Time: Unknown
Subject: 32A
They say losing your freedom feels like a chain around your neck.
I didn't feel the weight.
I felt the silence.
The van had no windows. Just that hum—electric and endless. Tires grinding gravel. My cuffs weren't tight enough to hurt. The blindfold itched. I didn't move. Didn't ask questions. Questions meant I thought someone might answer.
That hope died a long time ago.
When they opened the doors, I braced for barking dogs, guards yelling. Intake chaos.
But no.
Only wind. A pneumatic hiss.
Then a voice—everywhere and nowhere.
"Welcome, inmate. Your rehabilitation begins now."
No names. No numbers. Just a statement, too calm, too smooth.
They took off the blindfold.
White walls. Perfect. Seamless. No corners, no shadows. Just a single black line down the floor. Like a book's spine, closed tight.
I followed it.
Didn't need guards. Doors opened by themselves—soft, automatic. I felt watched, but saw no cameras. No people. Not until the room.
Cell 42.
He was already there. On the bench. Owned the space without saying a word. Broad, bald, hard. His face had seen fights—and maybe won.
He looked up once. Just once. That look said everything.
He'd done time. Real time. Had that stillness—fight-or-flight long gone. Something colder left behind.
"Great," he muttered. "Roommate."
I said nothing.
Door shut behind me. No slam. No click. Just gone.
We sat. Far apart. Long time. No words. Just the hum. Quiet, like distant wires or a dying signal.
The room—bare. No sink. No toilet. No vents. One cot. One bench. Him. And the voice.
"Subject 32A and Subject 47B. Compatibility trial initiated. Emotional baselines will now be established."
Lights shifted. Subtle. Colder, maybe. The bench under me pulsed—just once.
He snorted. "That's new."
I looked over. "You've been here?"
Grinned. Crooked. Not friendly. "Long enough to know they play games."
I nodded. "Jonah."
He leaned back. Closed his eyes. "Doesn't matter. Nothing does."
And maybe he was right.
I couldn't even remember the last time I said my name. Out loud. To someone real.
If he was real.
I clenched my fists. Nails bit skin. That pain—that was real.
"Why are you here?" I asked.
Eye cracked open. "Why is anyone? Screwed up. Got unlucky."
"No, I mean... what did they say you did?"
Shrug. "Don't remember. It changes."
I blinked. "What?"
He looked at me. Hard.
"They get in your head. Rewrite things. First little stuff—name, birthday. Then bigger. Where you lived. Who you loved. What you did."
"They make you forget?"
"No. They make you doubt. Until you don't know if there ever was a truth."
I stared at the floor. That black line. It ended dead center of the room.
I looked back up.
"Jonah," I said, firmer. "Jonah Harper. I'm a journalist. I was arrested for—"
But the memory broke.
I remembered writing something. Big. Fallout. Screams. Protests. My editor yelling over the phone.
But the words were gone.
Wiped.
I looked at him. Really looked.
For the first time, I felt afraid.
He leaned forward.
"Welcome to the program, Jonah."