In Norgalia, the most repeated word was not freedom.
It was stability.
The screens displayed it at all hours. In transport stations, in factories, in schools, along the edges of public buildings. Short phrases, soft colors, calm music. Nothing frightening. Nothing that invited too much thought.
"Stability protects us."
"Order guarantees the future."
"The Republic works for you."
People went on with their lives.
Not because they fully trusted it, but because they had learned that continuing was easier than stopping.
⸻
Laboris
The shift began at exactly six.
The sirens no longer screamed like they used to. Now they were softer, almost kind. At Factory 12 in Laboris, workers entered in line, showing their IDs to a glowing scanner that blinked green or red.
Darek got green.
As always.
He went in, put on his helmet, and took his position in front of the hydraulic press. The noise was constant—metallic, repetitive. Parts, heat, sweat. Eight hours a day. Sometimes ten.
—Did you hear about Rian?—someone whispered from the next station.
Darek didn't turn his head.
—No—he replied quietly.
—He didn't come today. Or yesterday.
Darek kept working.
—Maybe he was reassigned—he said.
—He had full authorization—the other insisted.—He didn't fail any checks.
Darek clenched his jaw.
—Then don't ask—he replied.—If it was a mistake, they'll correct it.
Both fell silent.
The cameras kept recording.
⸻
Agrobia
In Agrobia, the land still produced food.
Not like before, but it did.
The fields were divided into precise sectors, measured by drones flying low, buzzing like insects. Harvests were delivered by quota. Everything was recorded. Everything was weighed.
Mariel crouched to inspect the roots of a sick plant. The leaf was dry, stained with a strange gray.
—This isn't normal—she said to her father.
He shook his head.
—Don't write it down—he replied.—If you report it, they'll come to inspect.
—And if it spreads?
—Then they'll say it was mismanagement—he answered.—And they'll take the sector from us.
Mariel stayed quiet.
In the distance, a loudspeaker repeated the daily message:
"Agrobia's production guarantees national self-sufficiency."
The fields were silent.
Too silent.
⸻
Gray City
The schools were still open.
Children entered in order, recited the republican oath, and sat in front of screens that explained recent history in simple words.
—Why aren't there kings anymore?—a child asked from the back.
The teacher smiled.
—Because now we all decide together.
—All of us?
The smile tightened for just a second.
—Yes—she replied.—Everyone who participates correctly.
The child nodded.
He didn't ask again.
⸻
Fortis
In Fortis, government buildings were cleaner than ever. New guards, uniforms without insignias, weapons visible but never raised.
In a small office, a woman reviewed digital files. Names, dates, authorizations. Everything seemed in order until she searched for one specific entry.
The system didn't respond.
She tried again.
FILE NOT AVAILABLE
She frowned.
She tried another name.
FILE DOES NOT EXIST
She logged out.
She didn't file a report.
She had learned to recognize when something didn't want to be found.
⸻
In the Streets
People spoke less.
Not because they lacked opinions, but because they had discovered that silence carried no consequences. Political conversations faded when a drone appeared. Laughter dropped in volume. Gazes shifted away.
No one felt persecuted.
And that was the worst part.
⸻
Night Message
That night, the screens turned on at the same time.
The president appeared smiling, with the Republic's flag behind him.
—Citizens of Norgalia—he said.—Today we celebrate eighteen years of stability since the republican transition. Thanks to your cooperation, our country remains standing.
The word cooperation lingered a few seconds longer than normal.
—We continue working for your safety—he concluded.—Rest easy.
The screens went dark.
In Agrobia, Mariel looked at the darkened fields.
In Laboris, Darek removed his helmet without a word.
In Gray City, the child repeated the oath under his breath.
In Fortis, the woman closed her computer and turned off the light.
Nothing had happened that day.
And yet, everyone felt the same thing.
Normality no longer brought comfort.