Amelia
Simon met us in the lower lab of the central wing, buried deep beneath the council hall where the air felt unnaturally still. Layers of concrete sealed the space off from the rest of the building, quiet enough that our footsteps echoed louder than they should have.
Two guards stood at the entrance, silent and unmoving.
The retinal scanner clicked as we passed, the only acknowledgment of our presence.
Simon was already at the console, dragging it closer with one hand as he keyed in sequences with the other. He didn’t look up. His jaw was clenched, his stubble patchy, and his focus locked entirely on the projection forming above the table. The lights dimmed as the green display bloomed across the glass surface, casting shifting patterns on our faces like reflections off water.
“This isn’t direct control,” Simon said. “They aren’t issuing new commands. They’re triggering systems that were built into people months or even years ago. The bell tones act as keys to doors that were already installed.”
Richard stood beside me with his arms crossed and his expression like granite. “So what happens if someone hasn’t been exposed before?”
“They freeze,” Simon replied. “Not because of the sound itself, because their mind has already been fractured. Thetone hits the break and locks them inside it, holding them in a suspended state where there’s no clear self to return to.”
I stepped closer. The map on the table pulsed in uneven rhythms, the flickering signal unsettling in a way! couldn’t quite name. “How did they even set that up without anyone noticing?”



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