Chapter 1: The Ten Rules

Chapter 1: The Ten Rules

The air in the control room was cold enough to raise the hairs on Liam’s arms. It tasted of ozone and sterile antiseptic, a scent that seemed to scrub the inside of his lungs raw. His world had been reduced to a concrete box, a single ergonomic chair, and the stark, monochromatic glow of six surveillance monitors. Five were active, displaying the silent, grainy tableaus of five separate cells. The sixth screen remained dark, a void in the otherwise complete set.

A week ago, he’d been another tech support drone, drowning in the drone of customer complaints and the rising tide of his sister’s medical bills. Sarah’s smile in the photo on his old desk was the only thing that kept him from going under. Then the ad appeared on a deep-web job board—anonymously posted, ridiculously vague, but with a promised salary that could solve everything. ’Observer wanted. High-stress environment. Discretion essential. Compensation: six figures, tax-free.’

Desire, sharp and desperate, had made him click. The application was a series of logic puzzles and psychological profiles. There was no interview, only a one-way plane ticket, a silent driver in a black car, and a descent in an industrial elevator that seemed to drop for miles beneath the earth. They took his phone, his wallet, his name. Here, he was Observer 7. He’d never even met his employers. His only instruction came from a man in a featureless gray uniform who led him here and pointed to a laminated card on the console before leaving without a word.

Now, as the heavy, insulated door clicked shut, sealing him in for his first twelve-hour shift, Liam’s gaze fell back to that card. He’d read it a dozen times already, trying to find the trick. He was a logical man, a man of systems and patterns. Everything, he believed, had a system. This had to be a test. Some elaborate, high-budget psychological experiment to gauge his obedience under pressure.

RULES FOR OBSERVATION: SITE OMIKRON

1. All events must be logged precisely at the time of occurrence. No exceptions.

That seemed standard enough. He tapped the keyboard, pulling up the digital log. The cursor blinked expectantly.

2. No personal items are permitted within the control room. This includes photographs, electronics, and written materials not provided by the facility.

They’d already enforced that one. He’d fought to keep the worn photo of Sarah but lost. The memory of her smile felt a thousand miles away.

3. You are to monitor Inmates 1 through 5. Do not concern yourself with the empty cell.

He glanced at the dark sixth monitor. Easy enough.

4. At precisely 3:33 AM, the feed for Camera 4 will experience a single, three-second visual distortion. Log it as ‘Scheduled Anomaly.’ Do not investigate further.

Liam’s brow furrowed. That was… specific. A pre-planned glitch? It had to be a test of his attention to detail.

5. Under no circumstances are you to divert your gaze from the feed of Camera 2 for more than five consecutive seconds.

His eyes shot to the second monitor. Inmate 2 was a gaunt woman, standing perfectly still in the center of her cell, facing the back wall. She hadn’t moved an inch since he’d arrived. This rule felt like a cruel mind game designed to induce paranoia.

6. Should the lights in Cell 3 flicker or dim, do not adjust the monitor’s brightness or contrast. Allow the event to conclude on its own.

He checked Cell 3. A man sat on the edge of his cot, head in his hands. The light was steady, humming. Another test, probably to see if he’d tamper with the equipment.

7. Ignore any and all auditory phenomena originating from behind you. Your focus must remain on the monitors.

This one made a chill, entirely separate from the room’s temperature, trace a line down his spine. The room was solid concrete. The door was sealed. Nothing should be behind him. It was pure psychological warfare.

8. Footage from the timestamp 4:44 AM is classified. Do not attempt to access, review, or log any events from this specific time.

Why? What could happen in a single minute that was so forbidden? The restriction itself was an obstacle, a tantalizing mystery box he was being ordered not to open.

9. You will not, under any circumstances, communicate with the inmates. They cannot see or hear you. Attempting to do so is grounds for immediate termination of contract.

Liam snorted. As if he’d want to. The figures on the screens were like ghosts in a machine, pale and lifeless.

Then he read the last rule.

10. Do not attempt to communicate with yourself.

He read it again. And a third time. Communicate with yourself? It was nonsensical, a typo, or the punchline to a very sick joke. This sealed it for him. The whole setup was a charade, an elaborate test of his sanity. They wanted to see if he’d crack, if he’d start talking to himself out of stress. Well, he wouldn’t. He was a professional. He’d play their silly game, follow their ridiculous rules, collect his money, and get Sarah the care she needed. That was the goal.

The first hour passed in buzzing silence. He logged the inmates’ non-movements with meticulous professionalism. 21:03 - Inmate 1 remains seated on cot. 21:17 - Inmate 5 paces three steps left, three steps right. 21:28 - Inmate 2 has not altered position. The banality of it was more grating than any overt threat. His focus kept drifting to Rule 5. Don’t look away from Camera 2. He found himself timing his glances at the other screens, a frantic five-second countdown running in the back of his mind. Glance at 1, back to 2. Glance at 3, back to 2. It was exhausting, a mental metronome of forced observation.

He was a tech guy. He knew about psychological manipulation, about how companies tested prospective employees. This was just a high-stakes version of that. They were creating a sense of unease, a set of impossible parameters, to see how he performed under manufactured duress. He could beat it. He just had to stay logical.

The hours crawled by. Midnight. 1 AM. 2 AM. The air grew colder, the hum of the electronics louder. The oppressive silence was a physical weight. Liam’s analytical mind began to fray at the edges. Was that a flicker in Cell 3? No, just his tired eyes. Did Inmate 2 just… twitch? No, a trick of the grainy feed.

He decided he needed to ground himself. He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms over his head. His focus was on the screens, but his mind was on the absurdity of it all. He thought about the man who hired him, the faceless entity behind an encrypted email. He thought about the sheer, mind-numbing boredom of the task. He shook his head, a small, wry smile touching his lips. It was all so stupid.

He reached for the lukewarm coffee in its styrofoam cup on the console, his hand bumping his pen. It rolled off the edge of the desk.

Clatter.

The sound was sharp, definitive, echoing in the tomb-like silence. It came from the floor. Behind him.

His blood went cold.

Rule 7. Ignore any and all auditory phenomena originating from behind you.

His heart hammered against his ribs. It was just the pen. He knew it was just the pen. It was a test. They probably had a microphone in the room. They dropped the pen remotely. Or maybe they didn't. Maybe he'd just knocked it off. But the rule… the rule was absolute.

His logical mind screamed at him: It’s a pen! It’s your pen! It’s a test of the rule!

His primal instinct, however, was a different beast. It screamed louder: TURN AROUND!

He fought it for a second. His neck muscles were taut, his eyes glued to the unmoving woman on Camera 2. But the silence that followed the clatter was worse than the sound itself. It was a loaded, expectant silence. He had to know. He had to prove to himself that it was just a pen, that this was all a game. It was an insignificant action, a moment of verification.

With a surge of defiant adrenaline, Liam made his choice. He swiveled the chair.

There was nothing there.

Only the smooth, gray concrete of the back wall, seamless and solid. His black ballpoint pen lay innocently on the floor tiles a few feet away.

A wave of relief so powerful it made him dizzy washed over him. He let out a shaky breath, a half-laugh escaping his lips. “Gotcha,” he whispered to the empty air, to the unseen observers he was sure were watching. He had failed their little test, sure, but he had confirmed his own sanity. It was just a game.

Feeling foolish but vindicated, he turned back to the console. He’d broken a rule. Nothing had happened. The world didn’t end. His fate wasn’t sealed.

His eyes scanned the five monitors, reacquainting himself with his silent charges. Inmate 1, still on his cot. Inmate 3, head still in his hands. Inmate 4, sleeping. Inmate 5, pacing. Inmate 2…

Liam’s heart stopped.

The woman in Cell 2 was no longer facing the back wall. She had turned around. She was now facing the camera. Her face filled the entire screen, as if she were pressed against the lens from the other side. Her eyes were wide, black, and utterly devoid of light. And on her pale, thin lips, a slow, knowing smile was spreading.

The clock on the console read 2:58 AM. His shift had just begun. And he had already made a fatal mistake.