Maya discovered that Project L did not rely on words.
Words could be recorded. Words could be twisted. Words could betray you.
Silence, however, was loyal.
The dining hall was filled, yet unnervingly quiet. Plates clinked softly. Chairs scraped the floor in controlled movements. People spoke, but never too much, never too freely. Every laugh ended too quickly. Every conversation carried an invisible limit.
Maya sat at the far end of the table, her posture relaxed, her expression neutral. Inside, her mind was alert—counting movements, tracking glances, memorizing patterns.
Across from her, a man adjusted his watch twice.
Alert.
Two seats to her left, someone placed their cup down with the handle facing inward.
Observation mode.
Then Kelvin entered.
He didn't announce himself. He never did. He simply appeared and took the seat diagonally opposite Maya, his presence shifting the entire room. Conversations adjusted immediately—lowered voices, straighter backs.
Kelvin picked up his fork, eating as if nothing mattered.
Maya resisted the urge to look at him.
She had learned that lesson already.
"Research schedules have been… rearranged," a woman said lightly, stirring her drink.
Kelvin nodded once. "Necessary adjustments."
That was all.
To an outsider, it sounded like boring workplace talk.
To Maya, it sounded like a warning.
She lifted her glass and took a small sip—then placed it down slightly closer to the edge of the table.
Proceed with caution.
Kelvin's eyes flicked to the glass for less than a second.
Acknowledged.
Maya's heart beat faster, but her face remained calm. This was the game now. One wrong signal, one misplaced gesture, and she would be flagged permanently.
She had already seen what happened to people who were flagged.
The thought of Lina surfaced again—sharp and bitter.
Her name hadn't been spoken out loud, but Maya had seen it hidden in the internal records. Encoded. Categorized.
Inactive.
Removed.
The meal ended without ceremony. No goodbyes. No casual chatter. People rose and left in staggered timing—never all at once.
Kelvin stood, folded his napkin neatly, and placed it on the table.
Follow — not immediately.
Maya waited three full breaths before standing.
The corridor outside felt colder.
Glass walls reflected her image back at her—composed, controlled, unrecognizable. She walked steadily, counting her steps, pretending she didn't notice the subtle change in lighting overhead.
That change meant the system was awake.
Kelvin stopped at a junction but didn't turn to face her.
"They noticed you accessed the archives," he said quietly.
Maya's chest tightened. "I didn't trigger any alarms."
"You didn't," Kelvin replied. "Which is why it concerns them."
She stopped walking. "So what now?"
Kelvin finally turned. His expression was calm, but his eyes were sharp. "Now they watch you more closely."
"That's comforting," Maya muttered.
"It's survivable," he said. "If you stay disciplined."
They continued walking. Kelvin didn't lead her to the main sectors. Instead, he veered into an older wing—one Project L rarely used anymore.
"These systems are outdated," Kelvin said. "They're slower. Less efficient."
"And less monitored?" Maya guessed.
"Yes."
He stopped in front of a plain metal door and pressed his thumb briefly against the panel—then removed it.
Nothing happened.
After two seconds, the door unlocked.
Maya exhaled slowly.
Inside was a narrow room filled with inactive servers and dim emergency lights.
"You shouldn't have gone that deep into the files," Kelvin said, lowering his voice.
"I needed confirmation," Maya replied. "I needed to know if Lina was—"
"Still alive?" Kelvin finished.
Maya didn't answer.
Kelvin's silence was answer enough.
"She was categorized as expendable," he said quietly. "Once she began asking questions."
Maya felt something harden inside her.
"So that's what happens," she said. "You stop being useful, and you disappear."
"Yes."
"And Project L thinks no one will notice."
"They're used to being right," Kelvin said.
Maya stepped closer. "Then we prove them wrong."
Kelvin studied her, really studied her, as if reassessing something he thought he understood.
"You're changing," he said.
"I have to," Maya replied. "Fear doesn't protect me anymore."
Kelvin nodded slowly. "Then listen carefully. The way you move, the way you pause, the way you respond—those are your defenses now. Project L doesn't listen for lies. It listens for inconsistency."
Maya absorbed every word.
A faint mechanical hum rose from the corridor outside.
Kelvin stiffened. "We've stayed too long."
They exited separately, exactly thirty seconds apart.
As Maya walked away, she felt it again—that unmistakable sensation of being tracked, not physically, but strategically.
They weren't chasing her.
They were studying her.
And for the first time, Maya wasn't just reacting.
She was preparing.
Project L believed she was still learning the rules.
They were wrong.
She was learning how to break them.