“What is your name?”

  The investigator’s voice is level. Too level.

  It isn’t meant for dialogue—it’s used like sandpaper, drawn back and forth until a person starts wearing themselves down. The pauses between words are measured. Here, silence is a question too.

  The light hits straight into my eyes. White. Honest to the point of cruelty. I blink slowly, counting. Evenly.

  Not too often—not nervous.

  Not too rarely—not defiant.

  A refugee.

  Tired.

  Afraid.

  Not a hero—according to everyone else.

  “Axiom Morrenn,” I say.

  The name drops into the space without an echo. I wait—for a reflex, a micro-movement, the tiniest glitch. Nothing. Which means the name has already been heard. Maybe not here, then behind the next wall. They’re comparing. Checking for matches.

  The investigator makes a note. The stylus scratches against the tablet—an unpleasant sound, deliberately so. A reminder: you exist here as text.

  “Tell us how you ended up on the invasion dropship.”

  I let my shoulders sag slightly, as if memory truly has weight. Not acting—simulation. The body knows how to do this.

  “It was…” A pause. “…a matter of luck.”

  He doesn’t look up. Good. That means he’s listening.

  “Noxaris’s unit launched the assault. Fast. Brutal.” I inhale, as if the word sticks. “I was hiding. First in a basement. Then in a maintenance compartment. When it was over… the ship was unattended. I just… took it. And picked up the others.”

  Just.

  A word with a bad reputation. But sometimes it’s the one that sounds most believable.

  I add emotion carefully. Like salt. Too much and the dish is ruined. The fear is real—just directed. It exists. I don’t invent it. I use it.

  The investigator raises his eyes.

  One second.

  Two.

  The noemas inside me freeze. Absolute silence. No background hum. No echo. Even I can barely feel them. Good camouflage. Reliable. Expensive.

  “Why didn’t you respond to our hails during the flight?”

  “Because…” I give a crooked smile—tired, without arrogance. “Because we were on autopilot, steering away from populated areas. And honestly, we were busy not dying.”

  He writes it down. That sound again. Like someone slowly cutting through nerves.

  And now—the important part.

  While he questions me, everyone else is talking in other rooms. Women. Teenagers. The ones who are supposed to look broken. Frightened. Real.

  And they do.

  Because the noetic network has already done its work.

  I gave them the picture—whole.

  The smell of burned metal.

  The flicker of emergency lights.

  Who stood where.

  Who screamed.

  Who stayed silent for too long.

  The stories differ—as they should.

  The key points align—as they must.

  When the investigators assemble the testimonies, they won’t see a copy.

  They’ll see reality.

  The questions loop.

  “Are you sure?”

  “You already said that.”

  “And what if your account doesn’t match the others?”

  I get scared. A little. Honestly. The sweat at my temple is real. My heart speeds up. The organism works for me—and does it flawlessly.

  “I… might be mistaken,” I say. “There was smoke. Screaming. I’m not a soldier.”

  He looks at me for a long time. Too long.

  At some point, I want to end it all with a single movement. Just to stop the pressure. One clenched fist—and the room would stop existing.

  A tempting thought.

  Thoughts like that live very short lives.

  The mission comes first, I remind myself calmly. Always.

  The investigator snaps the tablet shut.

  Stands.

  “That will be all—for now.”

  And leaves.

  The door closes. Silence drops instantly, without warning. The light dims. The room seems to shrink.

  I remain chained to the table. Alone.

  Now comes the waiting.

  My least favorite weapon.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  The noemas whisper probabilities. Percentages. Scenarios.

  If they believe us—we move on.

  If not—they start breaking things.

  If something goes wrong…

  I close my eyes. Slowly.

  And, almost laughing to myself, I catch a simple, stubbornly human thought:

  Well then.

  Let’s see who comes in next—

  salvation,

  or

  another person convinced they’re in control.

  **

  The cell door opens again.

  Not sharply—lazily.

  That’s how doors open when they don’t care who walks through them… or whether anyone walks out at all.

  The corridor light cuts into my eyes. I don’t rush to blink—I let the pain do its work. A useful sensation. It grounds you.

  The guards’ shadows stretch across the floor—long, elongated. Like a sentence that hasn’t been read yet, but has already been signed and filed.

  “Stand up,” one of them says.

  No name.

  No emotion.

  No interest in the outcome.

  The chains come off quickly. Too quickly. And no one meets my eyes.

  A bad sign.

  A very bad one.

  We walk the corridors. Narrow. Gray.

  The walls here aren’t just old—they’re tired. Soaked in screams, fear, and decisions no one later discusses over dinner. I feel it on my skin. Even the noemas inside me grow quieter, as if they understand where we are.

  I count my steps.

  Not because I have to.

  Just to give my mind something constructive to do.

  One door.

  Second.

  Third.

  And—a room.

  The walls are riddled with bullet holes. Old scars overlap new ones, as if someone has been practicing punctuation here for years. Blood has eaten into the metal—it doesn’t wash off, only smears. The smell is dry, iron-heavy. Familiar. Unmistakable.

  Well, says something very human inside me.

  You made it. Congratulations.

  The realization hits all at once.

  Like a punch to the gut.

  This is where they execute people.

  Not interrogate.

  Not break.

  Not bargain.

  They put a period here.

  My fist clenches on its own. I feel the noemas respond—armor ready to unfold, weapons pressing outward like a predator that’s been told “later” for too long. Calculations skim the edge of my awareness: angles, distances, reaction times.

  Now, instinct whispers.

  Now or never.

  One step—and it’s over. They die. I walk out.

  Yes, the mission gets harder.

  No, it doesn’t become impossible.

  And at that exact moment, he appears.

  Not in front of me—in me.

  Doctor Elias Morrenn.

  My father.

  A calm gaze. Tired. The same look he gave me after my creation—not pride, but responsibility.

  “Axiom-126. Stop.”

  “Are you serious?” I hiss inwardly. “They’re about to shoot me.”

  “No,” he answers evenly. “They’re testing you. Any flare-up, and you’ll burn not only yourself, but the entire operation.”

  I get angry. Truly angry.

  “This isn’t an operation, Father. It’s an execution.”

  He looks at me as if I’ve said something na?ve.

  “Exactly,” he replies. “A trial.”

  The word lands heavy. And precise.

  I understand.

  Noxaris is watching.

  The rebels are watching.

  The system is watching.

  This is a moment of truth. Not for them—for me.

  If I snap, I’m a weapon.

  If I endure, I’m more.

  Fine, I think. Let’s play fair.

  I unclench my fist.

  They press me against the wall. Cold metal touches my back—checking if I’m alive. Weapons rise. Safeties click. Someone swallows. Someone breathes too fast. I love it when people betray themselves through their bodies.

  Move, my body screams.

  Too late, reality answers.

  Shots.

  Short.

  Loud.

  No theatrics.

  The pain comes instantly—clean, white, honest. A round punches through my arm. The bone goes numb, then flares as if someone has ignited a sun inside my forearm.

  The noemas trigger regeneration automatically.

  And that’s where real fear begins.

  If they see it…

  If they notice the wound closing—

  “Stop,” I command.

  To the noemas.

  To myself.

  To my entire body.

  Regeneration cuts off.

  It hurts like hell.

  The body resists. It wants to live. To repair. To fix.

  And I force it not to.

  I drop to my knees.

  I scream.

  I writhe.

  Ugly.

  Pathetic.

  Convincing.

  I am the best actor in this room.

  And they believe me.

  I hear it in their breathing. In the way someone looks away. In how one of them lowers his weapon too early, as if shame has suddenly caught up with him.

  They don’t see an agent of the Dark Mind.

  They see a broken refugee.

  And I’m alive.

  I’m wounded.

  I’m inside.

  And, if I’m honest,

  somewhere very deep down,

  I’m smiling.

  Because, strangely enough,

  the most interesting games

  always begin

  exactly like this.