CHAPTER TWO
We didn't drive far.
That was the first thing that felt wrong.
The system always pushed distance—burn miles, erase patterns, stay ahead. But the road stayed open. No pressure. No rerouting instincts lighting up my skull.
Silence followed us like a passenger.
Lisa sat in the front seat, legs tucked up, juice box empty in her hands. She didn't fidget. Didn't ask where we were going.
That bothered me.
"Seatbelt," I said.
She clicked it on without looking at me.
The highway stretched ahead, empty enough to feel staged. I kept my speed steady, resisting the urge to accelerate just because my body expected pursuit.
Nothing came.
An hour passed.
Then two.
Finally, Lisa spoke. "You're waiting."
"For what?" I asked.
"For them," she said. "You keep checking mirrors like they're late."
I tightened my grip on the wheel. "You should sleep."
She shook her head. "If I sleep, you'll disappear."
That landed closer than I liked.
"I won't," I said.
She studied me. "You didn't say you can't."
The system stirred—not with commands, but with suggestion.
Drop her somewhere safe.
Resume directive.
I swallowed.
"How did you get to the gas station?" I asked.
Lisa shrugged. "Bus. Mom gave me money."
"Alone?"
She nodded. "She said if anything went wrong, you'd know what to do."
"That was irresponsible."
"She said you'd say that."
The road blurred for a second.
"She trusted you," Lisa added. "Even after."
I didn't respond.
We pulled into a roadside motel just before dusk. One floor. Flickering sign. Too visible, too ordinary.
"I don't like this," I said.
"You don't like anything," Lisa replied, climbing out of the car.
Inside, the room smelled like old cleaner and dust. I checked corners, locks, vents. Habit, not fear.
Lisa sat on the bed and watched me.
"You're counting exits," she said.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"In case we need to leave fast."
She nodded slowly. "You always expect the worst."
"That's how I'm still alive."
She looked down at her shoes. "My mom expected the worst too."
I froze.
"She used to say," Lisa continued, "'Hope is what gets you killed.'"
That sentence didn't belong to her.
That sentence belonged to the system.
I turned. "Who told her that?"
Lisa frowned. "I thought… you did?"
The pressure hit then—sharp, brief. Not punishment.
Correction.
I sat on the chair, suddenly exhausted. "Lisa… did your mom ever talk about where she worked?"
"She said she used to help people," Lisa said. "Then she stopped."
"Why?"
"She said helping the wrong people still hurts the right ones."
I closed my eyes.
That memory itch again. White rooms. Numbers.
Children.
"You're shaking," Lisa said.
I hadn't noticed.
"I'm fine."
"That's what people say when they're not," she replied.
The lights flickered once.
Just once.
The system didn't announce itself.
It didn't need to.
"Get ready," I said quietly.
Lisa stood. "They're coming?"
"Maybe."
I opened the door and listened.
Footsteps passed outside—normal, unhurried. A couple laughing. A car door closing.
Nothing wrong.
That was worse.
"They're not here to kill us," Lisa said suddenly.
I looked at her. "How do you know?"
"Because you're still calm," she said. "When people want you dead, you get… quieter."
I almost smiled.
Instead, the system spoke—not in my head.
On the motel television.
The screen turned on by itself.
Static.
Then a familiar tone.
RECALIBRATION PAUSED.
SUBJECT UNDER OBSERVATION.
Lisa stared. "Is it talking to you?"
"Yes."
"Is it lying?"
"I don't know."
The screen flickered again.
NEW DIRECTIVE AVAILABLE.
I stood between Lisa and the TV.
"No," I said.
The system waited.
It always waited now.
Lisa tugged my sleeve. "What happens if you listen?"
"I stop feeling like this," I said.
"Like what?"
"Like I might be real."
Silence.
The TV shut off.
No alarms. No attack.
Just a choice deferred.
We didn't sleep.
At dawn, Lisa finally dozed off on the bed. I sat by the window, watching the empty parking lot.
My reflection stared back at me.
For the first time, it didn't look like a weapon.
It looked like someone mid-decision.
And that terrified me more than anything the system had ever done.