Narey's steps halted before a steel door coated in matte black metal. No handle, no gap—only a flat panel with a biometric sensor and a small camera glowing red. Her heartbeat pounded, as if her body knew: behind this door, the truth she'd been chasing was waiting—and she might not come out the same person.
Her breath came heavy in the narrow corridor. The metal walls echoed faintly, silent yet never truly still. There was a subtle vibration—perhaps machinery. Perhaps something more... alive.
With trembling hands, she slipped the stolen lab card and pressed her finger to the sensor. In an instant, the red light turned green, followed by a heavy mechanical sound—click, slide, a low hum. The door opened slowly, as if swallowing her into a darkness chilled by logic and experimentation.
The room was vast, far larger than she had expected, like a buried hangar in the belly of the earth. Cold white lights hung high above, illuminating a glass walkway down the center. On either side were observation chambers lined with glass, inside which massive screens displayed brainwave graphs, heart rate monitors, and footage of patients in semi-conscious states.
And at the center of it all—she saw him.
Professor Vellan.
Reclining in a chair like a psychiatric patient, cables trailing from his skull into a machine behind him. His body trembled subtly, as if under constant light electric shocks. His eyes were open, but vacant. Not asleep. Not awake. Not fully alive.
Standing before him was someone Narey never imagined she'd find here.
Professor Laksana.
His silver hair was neatly combed, his lab coat spotless, and his expression calm—too calm. He didn't look like a villain or a mad scientist. He looked like a professor fresh from an academic symposium, like someone who fully believed that what he was doing… was the highest good for humanity.
"You finally made it," Laksana said, as if this had all been part of a plan. "I thought you'd arrive sooner."
Narey raised her phone, secretly recording. "What have you done to Vellan?"
"Vellan?" Laksana chuckled softly. "He was brilliant in theory, but too gentle to understand what the world needs now. He thought Cerebrum Shift could be a solution to trauma and mental illness. But you know what I learned from our government, Narey? Trauma is a tool. Fear is the most stable foundation for controlling mankind."
The machine behind Vellan buzzed. The monitor displayed a spike in brainwave patterns, as if reacting to their conversation.
"He's still alive," Narey whispered, half to herself.
"Technically, yes," Laksana replied. "But everything that made him him—his idealism, morality, compassion—has long been dismantled. All for this project. All for the stability democracy has neglected for too long."
Something cracked inside Narey—a mix of anger, fear, and creeping despair. This wasn't just a mad experiment. This was a systematic belief that control was worth more than freedom.
And standing before her was someone who could make that belief real.
"You think you can play God?" Narey's voice shook.
Laksana stepped closer, looking her straight in the eyes.
"No," he said softly. "I'm merely fixing His flawed creation."
And in that moment, Narey knew: this wasn't just a case of missing people.
This was a war of beliefs.
Laksana studied Narey with cold but curious eyes, like a scientist observing a lab rat showing unexpected behavior. There was no tension in his face, as if he didn't see her as a threat.
"You're not an ordinary student. Not a journalist, either. But you have access, courage, and know far too much for an outsider. So who are you really, Narey?"
She didn't answer. Her fists clenched, but her mind worked hard to contain her emotions.
"Did they send you to stop me?" Laksana nodded as if answering himself. "Interesting. Even they don't know I'm already two steps ahead."
"'They'? You talk like you're not part of the system. When you're the architect." Narey's voice rose slightly, still controlled.
"I don't serve a broken system, Narey. I serve something greater. That system—government, education, media—it's fragile. Full of aimless noise. They raise generations to believe freedom is the ultimate virtue, when in fact it's the root of chaos."
Laksana moved closer, his low voice hypnotic, like a preacher delivering a new gospel.
"Imagine this: a single collective thought. A shared consciousness. No conflict, no ego. That's what Cerebrum Shift can create. Vellan couldn't see it. But I... I can."
"By erasing others' consciousness?" Narey's voice cracked. "By stripping them of free will and replacing it with your own? That's not progress—that's fascism wrapped in humanity's name."
For the first time, Laksana's expression shifted. Not anger. But disappointment—like a father to a child who failed to grasp a grand vision.
"And where has free will taken humanity? Colonization, war, mass suicide, madness. Don't be arrogant about something history itself cannot defend, Narey. I'm not erasing will. I'm aligning it."
Narey stepped back. The room felt frozen. Machines hummed softly, like a tragic orchestra in a final act.
"Even if it works, you're only building an illusion of peace founded on fear and control. And the worst part—you know that, but you still choose it."
Silence followed. Then a faint smile curved Laksana's lips.
"Because I don't have the luxury of choosing morality over stability. And soon, neither will you."
Through the hum of machines and the soft ticking of time, Narey gazed at the transparent panel behind Laksana. There was another chamber there—filled with metal beds, cables dangling like neural roots from the ceiling. Someone lay motionless inside. Unmoving.
"Who is that?" Narey asked quietly.
Laksana turned, not following her gaze. "That's Lucas Vanrah. Or rather, part of him."
Silence stretched. Narey stepped closer to the glass. She saw Lucas's body—too still to be sleeping. Too empty to be dead.
"His mind is in the fourth layer," Laksana explained, casually, like describing a routine procedure. "The experimental phase of cross-will connectivity. He... resisted at first. But his consciousness is learning to adapt. In two weeks, he'll function with the new control patterns."
Narey clenched her jaw. "Is this why Anjani disappeared? And Rafi?"
"There's a price to pay for perfecting the network," Laksana said firmly. "And they weren't chosen at random. Each of you—including you—has a neurological profile with rare alpha-delta intensity fluctuations. One in a thousand. Even less."
"So we're just numbers?" Narey asked coldly.
"You're more than that, Narey. You're proof that free will still makes fatal errors."
Laksana walked slowly to the panel's side. His hand touched the glass, as if trying to reach Lucas behind it.
"You think I'm a monster. But what other choice do we have? You know the world out there—full of hatred, tribalism, and madness. Governments can no longer rely on democracy when information is manipulated every second. Do you really think student idealism can withstand AI propaganda and corporate power?"
He turned, his voice low yet piercing.
"I'm not trying to be God. I'm trying to prevent human extinction."
Narey shook her head slowly. "That's not salvation. That's the annihilation of the soul."
And in that moment, a different kind of silence filled the room. Not mere stillness—but a void filled with something unseen: doubt. Maybe from Laksana. Maybe from Narey. Maybe from both.
For a split second, Laksana looked older. Not physically—but spiritually. A weight behind his eyes, like someone who had clung too long to a belief he secretly questioned.
Then he smiled. Not in victory. Not in arrogance. But like a man who had accepted that the world no longer belonged to simple morality.
"In any case, you're already in too deep, Narey," he said softly. "And there's no way out of here."
Narey looked up. Her eyes burned.
"Then I'll make my own way out."
A click echoed from within her jacket. A small recorder—active. Everything they had said was now captured. One small step against a giant.
Laksana noticed. But he only chuckled quietly.
"You think that's enough? The world doesn't care. And even if it does… it'll forget in three days."
But he didn't stop her. Didn't destroy the recorder. Maybe because he was curious—how far could one person go against an ideology he believed was absolute?
Or maybe... some small part of him wanted to be overthrown.