The Safe Zone - Ascension (Book 4)

Prologue: A World Without Choice

Scientist:

It's cold.

Not the cold you feel on your skin—the kind that seeps into your bones, thoughts, and sense of self. The kind of cold comes from the sterile silence of the Directive's laboratories—a cold born not of nature but of purpose.

I stand before the massive control screen, watching as the latest test subject writhes in agony. His body is strapped to the table, muscles seizing under the strain of the neural reprogramming. His eyes, once bright with rebellion, are glazed now. Empty. A dull reflection of the human he once was.

Subject 375—his name, history, and identity erased from the system. He is nothing but a tool—a part of Phase Three.

I press a button, and the machinery hums louder, sending another wave of energy through his brain. His screams echo in the sterile room, but I don't flinch. I've heard it all before. I've been standing in this spot for months, maybe years. It's hard to tell anymore. Time blurs when surrounded by machines designed to overwrite what makes people human.

"Resistance levels are decreasing," a voice says from behind me. My assistant, a young man with sunken eyes and a nervous twitch. He still hasn't adjusted to the reality of what we're doing here. He's useful but weak. Not like me.

I nod without turning around. I don't need to see the data—every reaction from the subject, every twitch of his muscles, tells me what I need to know. His body may still be fighting, but his mind is breaking.

"Send another pulse," I instruct, my voice cold, detached. "We need to push him beyond the threshold."

There's a hesitation behind me, a brief flicker of doubt that I can feel like static in the air. The assistant is questioning me again. I can sense his discomfort and the way he struggles with the morality of it all. The weak always do.

"Sir, his neural patterns are already collapsing," the assistant says, his voice low, uncertain. "If we push any further, we risk—"

"I didn't ask for your opinion," I cut him off, finally turning to face him. My eyes bore into his, and I saw the fear flicker beneath the surface. "Send the pulse."

He doesn't argue. He knows better by now. I watch as he fumbles with the control panel, his fingers shaking as he inputs the command. A second later, the room hums again, and Subject 375's body arches violently against the restraints, his back bending at an unnatural angle. His mouth opens in a silent scream, no sound escaping this time.

And then... stillness.

I wait. Watch.

His body trembles once, twice... and then goes completely limp.

The assistant looks at me, panic in his eyes. "Sir, I think—"

"He's fine," I say, my voice a flat monotone. "He'll come back."

The seconds drag on, and the only sound in the room is the steady hum of the machines. And then, as if on cue, Subject 375's eyes flutter open. But they're not the same. The dull glaze is gone, replaced by a glassy, vacant stare. Once twisted in pain, his mouth is slack, and his body is relaxed. His breathing is slow. Controlled.

"It's done," I say quietly, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth.

Subject 375 is no longer a man. He's a weapon. A perfectly crafted tool of the Directive, stripped of free will, stripped of humanity. He will obey. He will kill. He will do whatever we command, without hesitation, without question.

"Upload the Directive's final orders," I say, returning to the control screen. "Prepare him for deployment."

The assistant moves quickly now, all hesitation gone. He taps the control panel, transferring the final programming into the subject's brain. I watch the lines of code flow across the screen, erasing what little remained of the man who once lay there.

The Overseer's orders are simple. Efficient.

Phase Three is more than a system of control. It is the end of resistance—the end of free will.

The end of choice.

I feel the cold, creeping sensation of triumph settle in my chest. This is what we've worked for. This is what the Directive has been building toward for years. The scattered resistance factions, those pathetic survivors still clinging to the notion of freedom, have no idea what's coming. They have no idea that we are rewriting the essence of what it means to be human.

The Overseer has seen to it. He's the architect of this new world, and I am his hand, guiding it into existence.

I can feel the assistant's gaze on me again, lingering. His unease hasn't entirely dissipated. He's seen too much, perhaps. Knows too much. And yet, there is no place for hesitation here—no place for conscience.

"What happens when they realize what we've done?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

I don't respond at first. I watch as Subject 375 is lifted from the table by a pair of mechanized arms, his body carried toward the deployment unit. He's ready now—another soldier for the Directive's army, another piece in the final phase of our plan.

"They won't have time to realize," I say, at last, my voice cold and final. "By the time they understand what's happening, it will already be too late."

The assistant nods, but I can see the doubt lingering in his eyes. It doesn't matter. Soon enough, it won't matter at all.

I turn away from the control screen, walking toward the far end of the room where the Overseer's private chamber lies behind a sealed door. The door slides open with a soft hiss as I approach, and I step into the cold, dark interior.

The Overseer is waiting for me.

He stands in front of a massive window overlooking the facility. Below, I can see hundreds of subjects—men, women, even children—being processed, their minds stripped and reprogrammed, their bodies prepared for deployment. It's a sight I've seen a hundred times, but its scale never ceases to amaze me.

"Is it done?" the Overseer asks, his voice low and smooth, filled with a quiet authority that sends a shiver down my spine.

"Yes, Overseer," I say, bowing slightly in respect. "The test subject is fully reprogrammed. Phase Three is ready to proceed."

The Overseer doesn't turn to look at me. His gaze remains fixed on the scene below, his hands clasped behind his back. "And the resistance?" he asks, his tone calm, as if the answer doesn't truly matter.

"They're scattered," I say, forcing my voice to remain steady. "What's left of them is disorganized, fragmented. They won't be able to stop us."

The Overseer is silent for a long moment, and I can feel the weight of his presence pressing down on me. He's always been an enigma—cold, calculating, three steps ahead of everyone else. It's why he's the leader of the Directive, why he's been able to bring the world to its knees.

"They'll try," he says at last, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "But you're right. They won't be able to stop us."

He turns to face me, his eyes gleaming with a cold, calculating light. "Prepare the rest of the subjects for deployment," he says. "We launch Phase Three at dawn."

I bow my head again. "Yes, Overseer."

As I leave the chamber, I can feel the weight of what we're about to unleash settling on my shoulders. Phase Three isn't just another step in the Directive's plan. It's the final step. The endgame. And once it's activated, there will be no going back.

I glance back over my shoulder as the door to the Overseer's chamber slides shut behind me. For a brief moment, I feel a flicker of doubt, a small voice in the back of my mind whispering that this is wrong, that we're crossing a line that should never be crossed. But then I remember the cold.

The cold that has been with me since the day I joined the Directive. And I silence the voice.