Mara named the group chat like she was trying to make it smaller.
If you gave a monster a title, it felt less like it could eat you in the dark.
TERMS & CONDITIONS CLUB.
She created it in the library, behind the legal research shelves, because it was the only place on campus that still smelled like old paper instead of new money. The fluorescent lights above her desk flickered, then steadied—as if the building was watching her and deciding whether to allow it.
Her phone timer ticked under her thumb like a pulse.
69:18:44.
Mara didn't let herself stare at it. Staring was how the panic grew roots.
She typed:
Mara R.: RULE 1 — NO VOICE. NO SAYING IT OUT LOUD.Mara R.: RULE 2 — SCREENSHOTS ONLY. NOTES ONLY.Mara R.: RULE 3 — IF YOU BREAK RULE 1, YOU PAY TIME.
For a moment, nobody responded.
Then Nina:
Nina P.: understood.A neat, lowercase acceptance that made Mara's throat tight. Nina didn't do lowercase. Nina did capital letters in her life. Nina did certainty.
Theo typed like he was trying to breathe through it:
Theo V.: this is the most insane sentence i've ever typed.
Jace responded with two salute emojis and then, like he couldn't stop himself, added:
Jace L.: so… we're basically allergic to words now.
Mara's phone vibrated—soft, interested, not punitive. Like the system had leaned in.
Mara typed quickly, harsher than she meant:
Mara R.: DON'T JOKE. IT'S LISTENING.
Jace didn't respond for a beat.
Then:
Jace L.: got it. no jokes.
Mara exhaled through her nose and forced her fingers to slow down.
They needed structure. They needed evidence. They needed to stop moving like prey.
So she began the only way she knew how: by building a file.
She opened a blank note titled EVIDENCE and started a list.
Support chat: "Viewing constitutes agreement."
Verbal confirmation reduces window.
Auto-trade enabled by default.
Fear Removal offered as upsell.
Payment processed without tap (Mara: memory — smell).
Nina: academics stabilized without tap.
She snapped screenshots of everything: the Trade Settings slider, the clause about memory continuity and relational weight, the "thank you for choosing stability" line that made her skin crawl.
Her phone didn't punish screenshots.
Not yet.
In the chat, Theo dropped a string of images like he'd been hoarding them in a panic:
Theo V. sent 6 photos.
The group filled with fragments of horror.
A cafeteria monitor with the black-screen story.A close-up of Sera's "STUDENT NOT FOUND" error.A blurry shot of the security guard's face, uninterested, like his brain couldn't keep her in focus.A meme page post: HALCYON'S GHOST IS BACK 🔥And then—the one Mara hadn't seen yet:
A screenshot of Theo's own phone, a system banner in clean font:
GROUP BENEFITS available when shared.
Theo typed beneath it:
Theo V.: it wants us to spread it.
Nina replied instantly:
Nina P.: of course it does.
Jace's message came a second later, unusually flat:
Jace L.: that's how it wins.
Mara's fingers hovered.
That's how it wins.
Not by hunting you in the dark.
By making you recruit the next person yourself.
She typed:
Mara R.: WE DON'T SHARE. WE DON'T "INVITE."Mara R.: IT'S TRYING TO TURN US INTO MARKETING.
Nina:
Nina P.: then what do we do when it forces sharing?
Mara stared at that.
Because Nina was right. The system didn't ask politely. It offered "choices" that were just different flavors of loss.
Mara's timer ticked down behind her eyes.
69:10:03.
She typed:
Mara R.: WE FIND THE ESCAPE CLAUSE.
Theo answered with the kind of enthusiasm that was half terror, half joy:
Theo V.: YES. YES. THAT'S THE PLOT.
Jace:
Jace L.: the escape clause probably costs a kidney.
Mara ignored him. She couldn't afford to react to everything, not when reaction was what the system fed on.
She typed:
Mara R.: WE LOOK FOR PATTERNS. WHAT TRIGGERS IT. WHAT IT OFFERS. WHAT IT TAKES.Mara R.: IF IT'S A CONTRACT, THERE'S ALWAYS A WAY OUT.
The words looked brave on-screen.
They didn't feel brave in her body.
They met in person an hour later, because even silence had limits.
The library's back study room had glass walls and a door that pretended it didn't eavesdrop. Mara chose it because it had the fewest cameras pointed directly at the table. That was all she could control.
Nina arrived first, eyes rimmed red like she'd cried in a bathroom stall and refused to admit it.
Theo came next, jittery, clutching a USB drive like it was a talisman. He didn't sit—he paced, then forced himself into a chair as if sitting was a discipline.
Jace strolled in last, hands in pockets, carrying the kind of calm that made Mara want to both slap him and cling to him. His fearlessness wasn't comfort. It was contagious danger.
Nobody spoke.
Mara placed her phone on the table, screen facing up, but dimmed. She opened Notes.
Typed:
WE ONLY TALK IF WE HAVE TO. KEEP IT SHORT. WATCH THE TIMER.
She turned the phone to them.
Nina nodded sharply. Theo swallowed.
Jace smirked, then caught Mara's stare and let the smirk die.
Mara typed again:
SHOW WHAT IT TOOK FROM YOU.
Nina hesitated, then slid her phone forward. She opened Photos, scrolled, and stopped on a video—her and her brother in a kitchen, laughing. He was small, missing teeth, waving a spoon like a sword.
Nina's thumb hovered over the play button.
She didn't press it.
Instead, she typed in her own notes and turned the screen:
I CAN'T REMEMBER THE SONG WE WERE SINGING HERE.
Mara's throat tightened. It sounded small. It wasn't.
Theo pushed his phone forward next. On his screen was a livestream clip from last night—his own voice, excited, narrating the black-screen story.
He'd blurred his audio in the saved copy, but you could see his mouth shaping the words.
Beneath it, he typed:
I LOST 7 MINUTES FOR "PINEAPPLE." IT DOESN'T CARE WHAT YOU SAY.
Jace waited, watching them like he was absorbing the weight for the first time.
Then he unlocked his phone and opened Student Perks.
Mara's chest tightened instantly. Jace tapped like he wasn't afraid of touching fire.
He pulled up a page Mara hadn't seen.
Not Trade Settings.
A history.
A list.
PERKS HISTORY (CONFIDENTIAL)
Fear Removal (permanent) — ACTIVE
Social Amplification (minor) — ACTIVE
Mara's stomach dropped so hard it felt like falling.
Jace didn't look at Mara. He looked at the table.
Then he typed on his notes, slowly, as if admitting it cost him something else:
I DID IT MONTHS AGO.
Nina's eyes went wide. Theo stopped breathing.
Mara's fingers went numb.
She typed:
WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL US?
Jace's jaw tightened. He typed back:
BECAUSE SAYING IT OUT LOUD WOULD'VE…He paused, deleted the sentence, retyped:BECAUSE IT WORKED.
That was the most terrifying answer of all.
Because if it worked, then the system wasn't just fear and theft.
It was temptation.
Nina's hands shook as she typed:
WHAT DID IT TAKE?
Jace stared at that question like it was a knife.
His throat moved. For a second Mara thought he would break and speak—and her whole body tensed, ready for the timer to drop like a guillotine.
Instead, he typed:
FEAR.
Theo made a small sound—a half laugh, half sob—but he swallowed it before it became a word.
Mara's mind flashed to the way Jace smiled at danger. The way he walked into chaos like it was his natural habitat.
It wasn't personality.
It was payment.
Mara typed carefully:
THAT MEANS IT CAN EDIT EMOTIONS.
Theo's reply came fast:
AND IF IT CAN EDIT EMOTIONS, IT CAN EDIT CONSENT.
The room felt colder.
Nina typed:
THIS IS WHY AMAYA FORGOT THAT BOY.
Mara's stomach twisted. Memory continuity and relational weight.
The clause was no longer text.
It was a weapon.
Mara opened the Trade Settings slider again. The bars sat there—Memory, Bond, Time, Identity—like a menu you could order your own ruin from.
She typed:
IT STARTS SMALL. THEN IT GETS BOLDER.
Theo typed:
WHAT'S THE END?
Mara didn't answer right away.
Because she knew.
Because the locked bar labeled IDENTITY was waiting like a mouth.
Before she could type it, the study room door clicked.
A student stepped inside.
New face. New uniform hoodie. New badge clipped too perfectly to their collar.
Lark.
They were the kind of person you couldn't categorize at a glance—soft expression, eyes that didn't settle, posture too careful. Like they'd practiced being harmless.
Mara felt the instant spike of suspicion so sharp it tasted metallic.
Lark lifted both hands, palms out, a silent I'm not here to hurt you.
Then they took out their phone and placed it on the table without being asked.
Screen up.
Timer visible.
72:00:00
It had just started.
The numbers were clean, fresh—no minutes lost, no penalties yet.
Nina's breath hitched.
Theo's eyes went huge.
Jace stared like he'd been punched.
Mara's heart hammered so hard she almost choked on it.
Lark opened Notes and typed, fingers steady.
They turned the screen toward the group:
I DIDN'T DOWNLOAD STUDENT PERKS.
They typed again:
I DON'T HAVE AN ACCOUNT.
Then, after a pause, like the words hurt to write:
BUT I HAVE THE COUNTDOWN.
Mara's phone vibrated once—soft, pleased—like the system had been waiting for Lark to arrive.
Like it had added a new piece to the board.
To be Continued
© Kishtika., 2025
All rights reserved.