Code Name: Ember

The room lights dim automatically to 30% brightness once I enter. It's clean. Unpersonalized. No photographs. No notes. No mess.

Just a bed, a built-in desk, and a mounted screen on the far wall. Surveillance permissions rotate weekly—tonight, I have observer-level access.

I sit down, rub a sore spot near my shoulder blade, and tap the panel. The screen flickers on.

Accessing: Hall C Feed
Dormitory Wing 2
Mess Hall Storage
Sector 5 Rooftop Cam (offline)

I queue them all. Three small boxes light up in the corner of the screen, each grainy and in black and white.

Mostly, there's nothing. A janitor moving supplies. A couple of trainees trading ration bars in the hallway.

One of them is Calista. She's leaning against the doorframe outside the mess, her eyes locked on something—or someone—off-screen. The timestamp reads 22:13.

She doesn't look scared. She looks bored. Which is somehow worse.

I minimize the feed.

There's no sound in the room except my breath and the dull buzz of the screen. The walls are padded under the paint—not for comfort, but to muffle impact.

I lie down on the mattress, eyes open.

The ceiling above me is blank—no stars here, just industrial gray.

My body is exhausted, but my brain is still operational. Still alert.

Like a machine that was never powered down.

Like a predator behind reinforced glass.

Eventually, I close my eyes.

But even in sleep, I'm counting exit points.