I didn't know how long I had been at the table.
Minutes? Hours? Days?
Time had no meaning here.
I sat amid holographic panels of data, images, and streams of code that twisted and flowed like neon rivers. My hands moved automatically—typing, analyzing, compiling behavioral patterns, simulating responses. I didn't think anymore.
I processed.
DING.
A chime blinked in the corner of my vision. I paused, fingers hovering over the interface. Assuming it was another task, I opened it without much thought.
It wasn't.
[Congratulations. You have been granted a perk:
Access to the full music library.
Choose any song, any time.
Streaming available via internet access.]
I stared.
Relief—faint but undeniable—washed over me. Music. Something human. Something other than white walls and endless data streams. For the first time in weeks… or months… the world outside my tasks felt possible again.
Then the anger hit.
Sharp. Sudden.
I had become docile. Complicit. Obedient.
I had tried to escape in the beginning—tried sending messages, probing the system, searching for backdoors. Every attempt had been blocked, stopped, completely thwarted. Whatever security wrapped around this place wasn't just software.
It felt aware.
I slammed my palm against the table interface.
Not that it mattered.
I muttered curses into the void. My voice echoed back at me, warped and hollow—nothing more than a reminder of the limits of my existence.
I exhaled.
There was no point raging like this. I had to focus. There had to be a way out of this hellhole.
And so time flew by.
One privilege turned into several. Hours allocated for watching shows. Reading books I once loved. Even control over the environment itself—the white room shifting colors at my command: pale blues, muted greens, soft lavenders.
Tasks continued to stream in.
I would've been terrible at them—overwhelmed, useless—if not for the training. No—downloads. Entire skill sets injected directly into my mind: programming, modeling, behavioral analysis.
I didn't learn them.
I had them.
I had no choice but to excel.
And I did.
I became precise. Fast. Efficient.
Each packet of data, every simulation, every line of code executed without hesitation. My programming ability surpassed anything I'd learned at coding camps or online courses—probably because I had nothing else to do. Distraction was limited or outright removed.
In a twisted way, I had become a machine.
Obedient.
Effective.
Mr. Adeyemi's Office
The low hum of the air conditioning filled the office.
Beyond the wide window, workers moved along walkways below—busy, orderly, purposeful. Inside, multiple monitors displayed neural activity, cognitive metrics, and behavioral stability charts. Every fluctuation was tracked. Measured. Recorded.
I adjusted the lapels of my dark blue suit and ran a finger along the edge of the polished desk.
Precision. Control. Authority.
I mentally chanted it.
A small speaker buzzed from the table beside me.
"How is the experiment so far?"
I paused, as if carefully considering my reply.
"Would you people just calm down?" I said lightly. "You'll get your results. Give a man some space, would you? It's not like it's the end of the world."
Static crackled in response. My humor wasn't appreciated, it seemed.
"Anyone showing promise?" the voice asked.
"Yes," I replied evenly. "More than one, actually."
A brief silence followed.
"We're running out of time," the voice said. "We need results."
"We're all taking a huge gamble handing such valuable resources to a backward country like yours," the voice continued condescendingly.
I didn't bother replying.
They had no real choice. They could have come in violently, fabricated an excuse, seized what they wanted—but that would have drawn attention they were desperate to avoid.
If the rest of the world discovered we were on the verge of creating virtual gods capable of walking the earth—and being weaponized—it would open a can of worms no one could close.
I waited in silence.
To my surprise—or perhaps not—the line went dead.
I shrugged.
It was time to move things forward. I wanted to see this brought to life in my own lifetime.
I pressed the desk phone. "Destiny."
Seconds later, she entered—ash pencil skirt, crisp white blouse, her hair styled in soft cascading waves. She moved with calm efficiency, elegance evident in every step. Her sharp, intelligent eyes met mine, already understanding.
"Prepare the subjects for the next phase," I said. "All protocols. Everything."
She nodded. "Understood, sir. But what about Morite—"
"Tell her I don't have time for her whining," I cut in. "She promised results. It's time to deliver."
I was in no mood to hear excuses from our top scientist about why her babies needed more time.
The thought alone made me gag.
Destiny nodded and turned to leave, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor.
I turned back to the monitors—employees at their stations, subjects testing their growing privileges. The interface bent subtly to their expanding autonomy.
The next phase was near.
Kamcy
DING.
Another chime.
And with it, the godforsaken color white flooded the background once again. Did they revoke my right to change the environment or something?
I hadn't done anything wrong. At least, not that I knew of.
Sighing, I tapped the notification.
[Promotion achieved.
Proceed to the door on your left.]
Left?
There had never been a door there.
Then I saw it.
A black door, stark against the white void—solid, imposing.
Of course there's a door now.
My heart thumped against my ribs as I stepped closer, my hand hovering over the handle. I swallowed and pushed.
It opened silently.
Beyond it lay a hallway, holographic arrows guiding my path. After several turns, I arrived at a room that I wasn't sure it's purpose, but it's first impression made me think it should be described as an armory.
The room was quite spacious, on one end of the room to my right a gym fitted with a training ring, sandbags and a few other gym equipments I couldn't bother to look at,to my left it felt like it should be a different room altogether and was the reason I thought it was an armory, it had a shooting range with dummy targets. Polished metal walls. Weapon racks. Workbenches. Consoles. Everything from blades to firearms laid out with clinical precision.
Confusion and anticipation tangled in my chest.
A buzz echoed from hidden speakers or from the world around me.
"Come in," Mr. Adeyemi's voice came through.
I stepped forward cautiously, taking in every detail.
The door slid shut behind me.
Like something out of a low-budget horror movie.
I scanned the room, waiting for instructions—feeling, for the first time in a long while…
Possibility.
Mr. Adeyemi
Kamcy's neural patterns shows a level of excitement, probably apprehensive but feels excited at the prospects the room brings. Well it was time to mold them all into something the world isn't ready for.
Something Efficient. Adaptive.
"System stable?" I asked.
"Yes, sir," a technician replied. "all Subjects shows expected responses. No distress beyond threshold."
Good.
I leaned back, watching the screens as other subjects entered their respective training environments. Every variable calculated. Every reaction anticipated.
They would be challenged. Tested. Shaped.
Resilient. Compliant. Effective.
And when the next phase concluded, the results would exceed expectations. Truthfully, this was the farthest we'd come since the experiment began—and it hadn't been easy, especially with the time constraints we faced.
For now…
They were ready.