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I picked up my fountain pen, filled it with the blood they had brought me, and delicately wrote his name next to the others. I still don’t know how they killed him - though what matters is that he’s dead. That despicable man thought he could rebel.

His turn came, just like they all have their turn.

The list beside me is full of familiar and unfamiliar names. Some I remember well - their smiles, their glances, the things they shouldn’t have said but did. Others are just names, a recorded crime, a taped voice, or a blurry image from a surveillance camera.

For all of them, there’s only one ending - and I am the one who writes it.

The blood-inked fountain pen bled onto the paper.

At first, my hand would tremble. But now I’m used to it. All I need is focus - to write calmly and beautifully so the list remains clean and orderly.

I wrote his name right beneath that teenage girl who had tried to send a message out. Poor girl, her recorded voice still echoes in my ears:

“If I die, know that…”

I don’t know what happened - why she didn’t finish, maybe the power went out, maybe she got scared, or maybe she couldn’t breathe anymore. It doesn’t matter. Now both of them are on the list. And the list goes on, relentlessly.

There’s a heavy silence in my room. Only the hum of the air vent and sometimes, the sound of footsteps in the corridor. This place is safe, a place where we hide the truth, so order can survive.

Sometimes I wonder - what if one of the names is a mistake? What if someone is innocent?

But I quickly gather my thoughts. These doubts are dangerous - especially in the position I hold. In the cabinet beside me, there are small vials filled with blood. Each labeled with a specific code. Those who caused more trouble - their blood is darker. Maybe from hatred or maybe from the intensity of their resistance.

They brought his blood from the control unit. Said he didn’t go down easily. The dangerous ones always die hard.

I picked up the fountain pen again. Opened the next page of the list. My eyes fell on another name. It was familiar, very familiar…

I kept staring at her name.

It was just a name—simple, ordinary—but to me, it felt like a wake-up call. A name that stirred something deep inside, yet at the same time, left me feeling completely numb. It was my mother’s name. Why? Why had I never felt this way before? Didn’t the life of the previous names matter? Why did I never dare to ask the hard questions? Why didn’t I ever try to understand why I do the things I do?

Instead, I cloaked my actions in the comfort of excuses, blaming the dead for what they did—because they couldn’t speak back. I wore that blame like armor to shield me from the truth. But deep down, I know it was cowardice. I never wanted to face what was real, because I was afraid of what I might find.

Now I wonder—maybe it’s too late to be sorry.

But if I die… what should people know?

What truth deserves to be uncovered, even if it hurts? What stories have been buried in silence, covered in blood, erased by those who will do anything—anything—to keep control? They kill anyone who dares to question, anyone who rebels, anyone who doesn’t fall in line. I think… I might be next.

And yet, if the truth dies with me, then what was the point of it all?

I looked at her name again. My hand trembled—not from fear, but from memory. She used to hum softly while brushing my hair, always pausing when I asked too many questions. She knew the danger of curiosity. Maybe she even foresaw this moment, my hand hovering above her name, the ink-blood ready to seal her fate.

But this time, I couldn’t write.

I put the pen down.

My heart thudded against my chest like a warning bell. What if this was the moment everything changed? What if refusing to write a name—her name—was the beginning of something greater than the list, greater than fear?

Outside, the corridor was quiet, but the silence now felt different, Heavy. Watching. Waiting.

I opened the drawer and picked up the small vial labeled with her code. Her blood was lighter, almost translucent—like it didn’t belong in this room of shadows and secrets. I held it to the light. It shimmered.

Was she really guilty? Or had someone decided she needed to disappear, like all the others? I whispered to myself, “Maybe I don’t want to be the one who writes endings anymore.” I tore the page. Not the whole list—just that one page. The sound of tearing paper felt louder than a scream.

Something shifted inside me...

But then, in the next moment, I realized something: exactly a year ago I had already written my mother’s name in this list. Back then I didn’t have to think about such difficult things, my hardest choice that day was only about which sauce to pick for my sandwich. Maybe now I stop and question everything, but back then it wasn’t like that. I just wrote her name.

Lately, something is wrong with my memory, I forget and then I remember. For example, yesterday I was just walking down the street, and the day before I was almost hit by a car. And today I came to work, everything looked the same as always, but these flashes from the past don’t let me rest.

Memories absorbed me so sharply that I forget how to breath. Cold sweat started slowly forming on my forehead. Guardian outside saw me and asked, do I need medication.

— Fall is indicating the big wave of flu, we don’t have enough time for waiting you,— rough voice rumbled

— No-no, just a headache, I will start my work,— I hurried to close my door, relieved exhaling. No one should know about it.

Suddenly I remembered, how in school I asked, how can society understand,, when individual broken?

— Very easy, they transfer all emotions into equations, if there will be irrational numbers, then it will be obvious. Most of them are dead, thanks to our Rational minds. We don’t need emotions, they are irrational, the same thing for memories. We need inly perfection, nothing less than that,— older woman with monotonous voice said that.

With trembling hands, I sit down and looked at my rent pieces of last page with… Her name… I have to take a grip before I lost my mind… I glanced at calendar, - 2190 year, we don’t have months how people used to have… Actually we stopped using a lot of things due to their ineffectiveness in perfect mechanism…

I shacked my head and started working, I was biting my one finger for being sober.

For the first time, my gaze lingered not on the soulless (or perhaps soulful) pages of the book, but on the walls. Empty, without pictures, memories. Cold, like death. Now these walls seemed not like protection, but like a cage. Then I suddenly realized that if I could tear one page, I could do the same with the whole book. But what then? Run away? Go out into the outside world and tell everyone? Or continue writing names, but this time of those who forced me to become an executioner.

The hopelessness of the world, existence and being became irritating. As if I had woken up after a long sleep in which I lived like a slave, without a will of my own.

I looked at the calendar again. A pretty useless atrebut considering it didn't have months on it. Only a year. Probably only useful for people with dementia.

2190. One number that stores in itself the totality of events of the object of self-creation - human existence. When an original, self-existent ancient man, and now just me. A spineless executioner who destroyed the entire ideal mechanism because of one name, the name of a human who has engraved into memories - the irrational ability of people. After all, to forget is natural, but to remember is artificial. People of the past thought differently. And perhaps their words were internal, inscribed with Verity.

I pressed my forehead against the cold surface of the desk, as if the chill could quiet the storm inside me. But the silence only grew heavier, the hum of the vent turning into a suffocating drone. My hand reached instinctively for the fountain pen again, but it felt heavier than before—like a weapon I no longer wished to wield.

The torn page lay at my side, fragile and yet powerful, whispering rebellion. For the first time, I understood: a single refusal could collapse the perfect machine. Not because of strength, but because of fracture. Once a system cracks, it can never be whole again.

I thought of my mother—her humming, her patience, her warnings. Maybe she knew one day I would stand here, trembling with the weight of choice. Maybe she wanted me to remember, even when the world demanded forgetting.

A thought struck me: if memory is irrational, then I will cling to it. If emotion is weakness, then let me be weak. Better weak and human than strong and hollow.

The book waited, but I turned away. My eyes fixed on the door, where shadows pressed close, listening. Perhaps they already knew. Perhaps my name would be next.

And strangely—I was ready.

***

"Confirmed. Object 139 has gone out of control. The record will be entered into the protocol and sent shortly."

The short man with ivory-colored skin hung up the phone. His gaze was fixed on his own reflection in the mirror. There existed knowledge preserved from ancient humans. The eyes of these beings, filled with irrationality, were considered the mirror of the soul; accordingly, through them, one could determine what kind of person someone truly was. Ancient humans constantly indulged in dreams, metaphors, and futile associations that brought no benefit to their world, a world devoid of a mechanical ideal.

The man looked at his eyes — indifferent and empty. The reason for this was the absence of a soul. The only correct outcome awaited those whose names had been written by the executioners.

***

“Subject 139 — noncompliant. Status: terminated.”

The four people who had been standing behind the door entered.

- I‌ don’t understand why he experienced a breakdown. Could something that happened a year ago still affect them now? She wasn’t even its mother- the middle-aged man said.

- We shouldn’t have written anything about their parents from the beginning. It seems that unreal emotions are even stronger than simple logic, the woman beside him, who had no insignia on her clothing which shows she hold a superior rank compared to the others said.

- So, we should bring subject No. 1 again and erase the memories we wrote about its parents, is that correct?

- It seems we still have enough time to test the same condition with subject No. 1 at least once more.

- Very well, bring No. 1. The reason for rewriting its memories is… let’s see, it says: recalling the memories he had with his dead daughter, and during the experiment he tried to commit suicide, and um, apparently the experimental condition didn’t have much effect on it which makes it a great subject for situation.

Suddenly there was footsteps, which could make everyone to flinch, expecting both death and bliss. The man with imposing height walked in room, making everyone to straightened up.

— Commander! — one of the burly man stammered.

— Why aren’t you all smiling?— the voice boomed , looking around. It has fair skin and long coal hairs. It had uncharacteristic vivid red uniform. That voice was so silky, making everyone understand the trap, which hide behind it,— Remember my slogan: “Smile is the engine for solving problem, afterwards which we will have perfect harmony”!— he said with that excitement, which would scare more, than to cheer up.

Everyone immediately put their strained smiles, as protocol required.

— Oh, the subject 139! Interesting one!— the booming and intimidating voice continues,— I hope you didn’t terminate him, cause he is so interesting for my further experiments,— it looked expecting at his subordinates. It didn’t had eyes, the mirrors of the soul, it had two black orbits, which appeared as two holes of abyss. The black, restricted lines under his eyes and around his face made him more unreal in compare of other subjects in inside room.

—Commander…We…— the men in front of the mirror started,— we terminated him.

Its smile almost reached his half of the face, showing his sharp and menacingly white teeth.

— Terminated?… Okay, I will make its body smile instead of his face,— he said in menacingly calm voice,— Then find me new soulful subject!— he boomed, hitting wall beside him, making it crack surrendering. He leaned from his high, looking at his subordinates past them with that disturbing smile.

— I wait new object in 1 week. Or I will terminate from our ideal and happy mechanism myself,— it ordered with same smile.

It heard the clicks of heels and it had pure delight in his face, making it more intimidating that it was before.

— My new woman companion! How I love women, especially taking them all to myself only,— he state with such twisted and dark obsession , after which even soulless will have goosebumps.

Commander Rook smiled and called the masked girl closer. Nobody knew who she really was, or what face hid behind the mask except Rook. Elias stood near the list, calm but watchful, noticing every movement and every quiet word. The room whispered about Subject 1 failures, but also lessons. Rook and the masked girl spoke about new maps, new machines, and the next plan: to use weakness itself as fuel for their perfect system. It was a great opinion but kind of skeptical.

And then, as if carried by the shadows of the chamber, a whisper spread: the woman beneath the mask was not just anyone—she was the soul of all subjects. Commander Rook alone understood this truth. He needed to save her, to protect her like a flower, because if harm ever reached her, every subject would vanish into nothing. That was why she was not only the main character of the life, but the very core of his own life.

A week later, the doors opened. Four guards dragged in a burned man. His body was ruined, his skin black, his face gone. But inside, his heart and brain were metal—part human, part machine, a mystery no one could explain. No one could tell who he had been. Nobody knows about his life but commander laughed and said he had some similarity to one subject. Subject 17#. Rook leaned closer and whispered, “Let's make him perfect.”

They gently bound his arms and legs to the bed, placed the helmet on his head, and observed him inside the simulator—inside the very same room, the room meant to be the finisher and the writer of the names of those executed by the higher-ups.

“Should we wait for the Commander? We have no idea who this subject is,” the middle-aged man said.

“Let’s examine the conditions and the memories we wrote for him,” the insignia-less woman replied.

The Commander entered with his mocking smile, his hand resting on the masked woman’s waist.

“Begin the simulation.”

“What do you think, my dear? Do you think he’ll endure it?” the Commander said to the masked woman, his grin stretching wide across his face.

The masked woman glanced at the display screen, then shook her head in discomfort and disgust at the Commander’s closeness.

“We assembled this one from the body parts of other subjects who could no longer be tested. Do you see that fair, unburned hand? We took it from Subject No. 17, who suffered a stroke under the extreme pressure of the simulator. And now his hand serves our purpose.”

SAMEPAGE

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