The dream began with the hum.

It was a low frequency. A thrum in the teeth.

Then the lights.

White. Clinical. Unblinking.

Elias woke. Or thought he did.

He was not in his bed.

He was standing in a room.

The walls were curved.

Smooth.

Metallic.

Gray.

The air tasted of ozone.

And cold.

He looked down.

His hands.

They were not his hands.

They were thin.

Pale.

The nails were black.

Long.

Clawed.

He flexed them.

They moved with a lag.

A glitch.

"Subject 402," a voice said.

It came from everywhere.

No source.

No mouth.

"Status?"

Elias tried to speak.

His throat was tight.

Dry.

He tried to remember his name.

Elias.

His wife’s name.

Sarah.

Sarah.

The name felt distant.

Like a word in a foreign language.

"Status, 402."

The voice was impatient.

Flat.

Bureaucratic.

"I am..." Elias started.

The sound that came out was a click.

A digital stutter.

He fell to his knees.

The floor was hard.

Cold.

He looked at his hands again.

They were trembling.

The black nails scraped against the metal.

Screech.

The sound was loud.

Too loud.

"Stabilize," the voice ordered.

Pain hit him.

Not in the body.

In the mind.

A spike of white light behind the eyes.

He gasped.

Or tried to.

No air.

No lungs.

Just the hum.

Louder now.

A drill.

A needle.

He saw a screen.

Hanging in the air.

Data.

Codes.

Numbers.

Red.

Green.

Blue.

He saw a face.

His face.

But wrong.

The eyes were too wide.

The mouth was too thin.

It was a mask.

A shell.

"Identity verified," the voice said.

"Deviation detected."

"Corrective protocol initiated."

Elias stood up.

His legs did not move.

He forced them.

The joints popped.

He walked.

Toward the screen.

Toward the face.

He reached out.

His clawed hand.

He touched the glass.

Or what looked like glass.

It was warm.

Alive.

The face on the screen looked at him.

It smiled.

A small, sad smile.

It knew.

It always knew.

"Who am I?" Elias whispered.

The voice did not answer.

It only repeated.

"Status. Status. Status."

The room spun.

The gray walls rippled.

Like water.

Like oil.

The hum became a roar.

Elias closed his eyes.

He thought of Sarah.

Her hand in his.

Her breath on his neck.

The smell of rain.

The smell of old books.

The smell of home.

He held onto it.

A thread.

A lifeline.

"Let me go," he said.

The voice stopped.

Silence.

Total.

Absolute.

Then, a new sound.

A door opening.

A creak.

Wood on wood.

The gray walls dissolved.

The metal floor softened.

Into carpet.

Red.

Worn.

Elias opened his eyes.

He was in an office.

Small.

Cramped.

Fluorescent lights buzzed.

A ceiling fan spun.

Slowly.

Creaking.

He sat at a desk.

Wood.

Scratched.

There was a file in front of him.

Paper.

Real paper.

The smell of ink.

He looked down.

His hands.

His own hands.

Pale.

Thin.

But human.

The nails were short.

Clean.

He flexed them.

They moved.

Smoothly.

He breathed.

Air.

Real air.

Dusty.

Stale.

He looked around.

The room was a cell.

No.

A booth.

A partition.

Cubicle.

He was in a cubicle.

He remembered.

He worked here.

He always worked here.

He was a data entry clerk.

Level 4.

Sector 9.

The job.

The drudgery.

The silence.

He looked at the file.

The name on it.

Sarah Holloway.

His heart stopped.

Then started again.

Fast.

Panic.

He opened the file.

Photos.

Documents.

Reports.

He read.

His eyes burned.

The words swam.

He read again.

Slower.

"Subject: Holloway, Sarah."

"Status: Terminated."

"Reason: Non-compliance."

"Date: Three days ago."

Elias stared.

The paper blurred.

Tears.

Hot.

On his cheeks.

He wiped them.

His hands shook.

He looked at the photo.

Sarah.

Smiling.

In the garden.

The roses.

Red.

Vibrant.

Alive.

"Terminated," he whispered.

The word tasted like ash.

He stood up.

The chair scraped.

He walked.

Out of the cubicle.

Into the hallway.

The lights were bright.

Too bright.

People.

Faces.

Moving.

Talking.

He walked.

Fast.

He needed to find someone.

He needed to ask.

Who did this?

Why?

He passed a window.

Glass.

Reflective.

He saw himself.

Pale.

Haggard.

A ghost.

He kept walking.

He found a desk.

Another clerk.

James.

James looked up.

His face was blank.

Bored.

"Can I help you, Elias?"

"Sarah," Elias said.

His voice was a rasp.

"Where is she?"

James blinked.

"Who?"

"Sarah. My wife."

James looked at him.

Then at his screen.

Then back.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"She’s gone," Elias said.

"Terminated."

James leaned back.

He crossed his arms.

"Elias, calm down."

"Calm down?" Elias shouted.

The sound echoed.

The other clerks turned.

Stared.

Silence.

Heavy.

James did not flinch.

He did not blink.

"Look," James said.

His voice was soft.

Reasonable.

"Sarah filed for divorce."

Elias froze.

The air left his lungs.

"Divorce?"

"Six months ago," James said.

"The paperwork was processed."

"By you."

Elias felt the floor tilt.

"I... what?"

"You signed it," James said.

"Last Tuesday."

"Here. In this office."

James pointed to the desk.

To the file.

Elias looked.

The file was closed.

The name.

Sarah.

He opened it.

The photo was there.

The roses.

But below it.

A signature.

His signature.

Scrawled.

Ugly.

Angry.

He did not remember.

He did not remember signing it.

He did not remember the divorce.

He did not remember the pain.

He only remembered the love.

The primal.

The instinctual.

The need.

"Did you?" James asked.

Elias did not answer.

He could not.

His mind was a blank white screen.

The hum returned.

Faint.

In his teeth.

James watched him.

His eyes were cold.

Professional.

"Elias," James said.

"You are in a state of distress."

"We have a protocol."

"Take a leave."

"Go home."

"I don't have a home," Elias said.

The words fell out of him.

Light.

Dead.

James frowned.

"Your apartment is still active."

"Your lease is valid."

"Go home, Elias."

"Call a doctor."

Elias looked at him.

At this man.

This colleague.

This stranger.

"You don't understand," Elias said.

"I don't understand what?" James asked.

"The file," Elias said.

"Terminated."

James laughed.

A short, dry sound.

"Check the date, Elias."

Elias looked.

The date.

It was wrong.

It was today.

But the signature.

It was old.

The ink was faded.

Dry.

James leaned forward.

His voice dropped.

"Look at the code."

Elias looked.

A number.

7-3-9.

Red.

"7-3-9," James repeated.

"It means 'Resolved'."

"Resolved?"

"Yes."

"By whom?"

"By the system."

James stood up.

He picked up the file.

He closed it.

"Sarah is fine, Elias."

"Go home."

Elias did not move.

He looked at the file.

At the code.

7-3-9.

Resolved.

The hum grew louder.

The lights flickered.

The fan spun faster.

Creak.

Creak.

Creak.

He saw Sarah.

Not in the photo.

In his mind.

She was standing in the garden.

The roses were black.

Dead.

She looked at him.

Her face was a mask.

Like the screen.

Like the dream.

She opened her mouth.

No sound.

Just a click.

A digital stutter.

Elias fell back into his chair.

The chair creaked.

He looked at James.

James was gone.

The office was empty.

The lights were out.

Dark.

Total.

He sat in the dark.

The hum.

The only sound.

He closed his eyes.

He let it take him.

The white light.

The cold.

The metal.

He did not fight it.

He did not struggle.

He let go.

The thread.

The lifeline.

It snapped.

He was no one.

A number.

A code.

7-3-9.

Resolved.

The dream ended.

He was in his bed.

The sheets were cold.

The room was dark.

He sat up.

His hands.

His own hands.

He looked at them.

Pale.

Thin.

He flexed them.

Smoothly.

He got up.

He walked to the window.

He opened it.

The air.

Cold.

Fresh.

He breathed.

He looked outside.

The street.

Empty.

The sky.

Gray.

Pale.

He saw a figure.

Standing on the sidewalk.

Distant.

Small.

He squinted.

It was Sarah.

She stood there.

Still.

Motionless.

She did not move.

She did not breathe.

She was a statue.

A mask.

Elias raised his hand.

He waved.

She did not move.

He lowered his hand.

He looked at the clock.

3:00 AM.

The time of ghosts.

The time of glitches.

He turned away from the window.

He went to the mirror.

He looked at his face.

His own face.

Pale.

Haggard.

He touched his cheek.

Real.

Warm.

He washed his face.

Cold water.

It stung.

He dried his face.

He dressed.

He went to the door.

He locked it.

He sat on the floor.

He waited.

The sun would rise.

The world would turn.

The system would run.

He was part of it.

A gear.

A number.

7-3-9.

Resolved.

He closed his eyes.

He did not sleep.

He waited.

For the hum.

It did not come.

Silence.

Total.

Absolute.

He was alone.

Truly alone.

The tragedy was not in the loss.

It was in the acceptance.

He had lost his mind.

And he had let it happen.

He had signed the paper.

He had chosen the code.

He had chosen the silence.

He had chosen the gray.

He sat in the dark.

He waited for the light.

It came.

Pale.

Cold.

Indifferent.

He opened the door.

He stepped out.

Into the world.

Into the machine.

He walked.

To work.

To the desk.

To the file.

To the screen.

He sat down.

He typed.

Click.

Click.

Click.

The sound of his life.

The sound of his end.

The sound of the pale meridian.

Dividing.

Splitting.

Ending.

He did not look up.

He did not look back.

He typed.

And typed.

And typed.