POV: Emilia Conti
The phone stopped working at 11:07 a.m.
Not completely. That would have been too obvious. Too crude.
Instead, it failed quietly—like a door that still looked open but no longer led anywhere.
I noticed it when I tried to call Maya.
The screen lit up. The signal bars were there. The call rang once, then dropped.
I tried again.
Nothing.
No error message. No warning. Just silence.
I stared at the screen for a long moment, thumb hovering, pulse steady but alert. This wasn't a glitch. It was intentional. I'd learned to recognize the difference.
I switched to messaging.
Me: Are you okay?
Delivered.
No response.
I tried a hospital number next. Then a random one I had memorized out of habit. Same result. One ring. Then nothing.
I exhaled slowly and set the phone down on the bed.
So that was new.
I didn't react right away. I paced instead, counting steps, letting the initial spike of anger settle into something more useful. They were watching for panic. For impulsive behavior.
I wasn't going to give them that.
I picked the phone back up and went into settings.
Restrictions everywhere. Subtle, layered. Outgoing calls rerouted. Messages filtered. Access allowed only to pre-approved internal numbers—none of which belonged to anyone I trusted.
They hadn't taken my voice.
They'd redirected it.
I laughed softly. "Clever."
A camera lens blinked once in the corner.
I looked straight at it. "You could've just told me."
No response.
I showered, dressed, and made myself presentable, not because I planned to see anyone—but because it reminded me that I still owned my body. Still chose how I moved through the day.
When I stepped into the hallway, the guards stiffened immediately.
"I want to see him," I said.
One of them spoke quietly into his earpiece. A pause.
"He'll see you," he replied. "In ten minutes."
Ten minutes.
Not now. Not later.
Measured.
I waited in the study this time, standing instead of sitting. Alessio entered without hurry, jacket buttoned, expression calm.
"You restricted my phone," I said.
"Yes."
"You didn't tell me."
"I didn't need to."
I folded my arms. "That's not acceptable."
"It's necessary."
"Why?" I demanded. "Because I called someone you didn't approve of?"
"Because you attempted contact after a breach," he replied. "That creates risk."
"For who?" I asked sharply.
"For them," he said. "And for you."
I stepped closer. "You said autonomy was negotiable."
"It is."
"This isn't negotiation," I snapped. "This is escalation."
"Yes," he agreed. "It is."
The admission took the wind out of me for a second.
"You're tightening control," I said.
"I'm tightening security."
"You're afraid," I accused.
His gaze sharpened. "Of losing you?"
"No," I said. "Of losing leverage."
Something flickered across his face then. Not anger. Something colder.
"You misunderstand," he said quietly. "Leverage doesn't argue."
I held his gaze. "I do."
"That," he replied, "is why this is complicated."
I took a breath. "Restore my access."
"No."
"At least tell me who I'm allowed to contact."
He shook his head. "That defeats the purpose."
I laughed, sharp and humorless. "You want me isolated."
"I want you alive."
"You keep using that as justification," I said. "But you're the one creating the conditions."
"Because someone already tested them," he replied. "And they won't stop."
I stepped back. "Then teach me."
He paused. "Teach you what?"
"How to survive this world," I said. "Without turning into you."
Silence stretched between us.
"That's not something you learn quickly," he said.
"Try me."
He studied me for a long moment, recalculating.
Finally, he nodded once. "You'll be given supervised access."
"To what?"
"To information," he replied. "Not people."
"That's not enough."
"It's a start."
I exhaled slowly. "You're afraid I'll run."
"Yes."
"And you're afraid I'll be used."
"Also yes."
"And you're afraid," I added quietly, "that if I speak to the wrong person, they'll trace me."
He didn't deny it.
I straightened. "Then stop treating me like a liability and start treating me like a variable."
His brow lifted slightly. "Explain."
"Give me controlled freedom," I said. "Let me see how your world works. Let me understand the threat instead of guessing at it."
"And why would I do that?" he asked.
"Because I'm already in danger," I replied. "And ignorance won't protect me."
He watched me closely, weighing something.
"You're asking for access," he said.
"I'm asking for agency."
A beat.
"You won't like what you find," he said.
"I already don't."
Another pause.
"Very well," he said finally. "Limited access. Supervised. No direct communication."
"And my phone?"
"Remains restricted."
I clenched my jaw. "Then don't call this trust."
"I won't," he replied. "I'll call it mitigation."
I turned to leave, stopping at the door. "One more thing."
"Yes?"
"You didn't warn me," I said. "About the phone. About the escalation."
"No," he agreed.
"And that means," I continued, "next time I won't assume silence is safety."
His gaze hardened. "What will you assume?"
"That you're moving pieces," I said. "And I need to move too."
I left before he could answer.
Back in my room, I sat on the bed and stared at the phone again.
Still no calls. No messages.
Just a device that pretended to connect while cutting me off from the world I used to know.
They hadn't taken my voice.
They'd narrowed its reach.
And that meant one thing, clear as day—
They were preparing for something.
Something soon.
I set the phone down carefully.
If they thought silence would make me compliant, they'd miscalculated.
Because the quieter it got—
The more closely I listened.