The first call came at 6:14 a.m.
Maya didn't answer it.
Not because she didn't hear it—but because she did.
The vibration of her phone against the desk felt louder than any alarm. It cut through the quiet room, through the hum of the building, through the carefully constructed stillness Project L wrapped around her days. She stared at the screen from across the room, her heart already racing before the name fully registered.
Dad.
She let it ring.
The call ended. Silence rushed back in, heavier than before.
Maya exhaled slowly, pressing her palm flat against her chest as if she could physically hold her heart in place. Her father never called this early unless something was wrong—or unless she was wrong for not coming home.
She hadn't been home for days.
She hadn't even realized how many.
Project L didn't track time the way normal life did. There were no weekends here, no familiar rhythms. Just tasks, briefings, silence, and the slow erosion of anything that reminded her she used to belong somewhere else.
Her phone vibrated again.
This time, a message.
Dad:
Maya, where are you? You didn't come home. You didn't answer yesterday. Are you okay?
Her throat tightened.
He didn't accuse.
He didn't demand.
He worried.
That hurt more than anything Project L had done to her so far.
She picked up the phone, her fingers hovering above the screen. For a moment—a dangerous, fragile moment—she considered telling him the truth. Not everything. Just enough.
I'm not safe.
I don't know how to come home.
Please don't look for me.
But Project L didn't need to threaten her for her to know the consequences.
They were already inside her life.
Inside her phone.
Inside the spaces between her thoughts.
She typed.
Deleted.
Typed again.
Her final message felt cold the moment it left her fingers.
Maya:
I'm okay, Dad. I'm so sorry I didn't call. It was an emergency. The people who gave me the scholarship called me in suddenly. There was no time to explain. I'm safe. I promise.
The message delivered instantly.
Too instantly.
Her stomach twisted.
She hated how easy it had been to lie.
The reply didn't come immediately.
That made it worse.
Maya paced the room, barefoot against the cool floor, replaying every conversation she'd ever had with her father. He wasn't foolish. He noticed patterns. He noticed when her voice sounded off, when her words were too careful.
She imagined him sitting in the living room, phone in hand, reading her message again and again, sensing the space between what she said and what she meant.
Her phone buzzed.
Dad:
A scholarship emergency? Why didn't you tell me before you left? You didn't even pack properly.
Maya closed her eyes.
He knew.
Not everything—but enough.
She leaned against the wall, sliding down until she was sitting on the floor, knees pulled to her chest. Her reply took longer this time.
Maya:
I didn't know before, Dad. It happened suddenly. They said if I didn't come immediately, I could lose it. I panicked. I'm sorry. I'll explain everything when I get back.
When I get back.
The lie tasted bitter.
She didn't know if "back" existed anymore.
Across the building, unseen and unannounced, data shifted.
Her message didn't go unnoticed.
Project L didn't intervene.
They didn't correct her.
They didn't stop her.
They watched.
The man who had briefed her earlier stood before a screen filled with layered information—behavioral metrics, linguistic patterns, emotional stress indicators. Maya's message glowed faintly among them.
"She chose preservation," someone noted calmly.
"Of the scholarship?" another asked.
"No," the man replied. "Of connection."
That answer satisfied them.
Fear was temporary.
Attachment was leverage.
Maya returned to work later that morning, her focus sharper, more brittle. She completed every task faster than expected, her mind moving with a precision that even unsettled her. The system responded in kind, adapting to her rhythm, anticipating her corrections.
She was becoming essential.
And she knew it.
That was the problem.
Every time she solved something for them, Kelvin's image surfaced in her mind—not tied this time, not blindfolded, just watching her, silently asking what she was becoming for his sake.
By mid-afternoon, her phone buzzed again.
This time, it wasn't her father.
It was a single symbol from Project L.
Acknowledgment.
Approval.
Her chest tightened.
They hadn't asked her to lie.
They hadn't told her to stay.
She had done both on her own.
That night, alone again in her room, Maya replayed her father's voice in her head—the way he always said her name slowly when he was worried, as if saying it carefully could protect her.
She turned onto her side, curling inward.
"I'm sorry," she whispered into the empty room, unsure who she was apologizing to anymore.
Her father.
Kelvin.
Herself.
Project L didn't need to take her freedom.
She was handing it over, piece by piece—wrapped in excuses, sealed with love, justified by survival.
And somewhere deep inside her, a quiet, dangerous thought began to form:
If I'm already here… I might as well learn everything.
The idea scared her.
The fact that it also felt powerful scared her more.