Chapter 670

The morning in Krakow began like any other. Cold air kissed Elzbieta's face as she opened the window, the city stirring below, not yet fully awake but hinting at the day's forthcoming clamor.

She was thirty-seven, her life a predictable cycle of work at the library, quiet evenings in her apartment, and weekend visits to her mother in the countryside. Predictable, and until this morning, comforting.

She made coffee, the rich aroma momentarily distracting her from the news report murmuring from the small radio on the counter.

It was the usual blend of local politics and distant conflicts, stories that felt both important and removed from her immediate world. Elzbieta sipped her coffee, staring out at the slowly brightening sky, when the radio announcer's tone abruptly changed. Urgency replaced the standard detached reporting.

"...reports are still unconfirmed, but we are receiving visuals from across the globe. Screens, large black screens, are appearing in every major city, in public squares, on buildings, even in residential areas. We are attempting to ascertain the nature of these screens, and what…"

The announcer's words dissolved into static. Elzbieta frowned, reaching to adjust the dial, but the radio remained silent, spitting only white noise. Annoyed, she switched it off. Probably just some technical fault, she mused. Krakow's infrastructure was hardly cutting-edge. Still, the announcer's frantic tone lingered in her mind.

Turning from the window, she noticed it. Mounted on the wall opposite her kitchen table, where moments before there had been only plaster, was a screen.

Black, smooth, and cold, it seemed to absorb the ambient light of the room. It wasn't large, perhaps the size of a television, but its sudden presence felt invasive, alien.

Elzbieta approached cautiously. She touched the surface. Cold, as she'd thought. The screen remained black, inert. She stepped back, a prickle of unease starting at the base of her neck. This was not normal.

Screens did not just appear on walls. She told herself it must be some kind of prank, some elaborate advertisement campaign. But the cold, silent dread in her stomach argued otherwise.

Then, the screen flickered to life. White text appeared against the black background, stark and unambiguous.

ROUND ONE.

OBEY.

BREATHE.

Elzbieta stared. Breathe? Was this some kind of joke? She breathed in, breathed out. Of course, she was breathing. She'd been breathing for thirty-seven years. She exhaled slowly, a nervous laugh escaping her lips. Absurd.

But then, a wave of dizziness washed over her. Her chest tightened. It felt harder to breathe. Panic began to bubble up, cold and sharp. She gasped for air, but it felt thin, insufficient. Her vision swam. Was this… real?

She looked back at the screen. The white text remained, unwavering.

OBEY.

BREATHE.

With a desperate, almost primal instinct, Elzbieta focused on her breath. Inhale. Exhale. She willed her lungs to work, forcing air in and out. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, the dizziness receded. Her chest loosened. Her breathing became easier. She leaned against the wall, weak and trembling.

The screen changed.

ROUND ONE.

COMPLETE.

TIME UNTIL NEXT ROUND: 3 HOURS.

A timer appeared below, counting down from three hours. Elzbieta watched, her heart hammering against her ribs. What had just happened? Had she really almost… suffocated? Because she hadn't actively 'obeyed' breathing? It sounded insane.

She checked her cellular device. No signal. Of course. She went to the window, looking out at the street. People were stopping, staring.

Some pointed up at buildings. Others were on their cellular devices, presumably experiencing the same lack of signal. A collective bewilderment seemed to settle over the morning air.

Three hours. Three hours until the next round. What would it be? What did 'obey' even mean in this context? Breathe was simple, if terrifying. But what else could these screens demand?

Elzbieta spent the next three hours in a state of agitated unease. She tried the radio again. Still nothing. She looked online using her computer, wired connection, but the internet was dead. Isolated, she felt utterly alone with the screen on her wall and the countdown timer relentlessly ticking away.

As the timer approached zero, a knot of dread tightened in her stomach. She stared at the screen, waiting. The seconds ticked down. Zero. The screen changed again.

ROUND TWO.

OBEY.

HYDRATE.

Elzbieta blinked. Hydrate? Drink water? She was thirsty, actually. The morning coffee had done little to quench her dry mouth. She walked to the sink, filled a glass with water, and drank it quickly. The screen changed almost instantly.

ROUND TWO.

COMPLETE.

TIME UNTIL NEXT ROUND: 3 HOURS.

Another three-hour countdown began. This time, the fear was mixed with a hesitant disbelief. Hydrate? Breathe? These were basic human needs. Was that all this was? Some bizarre, deadly reminder to take care of oneself?

It felt too simple, too absurd to be truly lethal. Yet, the dizziness from the first round felt vividly real.

But as the day progressed, the commands grew less mundane. Round three was 'MOVE'. Elzbieta had to walk around her apartment for ten minutes. Round four was 'LISTEN'.

She had to sit in silence for fifteen minutes, ears open. Round five was 'VISUALIZE'. She had to close her eyes and picture a tree for five minutes.

By round six, the initial bewilderment had solidified into a chilling acceptance. This was happening. These screens were real. The commands were real. And the consequences of disobedience, while not fully understood, were clearly dangerous.

The world outside her window had descended into a strange, subdued panic. She could hear sirens intermittently, the distant sounds of distress, but the streets were largely empty. People were inside, presumably, staring at their own screens, obeying.

Round six appeared on her screen as the timer reached zero.

ROUND SIX.

OBEY.

SILENCE ANOTHER.

Silence another. The words hung in the air, cold and heavy. Elzbieta stared at the screen, her blood turning to ice. Silence another? What did that even mean? Silence… someone? Permanently? Kill? Was that what it was asking?

No. It couldn't be. It had been breathing, hydrating, moving, visualizing. Basic, almost gentle commands. This had to be some kind of misunderstanding. Silence… perhaps it meant to stop someone from speaking? To interrupt them? To…

The dizziness returned, quicker this time, stronger. Her head spun. Her breath hitched. The pressure in her chest was immense, crushing. She gasped, stumbling backwards. She had to obey. But obey what? Silence another? Who? How?

Her mind raced. She lived alone. There was no one here to silence. Unless… unless it meant someone outside. Someone nearby.

Her neighbor, Mrs. Kowalski, lived next door. An elderly woman, frail, kind. Silence her? Was that what she had to do to survive?

The screen was unwavering.

ROUND SIX.

OBEY.

SILENCE ANOTHER.

The dizziness intensified. Black spots danced before her eyes. She was going to pass out. Or worse. She had to decide. Obey, or…

With trembling hands, Elzbieta grabbed a heavy iron skillet from the stove. It was absurd, insane, but she could feel her life draining away with every second she hesitated. She crept to her apartment door, heart pounding like a drum against her ribs.

She opened the door, just a crack, and listened. Silence. Mrs. Kowalski's apartment was usually quiet at this hour.

She pushed the door open wider and stepped into the hallway. The hallway was empty. Silent. Except… from Mrs. Kowalski's apartment, she could hear a faint sound. A cough. Mrs. Kowalski was inside.

Elzbieta walked to Mrs. Kowalski's door. She hesitated, skillet raised. This couldn't be happening. This wasn't real. But the crushing weight on her chest, the dizziness threatening to overwhelm her, was brutally, terrifyingly real.

She knocked on the door. Weakly. No answer. She knocked again, harder. Still nothing. Maybe Mrs. Kowalski wasn't home. Maybe… hope flickered, fragile and desperate.

Then, she heard it. A shuffling sound from inside. And another cough. Mrs. Kowalski was there. And she was… vulnerable.

Elzbieta pushed the door open. It wasn't locked. She stepped inside. The apartment was dimly lit, smelling faintly of lavender and dust. Mrs. Kowalski was sitting in her armchair, facing away from the door, her back to Elzbieta. She was coughing weakly, a small, rattling sound.

"Mrs. Kowalski?" Elzbieta's voice trembled.

The old woman turned slowly. Her eyes were clouded, unfocused. She didn't seem to see Elzbieta at first. Then, her gaze cleared slightly. "Elzbieta? Is that you, dear?" Her voice was weak, breathy.

"Mrs. Kowalski," Elzbieta said again, her voice barely a whisper. She raised the skillet, the cold iron heavy in her hand. Tears streamed down her face. "I… I'm so sorry."

Mrs. Kowalski blinked slowly. She seemed confused, but not afraid. Perhaps she didn't fully comprehend what was happening. Or perhaps, in her old age, fear had lost its sharp edge. "Sorry for what, dear?" she murmured.

Elzbieta closed her eyes. The dizziness was almost unbearable now. She had to do it. She had to obey. For round six. For survival. She swung the skillet.

The sound was sickeningly loud in the small apartment. A dull thud, followed by a soft gasp, then silence. Utter silence. Elzbieta opened her eyes. Mrs. Kowalski slumped in her chair, head lolling to the side. The skillet lay on the floor, heavy and cold.

The screen in Elzbieta's apartment changed.

ROUND SIX.

COMPLETE.

TIME UNTIL NEXT ROUND: 3 HOURS.

Elzbieta stood there, staring at the screen, at Mrs. Kowalski's still form, at the skillet on the floor. The dizziness was gone. Her breathing was normal. She had obeyed. She had silenced another.

But the silence in the apartment was deafening. A silence that stretched far beyond the absence of sound. A silence that echoed the hollowness within her. She had survived. But at what cost?

She sank to her knees beside Mrs. Kowalski, tears falling onto the worn carpet. She had become a monster. To survive, she had committed an act of unspeakable horror. And there were still more rounds to come. Round seven. And then more days, more rounds, more commands.

Could she keep obeying? Could she live with what she had done? Could she endure this endless cycle of deadly obedience? The timer on the screen ticked down, counting the seconds to the next round, the next demand, the next descent into darkness.

Three hours. Three hours until she had to face whatever monstrous command the screens would unleash next.

The world outside remained silent, screens flickering in windows, people trapped in their own private hells of obedience. And in the small apartment, Elzbieta wept, not for Mrs. Kowalski, who was beyond grief, but for herself.

For the woman she had been, and the monster she had become. For a future that stretched before her, bleak and endless, in a world ruled by silent, black screens and their horrifying commands. She had obeyed, and in doing so, she had lost everything worth living for.

Her life was spared, but her soul was shattered, fragmented beyond repair in the echoing silence of Mrs. Kowalski's apartment.

The finality of her act, the brutal understanding of what survival now entailed, hung heavier than any skillet, crushing her spirit in ways no screen command could ever fully articulate, yet utterly and devastatingly enforced.