Юлия Авилкина – Survivors Bias (страница 3)
I don’t lung for Marcus. I don’t try to bolt for the door—it’s on a hard-lock. Instead, I violently tip my glass of “adaptogen blend” right onto the terminal’s touch-sensitive panel.
There’s a sharp hiss. A shower of sparks.
“Damn it!” Marcus snarls, lunging toward the panel to save the hardware.
In that exact second, the soothing sound of ocean waves playing through the overhead speakers is ripped apart by a jagged, grinding static-burst. Then, Leo’s voice, amplified ten times over, booms through the room:
The med-bay lighting begins to strobe a frantic crimson. This isn't just a glitch. This is “Red Storm”—the protocol I just helped Leo trigger using the admin privileges I leaked. Every magnetic lock in the building is designed to release in the event of a catastrophic fire alarm.
“What did you do?” Marcus spins toward me, his face twisted with pure rage. He reaches for his taser.
But he’s too late. The terminal screen behind him flashes white, and instead of system logs, Maya Lin’s face appears. Thousands of them. Instagram shots, grainy CCTV footage, her very last text message.
“It wasn't me, Marcus,” I whisper, backing toward the sliding doors as they hiss open. “It’s the system’s conscience.”
Clara’s voice booms across the entire headquarters over the PA system. She’s screaming at the techs, demanding they kill the feed, but I can hear it—the raw, jagged edge of panic. Her perfect digital god has finally turned on her.
I bolt into the hallway. It’s pure chaos: employees are scrambling, and the robotic cleaners are spinning in circles, short-circuiting under the weight of a thousand conflicting commands.
I’m not running for the exit. I’m heading straight for the control room.
Five minutes until the launch. The entire world is already tuned in. Millions are waiting for
I pull out my phone mid-stride. A text from Leo:
I have to stop her.
Not as a hacker. But as the person who, five years ago, stood by and let her steal my life.
Chapter 3
The morning after meeting Leo didn’t smell like coffee; it smelled of ozone and the looming scent of a catastrophe.
In the elevator at the
“Shut up,” I whispered, stepping out onto the fortieth floor.
The office was humming with its usual corporate energy. Young geniuses in hoodies sat at glass desks, architecting “happiness” for millions. They had no idea that beneath their clean code ran a sewer of manipulation and erased lives.
My desk was tucked away in the far corner, overlooking the bay. I flipped open my laptop, and a notification instantly killed the silence of my screen:
[CLARA VANCE]: “Swing by my office in five. We need to discuss ‘Sincerity.’”
Coming from Clara, the word “Sincerity” always signaled someone’s imminent digital execution.
A vibration buzzed in my pocket. Not my work phone. It was the old “burner” Leo had slipped into my bag last night. One short pulse. A code. It meant:
I approached Clara’s office. The smart-glass door was set to transparent. Clara sat behind her desk, flicking through holographic feeds. She looked like she’d gotten a perfect eight hours of sleep, though I knew for a fact she’d spent the night scrubbing every digital trace of Maya Lin.
She looked up at me. Her smile was flawless—the kind you only see in high-end toothpaste commercials.
“Elena, have a seat,” she said, gesturing to a chair that instantly contoured to the curve of my spine. “I’ve been reviewing your drafts for tomorrow’s keynote. Do you know what they’re missing?”
I forced a smile to match hers. “What’s that?”
“Blood,” Clara leaned forward. “Metaphorical, of course. People are tired of sterile perfection. They want to know we’re human. They want to see us make mistakes.”
She paused, and in the silence, I could hear my heart hammering against my ribs. Clara slowly slid a tablet across the desk toward me.
“Tomorrow, on stage, I want you to talk about your ‘trauma.’ About why you changed your name. About what exactly you were running from five years ago.”
The world seemed to lurch to a halt. She didn’t just know. She was planning to use my past as a stage prop for her triumph.
“But that’s private…” I began, feeling the numbness spread to my fingertips.
“There is no such thing as ‘private’ anymore, darling,” Clara said, her fingers grazing my hand. They were ice-cold. “There is only content. And tomorrow, you will either be the greatest piece of content in this brand’s history... or you will become its biggest mistake.”
I walked out of Clara’s office, feeling a single, icy bead of sweat slide down my spine.
I needed space. Somewhere without cortisol sensors and smart-chairs.
The cafeteria on the thirty-fifth floor was called "The Oasis." Real trees, the sound of an artificial waterfall, and the scent of roasted beans were supposed to mimic freedom, but all I saw were the cameras tucked into the foliage.
I was standing in line for the coffee terminal when I felt eyes on me. Not the mechanical gaze of a lens, but a heavy, human stare.
“Oat milk cappuccino, no sugar,” a voice said behind me. “You still haven't changed your habits, Lisa.”
The world ceased to exist for a split second.
I turned slowly, praying that my new cheekbones and altered eye shape would hold up under scrutiny.
Standing before me was a man in a rumpled gray blazer. Mark. My former lab colleague, the one I’d written the very first lines of that code with. Five years ago, he’d been in love with me. Or at least, with my algorithms. Now, he looked older… and terrified.
“Excuse me?” I kept my voice light, tinged with confusion. “I think you have me confused with someone else.”
Mark took a step forward, violating every rule of corporate personal space. His eyes searched my face feverishly, hunting for a single familiar line.
“Lisa, don’t,” he whispered. I noticed his fingers trembling as they gripped a paper cup. “I saw your patterns in the new
“You’re mistaken.” I tried to step around him, but he blocked my path.
“Listen to me!” His voice rose, turning heads at a nearby table. “They’re looking for you. Not just Clara. The people above her. Maya Lin was just the beginning. They’re using your code to flag ‘non-compliant’ citizens on a federal level. If they realize the creator is alive and working right under their noses...”
“Mark, stop,” I hissed, grabbing his elbow and pulling him into the shadows behind an ivy-covered pillar. “You’re going to get us both killed.”
It was a confession. My first mistake.
“So it
The burner phone in my pocket buzzed twice. Short pulses.
“How do you know this?” I gripped the fabric of his blazer.
Mark looked up at the ceiling camera as it slowly pivoted toward us.
“Because I’m the one who verified your identity for Clara a week ago. I’m sorry. I didn’t have a choice. They have my family.”
“Go, Mark. Act like we’ve never met,” I said, shoving his coffee cup away. “And put on a mask. It’s about to get hard to breathe in here.”
I didn't run for the elevators. The elevators at
My fingers feverishly punched in the code: 000_BLACKOUT.
a second later, the phone kicked back with a heavy, jarring vibration.