"Who stands behind it? Who designed the chip? And why must humans live as puppets?"
He rose slowly, eyes scanning the horizon where sky met water in solemn silence. He knew the answers were still far off… but one thing had become clear:
He was different. And being different meant danger. Yet this time… he wouldn't run.
With his palm pressed to his mouth, lost in a whirlpool of thought, he paused in a heavy silence. Then he decided to return to the city. The time was ripe to uncover the truth, no matter the risk. He prepared himself carefully, closed the box where he had hidden the notebook and books, and buried it again beneath layers of dirt—burying a part of his past.
He stepped out of his hiding spot, walking emotionlessly so as to appear under control like everyone else. Nearing the edge of the city, he searched for a hidden entry point—somewhere unnoticed. But robots patrolled every corner of open zones, making any unobserved movement nearly impossible. No human could roam freely there without being detected.
Then he spotted a glimmer of hope: a massive sewer pipe emerging from the nearby forest, flowing silently under the city. He didn't hesitate. He descended through that quiet tunnel, slipping stealthily toward the oppressive city. The ground was damp and slippery; he nearly fell several times, but his resolve carried him forward until he reached the pipe's opening.
He climbed inside, lay flat on his back, took a deep breath, and whispered to himself:
"Not much left… I must finish this."
He stood slowly and began walking. But the darkness was complete—he carried no light with him. He walked in winding way, tracing the damp wall carefully, each step cautious amid the choking silence broken only by dripping water and his racing breaths.
Suddenly, he collided with something and fell, groaning in pain. He touched the object—it felt soft and strange—and his curiosity stirred. He didn't dwell on it immediately, but it recurred with each step, growing unsettling.
Hours in darkness later, he spotted ahead a faint glow from a sewer grate. The distance was wide, and opening the metal cover risked drawing robotic attention. One clank of metal could betray him.
He waited in stillness, his heart hammering, eyes alert. No turning back. He mustered courage and leapt toward the grate. The first attempt failed. The second nudged it slightly. On the third, it shifted open with a soft hiss.
He concealed himself behind the edge, watching for robotic detectors. Minutes passed before he dared move.
He climbed out slowly, cautiously scanning the outer street. A few humans walked by, unaware of him, in a quiet sector far from the city's center.
He gathered himself and emerged softly, climbing up.
Gasping, he whispered:
"Finally… inside the city."
He looked around—humans dressed uniformly in gray, eyes void of life, faces empty as shells. Pain pierced his chest at the sight, but he realized staying still would be his end.
He shut the grate firmly and tried to adopt the cold expression of those around him. He began walking, matching the rhythm of gray life, observing every movement, every shadow—searching for deeper truth, a key to free a silent dying world.
A few steps later, a robot advanced toward him. Another of those human-shaped enforcers—nearly human-sized, its face snow-white with two glowing red laser eyes, body metallic like a box with mechanical limbs. Every motion precise, calculated.
The robot scanned for carcasses or living anomalies—to eliminate.
Terror struck—but he remained calm. He walked slowly, mirroring passersby. His heart pounded like a drum of doom. When they drew close, just meters apart… it didn't recognize him. It passed. The moment ended quietly.
Or so he thought.
He swallowed hard as it abruptly turned—as if alerted. The tension was deadly. He thought it would fire—but it didn't. It seemed the signal was incomplete.
He inhaled deeply and moved on.
His goal was simply to return home—to hide for a few hours, maybe eat. But slipping into his flat in broad daylight? Unforgivable risk. If any "organizer"—one of those robots—saw him outside scheduled time, fate was execution. If you weren't useful… you were a threat.
The young man walked for hours, dusk melting over the city while burning questions ignited in his mind:
"How was I like them? I see, I feel—yet control nothing. It's like I'm imprisoned behind my eyes; someone stole my soul."
He continued in silence. His building was not far—yet the path was transformed. No one drove themselves anymore. Workers were ferried by organizers via train or bus. If you didn't have access to those, cars drove you where the system required—to your workplace.
He couldn't board. The chip removed from his body would expose him—blowing the whistle on his truth in a silent system.
He trudged onward—five hours nonstop, guided more by fear than feet.
At last, he saw his building, the gray rectangle he knew, but his heart stopped when he saw two organizers standing in front of it, monitoring as though awaiting someone.
"Are they searching for me? Or someone else?"
He swallowed his fear and melted into a nearby wall. He watched them—motionless, purposeless—for long minutes.
His only option: the adjacent building. Abandoned like most nowadays. People worked; homes stood empty.
He vaulted over the fence lightly and dashed toward the doorway. Entering cautiously into silence, the place exhaled solitude.
He climbed to the rooftop quickly to survey them from afar. Then he lifted a stone and hurled it toward the street.
The two organizers moved toward the noise.
In that moment, he bolted toward his goal. He dropped from the rooftop to the courtyard, and sprinted through the gate to his building.
The doors stood open. No thefts anymore.
He raced up the steps. Heart pounding faster than his pace. He reached his apartment.
He entered and shut the door behind him.
Nightfall swallowed the last light… darkness crept slowly over the city.
Inside, he gazed at the dim apartment… How had he lived here months without realizing? No thoughts. No feelings. Just faded walls and a lifeless bed. No TV, no phone, no social feed...
He went to the kitchen. Opened the fridge. Found only one meal—as always: the "batch block"—a canned meal of lentils, brown rice, olive oil, dried veggies, vitamins. Precooked, canned—the aim to meet basic survival only.
He ate slowly, unenthusiastic, thoughts swirling:"What now? Hide? But there's no food—and being caught means death… Leave? But to where? Are they really chasing me?"
At 8:30, he collapsed onto his bed, drowning in thought until sleep overtook him.
Two hours later, he awoke to footsteps and clamor. From the window, he watched humans return from work—faces pale, life vacant.
Suddenly, a gunshot shattered the quiet outside. He sprang from bed and ran to the window. He saw an organizer shoot a young girl's leg—a child no older than ten.
He gasped, hand over mouth—disbelief. Then the organizer raised its mechanical hand again. He couldn't bear it. Grabbing a baseball bat, he charged at the organizer from behind, striking crazily.
He fell. The organizer remained unscathed.
He looked at the girl… bleeding, crying without tears. Her features frozen—as if emotion was forbidden.
The organizer turned to him and raised its weapon—a rifle leveled at his face.
He collapsed to the ground, helpless, his inner voice screaming:
"Is this the end? I did nothing wrong! Is the price of awareness death?"
Moments before the organizer pulled the trigger—
A sudden gunshot blasted into the organizer's head from afar.
He heard a motorcycle roar close beside him. A man in a black suit and helmet—face unseen—said:
"Get on if you want to live."
He climbed aboard, barely holding himself together.
The bike sped off. Behind, the organizer exploded.
The young man shouted:
"The girl is still there!"
No reply from the driver.
He looked back, tears brimming in his eyes.
He saw the girl's body still… bleeding silently, no resistance.
"No doubt… part of her soul felt pain… even if it did not show."
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