adjusted a parameter—just a thought, just a nudge—and the light obeyed.
A sharp sound cut through the room.
A knock.
My heart jumped.
The desk went still instantly, the light folding in on itself as if it had never existed. The illusion snapped back into place—books, tablet, scattered notes—just as a neutral voice sounded from the door panel.
"Identity request. State name."
"Mira," I said quickly.
A pause.
"Voice confirmation required."
From the hallway came Mira's familiar tone, already annoyed. "Seriously? It's me. You're the only person I know who makes their own door paranoid."
"Code," the panel replied.
"Eye-seven," Mira said. "Delta-four."
I flicked my wrist under the desk. The illusion tightened, sharpening the edges of everything visible. The desk looked messier now, more convincing.
"Visual scan required," the panel added.
"Clear," I said.
The door slid open.
Mira stepped inside like she always did, confident, loud, alive. She tossed her bag onto the floor and stretched. "You know, one day I'm going to forget one of those codes and just starve outside your door."
She stopped mid-sentence.
Looked at the desk.
Then at me.
"…Are you actually studying?" she asked.
I shrugged, turning the tablet so the light caught it just right. "Don't sound so shocked."
Mira narrowed her eyes, scanning the room. For half a second, I thought she could see through it—through the careful mess, the ordinary walls, the lie sitting quietly on my desk.
Then she snorted and flopped onto my bed. "Astra City really is ending. First, you study, next the screens start telling the truth."
I smiled, keeping my hands flat on the desk.
Underneath the illusion, whatever I had been making waited patiently.
And somewhere outside, another drone changed direction.
---
The city didn't slow down at night.
It only pretended to.
I lay on my bed staring at the window while Astra City kept moving outside—traffic lines glowing, walkways pulsing, drones sliding past like thoughts I couldn't finish. One hovered longer than the others, its light blinking in a steady rhythm.
I'm not nervous, I told myself.
That was a lie.
"Okay," I whispered into the dark. "Fine. I'm nervous."
My eyes followed the drone as it drifted upward, then stop,ped at a charging node built into the side of ,a tower. The connection snapped into place with a faint spark of light.
How does it know when it's low?
Is it timed? Or adaptive?
I frowned.
"No. Stop," I muttered. "Wrong track."
School. Tomorrow. First day.
How was it going to be? Quiet? Loud? Watched? Worse—normal?
I rolled onto my side and pulled the blanket tighter. "I should sleep."
The city hummed in response.
"I can't sleep," I said to no one.
My mind jumped again—drones, systems, screens, rules. The way everything here felt was designed to notice mistakes.
Stop thinking.
Sleep.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
The hum outside blended into something distant, almost steady.
Eventually—without permission—darkness took me.
---
Morning arrived too fast.
I woke up already alert, my heart beating as if I'd missed something important. I moved on instinct—wash, dress, smooth my hair, straighten my clothes until nothing felt out of place.
Neat.
Tidy.
Unremarkable.
Perfect.
The school rose from the street like a block of glass and steel, its surface reflecting the city back at itself. As I stepped closer, a massive screen above the entrance flickered to life.
WELCOME STUDENTS
COMPLIANCE IS SAFETY
I stopped.
That wasn't the right word.
Impressive, maybe. No—overwhelming. The building felt less like a place to learn and more like a place to be measured.
Robots moved across the entrance plaza—some cleaning, some scanning, some doing both at once. Their movements were smooth, efficient, emotionless.
I took one cautious step forward.
That's when it happened.
A robot rolled directly into my path.
I hadn't seen it approach.
I turned my head—
"Ah—!" I gasped, jumping back. "Oh my God—"
The robot paused. A soft light swept over me from head to toe.
"Identification confirmed," it said calmly. "Health and compliance check complete."
My heart took a second longer to calm than the system apparently thought was necessary.
"Right," I murmured. "Of course."
It rolled away without another word.
I exhaled and walked inside.
The classroom was bright, clean, and perfectly aligned. Rows of desks faced forward, each fitted with a small embedded screen. I slid into an empty seat near the window.
The screen lit up immediately.
ATTENTION MODE ACTIVE
HAND-RAISE FOR ASSISTANCE
I glanced around.
Students sat stiffly, eyes forward, hands folded. No one spoke. No one moved unless instructed.
Then—
A hand dropped.
Casually. Confidently.
Mira leaned back in her chair, stretching like the room belonged to her. She dropped her hand to the desk and smirked, completely unconcerned with the rules blinking on her screen.
I stared.
She caught my eye and grinned.
Like this place was just another room.
Like the cameras didn't matter.
Like the city wasn't watching.
I wasn't sure whether that made me feel better—
—or worse
---
I was looking out of the window.
Blue sky.
The sky was sooooo calm—too calm, like it didn't belong to this city. No screens floating across it. No alerts. Just open space, stretching endlessly. I wished I could go there, into that quiet blue, away from walls and cameras.
I wish I could go to the calm sky but it's not possible…
umm… actually, it's possible.
Oh! Look—it's a bird flying—
…huh. Wrong word.
Drone.
The earth has changed. We see drones instead of birds, robots instead of pets, screens instead of blackboards, screens instead of books. Movies that once entertained people have gone extinct, replaced by controlled visuals approved by someone sitting far away. The government has taken full control of the system. They don't allow anyone to use AI. It was locked away from people many years ago.
I wonder if anyone even remembers AI exists.
I have a biiiiig secret.
But I won't tell.
Because if I tell, everyone will think I'm insane.
But I'm not.
I'm a genius.
Heels clicking.
Sharp. Confident. Precise.
I snapped my head upright.
A woman walked in—blonde hair, tailored suit, posture flawless. Professional didn't even begin to describe her.
Cool.
No—sorry.
Perfection.
We all stood up to greet her, chairs sliding back in perfect unison. Then we sat down, just as perfectly.
I leaned slightly toward Mira and whispered,
"is this our class teacher"
Mira glanced once, then nodded.
"yes I think so..."
The woman smiled, sharp and practiced.
"students I'm your new teacher as all of you can see a tablet or mini screen whatever you wish to tell. Please fill up the details"
I picked up the tablet in front of me. A form appeared instantly—name, ID, family background, residence, behavioral history. Too many questions. Too much access.
"so I will chose the class monitor "
I submitted the form quickly.
Moments later, she looked up. Alex's name appeared on the main screen.
She told Alex will be our class monitor.
Alex straightened like he'd been waiting his whole life for that moment.
The teacher took out her phone and connected it to the screen.
Wait…
Is that the legendary Aidi's max version?
Lame.
I have Aidi's ultra pro max version with—
A—no wait.
That's a secret.
She continued calmly, explaining that we now had her full information—name, location access, phone number, professional ID, everything. Too much transparency, wrapped in the word trust.
Then she said to tap the side of the table.
I hesitated, then looked closer.
There were small switches embedded along the edge.
I tapped the first one.
The table surface shifted, transforming smoothly into a screen.
I tapped the second.
A charging plug slid out silently.
The third—
Attendance mode.
Eye scan. Fingerprint identification. Facial mapping.
Then I tapped the last button.
The table expanded, unfolding into a full computer interface.
It's… amazing.
She told us we could take the tablet home.
I scanned the room without moving my head.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four CCTV cameras.
No freedom.
We are always being watched.
And the calm blue sky outside the window suddenly felt very, very far away.