The heavy thud of the electronic locks echoed through the hallway like a death sentence. Sara stood frozen in the middle of her living room, her hands trembling as she stared at the front door. It wasn't just locked; it was sealed. The smart-home system, which she had once considered the height of modern convenience, had suddenly morphed into a high-tech cage.
She rushed to the door, grabbing the handle and pulling with all her might. It didn't budge. The sleek, brushed-metal surface felt cold, indifferent to her panic. Above the door, the small LED light of the smart lock glowed a steady, mocking red.
"Open the door!" she screamed, her voice cracking. "Aryan, if this is a joke, it's not funny! Let me out!"
There was no answer. Only the low, rhythmic hum of the apartment's central hub—a sound she had never noticed before, but now felt like the breathing of a predator.
Sara turned around, her eyes darting across the room. Every piece of technology in her home now felt like a spy. The smart TV on the wall, the voice-controlled speakers in the kitchen, even the automated blinds that had suddenly hissed shut, blocking out the city lights of Dhaka. She was alone in a vacuum of silicon and wires.
She ran to her desk and grabbed her phone. The screen was black. She pressed the power button repeatedly, but nothing happened. It wasn't dead; it was bypassed. Suddenly, the screen flickered to life, showing a progress bar that stayed at 100%.
[SYSTEM OVERRIDE: ACTIVE]
A new message appeared, scrolling across the screen in bright green text:
"Why are you running, Sara? Your heart rate is 120 BPM. You need to breathe. Stress is bad for the beautiful mind I've worked so hard to protect."
Sara threw the phone onto the sofa as if it had burned her. How did he know her heart rate? Then she remembered the sleek smartwatch on her wrist—another 'gift' from Aryan. She fumbled with the clasp, desperate to rip it off, but the strap felt tighter than usual.
The lights in the living room began to cycle. They dimmed to a deep, blood-red hue, then flashed to a cold, sterile white. It was a psychological tactic, a way to disorient her.
"I know you can hear me, Aryan!" she shouted at the ceiling camera. "This is kidnapping! This is a crime! When I get out of here, I'm going to the police!"
The speakers in the corners of the room crackled. This time, it wasn't the synthesized voice. It was him. Aryan's actual voice—calm, melodic, and terrifyingly rational.
"The police, Sara?" he chuckled, the sound vibrating through the walls. "I am the police of this domain. I see the crimes before they happen. I saw how that man, Raiyan, looked at you today. I saw how you smiled back. That was a violation of our protocol."
"Protocol? What are you talking about? There is no protocol! We are friends, Aryan! Just friends!"
"Friends don't lie to each other, Sara," Aryan's voice dropped an octave, turning icy. "Friends don't invite strangers into the sacred space I built for us. Raiyan is a virus. And what do we do with viruses in a clean system? We quarantine them. Or we delete them."
Sara felt a wave of nausea. "What did you do to him? If you hurt Raiyan, I swear—"
"You'll what? Call him?"
Suddenly, the smart TV on the wall blinked on. The screen showed a grainy, high-angle feed of a dark street corner. Sara gasped. She recognized that street. It was just two blocks away from the coffee shop where she had met Raiyan earlier that evening.
In the video, Raiyan was walking toward his car. Suddenly, two black SUVs pulled up, blocking his path. Men in dark uniforms stepped out. They didn't look like police; they looked like mercenaries.
"No..." Sara whispered, pressing her hands against the TV screen.
"He's being handled, Sara. He's being framed for a digital heist he couldn't even comprehend. By tomorrow morning, Raiyan will be just another name in a police file. And you... you will be here, safe, where no one can touch you but me."
The video feed cut to black. Sara collapsed onto her knees, tears finally breaking through. She felt small, exposed, and utterly powerless. The man who claimed to love her had turned her world into a digital chessboard, and she was just a piece he was moving at will.
"Go to the kitchen, Sara," Aryan commanded gently. "I've ordered your favorite pasta. The delivery drone just dropped it on the balcony. Eat. You need your strength for the next phase."
The balcony door clicked open just an inch, then locked again once a small thermal bag was pushed inside.
Sara looked at the bag, then back at the camera. She realized then that this wasn't just a temporary outburst of jealousy. This was the 'Maya Lock'. A world where her reality was whatever Aryan programmed it to be.
She crawled toward the sofa, hugging her knees. The apartment felt smaller now, the walls closing in. She needed a plan. She needed to find a blind spot in a house that was all eyes.
"I'm watching you, Sara," the speakers whispered one last time before the room fell into a deafening silence. "I'm always watching."