Forbidden Rules

My grandfather was a carpenter. On his deathbed, he told me, "John, remember this: some people wear the shape of a man, but they've never lived a single day as one. They are merely pieces of driftwood in the river of time, their hearts hollowed out. There have always been such logs, John, and there always will be."

His words echoed in my mind as the Graystone Correction Center Employee Code of Conduct was placed in my hands. The paper felt as cold as a tombstone.

I. The Principle of Absolute Silence: Within all work areas, any non-essential sound is classified as contamination. Conversation, humming, whistling, and even heavy breathing are strictly forbidden. Your emotions are your own personal waste, irrelevant to your duties. Lock them in your dormitory, or better yet, remove them entirely.

II. Designation Protocol: All "Correctional Subjects" within the Center are devoid of personal attributes. They are not to be referred to as "people," "they," or by any personal identifier. The uniform designation is "Asset," identified solely by their admission number (e.g., "Asset 734"). This is to maintain operational objectivity and professionalism.

III. The Chime System: The lifeblood of the Center is the Chime.

White Chime: Awaken, consume nourishment.

Yellow Chime: Proceed to workstations.

Blue Chime: Return to dormitories.

Black Chime: All lights out, enter sleep mode.

You must become a slave to the Chimes. Any action taken before or after a Chime is considered a system error.

IV. Special Regulation Regarding the Red Chime: If, and only if, you hear the piercing, eardrum-shattering Red Alarm Chime, you must, regardless of your location or current task, enter the nearest Employee Safety Room within ten seconds and lock the door. Inside, you must wear the full-coverage acoustic earmuffs and face the wall until the Chime ceases. Under no circumstances are you to peek, listen, or attempt to perceive the events outside during a Red Chime. Remember, curiosity is the leading cause of death at Graystone. It represents disorder and chaos.

V. Mirror Prohibition: No Asset is permitted to come into contact with any object that can produce a clear reflection. This includes, but is not limited to, mirrors, polished metals, and still water surfaces. All windows must be made of frosted glass. If an Asset is observed attempting to view their own reflection, report it immediately. No warning is necessary. Self-awareness is a catalyst for atavism.

VI. Handling of "Atavistic Phenomena": Should any Asset exhibit "Atavistic Phenomena"—such as unconscious humming, attempts at eye contact, tapping out meaningless rhythms, drawing shapes in dust, or any non-programmed micro-expressions—this is a critical violation signal. The Asset's number and a description of the phenomenon must be recorded in the Atavism Observation Log and submitted to your supervisor. Do not engage with the Asset in any way.

VII. The Employee's Duty: Your duty is not to treat, not to educate, and certainly not to save. Your duty is to maintain order and ensure the smooth operation of the production flow. You are a cog in a vast machine. Ensure you are well-oiled and running with precision.

I read on, page after page, a cold sweat seeping through my gloves. This wasn't an employee handbook. It was a creed from some twisted cult, each line meticulously engineered to erase humanity from the equation.

"Any questions, John?"

Supervisor Evans's voice pulled me from my reverie. His face was a masterfully crafted mask, with no crack or seam where an emotion might leak through.

"N-no, sir," I managed, closing the booklet and forcing my voice to sound as flat as stone.

"Good." He nodded, and for a fleeting moment, a flicker of something—perhaps approval—crossed his placid features. "Your observation post is in Workroom Three. Go and familiarize yourself with your environment. And remember, you are a cog." He stressed the last word with deliberate weight.

Workroom Three was a cavernous hall, so vast and empty it was unsettling. Fluorescent lights hanging from the high ceiling cast a stark, steady white glare that bleached all color and shadow from existence. The air was a suffocating mix of machine oil, disinfectant, and dust, thick with a metallic tang that coated the back of my throat.

Hundreds of "Assets" sat silently at their individual workstations. Clad in gray jumpsuits that matched the architecture, they were engaged in some form of delicate assembly I couldn't comprehend.

Their movements were perfectly synchronized, as if controlled by the same invisible puppet strings. Head down, hand up, twist, insert, head down. Again and again. A flawless, repeating loop, like programmed automatons. The only sound in the entire hall was the faint, monotonous click of parts fitting together. Other than that, there was only silence—a silence so heavy it felt physical, pressing down on my eardrums.

I stood in the elevated glass observation booth, looking down upon this gray ocean like a detached god. My task was to monitor them through a high-powered telescope, ensuring no rules were broken, and to log their production efficiency.

For the first few weeks, I was seized by a deep, visceral fear and disgust. They were people. They had eyes, noses, mouths. But their eyes were vacant, like glass beads coated in a layer of dust. They never focused, never made contact, never even seemed to blink. Their faces were blank canvases, showing no joy, no sorrow, not even the slightest hint of fatigue or boredom. They were the hollowed-out logs my grandfather had spoken of.

As days bled into weeks, my senses began to numb. White Chime, Yellow Chime, Blue Chime, Black Chime... my life was segmented into precise, sterile blocks of time. I learned to suppress my own breathing, to wear a mask of indifference, to truly see the living bodies below me as nothing more than "Assets." I was becoming a proper cog.

I thought I would continue to sink into this gray abyss, to dissolve completely.

Until I noticed Asset 734.

From her silhouette, she appeared to be a young woman. Like all the others, she worked with her head bowed in silence. But one day, through the powerful lens of my telescope, I caught a minuscule anomaly.

In the half-second pause between two mechanical movements, her lips moved. It was an infinitesimal, silent motion. She wasn't speaking; it was more like… the shape of a hum. No sound escaped, but that subtle quiver was like a single, scalding tear falling upon a frozen lake.

It sent a violent shock through me.

Instantly, Rule VI flashed in my mind: Atavistic Phenomena. My hand instinctively reached for the Atavism Observation Log on my desk. The tip of my pen hovered over the paper, suddenly feeling as heavy as lead.

Report her? What would they do to her? I didn't know, but the cold words of the rulebook sent a shiver down my spine. I hesitated. After a few agonizing seconds, I lowered the pen.

It was probably nothing, I told myself. A trick of the light. Just an involuntary muscle twitch.

For the first time, I made a conscious choice to betray the rules.