CHAPTER THREE
I dreamed.
That never used to happen.
Dreams were inefficient—uncontrolled simulations the system suppressed during rest cycles. Sleep meant darkness, nothing else.
This time, there was light.
A kitchen. Small. Yellow walls. A table with one uneven leg. Someone humming.
A man stood near the stove, sleeves rolled up, burning something that smelled like eggs.
"You're late," he said without turning around.
"I didn't know where I was going," I replied.
He laughed softly. "Nobody ever does."
I woke up gasping.
The motel room was still. Morning light leaked through the curtains. My heart pounded like I'd run miles.
Lisa sat on the floor near the bed, tying her shoes.
"You talk in your sleep," she said.
I rubbed my face. "What did I say?"
She hesitated. "You kept saying 'don't reset it.'"
Cold spread through my chest.
"I don't know what that means," I said.
Lisa stood. "Neither did you. That's why it was scary."
We left early.
I avoided main roads, not because the system told me to—but because it didn't. The absence of guidance felt like walking without bones.
We stopped at a diner just outside town. Chrome exterior. Old signage. Too normal to be safe.
I chose a booth near the window.
Lisa slid in across from me. "If this is a trap, it's a lazy one."
"Nothing lazy about patience," I said.
A waitress came by. Middle-aged. Tired eyes. Friendly smile that reached half a second too late.
"What can I get you?"
Coffee for me. Pancakes for Lisa.
When the waitress left, Lisa leaned forward. "You noticed it too."
"Noticed what?"
"She didn't look at the door when she smiled," Lisa said. "Mom always said people who don't check exits are pretending."
That was not something a child should know.
My chest tightened.
The food arrived. Steam rose. Smelled real.
I didn't eat.
Halfway through Lisa's pancakes, my vision warped—just a flicker. A reflection in the window didn't match my movement.
The boy stood behind me.
Same age as before. Same calm eyes.
This time, he sat in the booth beside me.
"Eat," he said.
I didn't turn. "You're not real."
"Neither is freedom," he replied. "But you want that too."
My hands clenched.
Lisa stopped chewing. "Who are you talking to?"
"No one."
She didn't look convinced.
The boy leaned closer. "You're drifting. That's dangerous."
"What do you want?" I whispered.
"To help you finish," he said. "That's what you're for."
The waitress screamed.
The sound snapped the world back into place.
Across the diner, a man had collapsed. Seizing. Blood trickled from his nose.
People rushed in. Panic spread fast and loud.
The system surged—not as command, but clarity.
Threat vector identified.
Probability spike: asset exposure.
I stood.
Lisa grabbed my wrist. "You didn't do this."
"I didn't stop it either," I said.
That was the truth.
Outside, sirens approached—not police.
Medical.
Too fast.
A black van rolled into the lot as the ambulance did. No markings. Tinted windows.
The boy's voice echoed faintly in my head.
See? They clean up messes.
A woman stepped out of the van. Clipboard. Casual clothes. No urgency.
Her eyes locked on mine instantly.
"Lisa," I said, pulling her toward the exit. "Now."
We didn't run. Running draws patterns.
We walked.
The woman didn't follow.
That was worse.
We reached the car.
I unlocked it—and froze.
A device sat on the dashboard. Small. Clean. Purpose-built.
A gift.
The system spoke gently.
RECALIBRATION SUPPORT UNIT.
VOLUNTARY USE RECOMMENDED.
Lisa stared at it. "Is that for you?"
"Yes."
"What happens if you use it?"
I imagined silence. Peace. No dreams. No boy.
"I stop asking questions," I said.
She shook her head immediately. "Don't."
"They'll stop hunting us."
She looked at me, eyes sharp. "You don't know that. You want that."
The boy appeared again—outside the car this time, watching through the windshield.
"You're tired," he said. "It's okay to rest."
I picked up the device.
My hand shook.
This wasn't defiance.
This was temptation.
I threw it into the road and crushed it under the tire as I pulled away.
The system did not scream.
It sighed.
Lisa exhaled like she'd been holding her breath for hours.
"I thought you were going to choose it," she said.
"So did I."
We drove in silence.
Minutes passed.
Then Lisa spoke softly. "You know that man in the diner might die."
"Yes."
"And you still didn't take it."
"Yes."
She nodded. "Then you're not broken."
I didn't answer.
Because broken things don't feel guilt.
And I felt it everywhere.
Behind us, the black van turned around.
Not to follow.
Just to remind me.
The system wasn't angry.
It was patient.
And for the first time, I understood the real danger.
Not that I'd fail to escape it.
But that one day—
I'd choose it back.