4. Simon Hands

The hands of the clock advanced with an almost perverse slowness, as if time itself were mocking Simon Hands' agony. Each tick-tock echoed in his ears like the distant echo of a gunshot, reminding him that every second spent under that interrogation brought him closer to an uncertain fate. The room was narrow, claustrophobic, with windowless concrete walls that trapped the heat from the fluorescent lights, creating a suffocating atmosphere. The air smelled of reheated coffee, cold sweat, and the faint scent of aged paper from the files stacked in a corner. 

Simon averted his gaze to the floor, unable to hold the intensity of the investigators' eyes for long. They weren't mere bureaucrats—they were hunters, predators trained to detect the slightest tremor in his voice, the tiniest contradiction in his words. To them, Simon wasn't a scientist; he was a potential heretic, a danger to be neutralized before his knowledge contaminated the world's new order. 

Simon had seen the collapse on the news, the secretly recorded videos of researchers dragged away by furious mobs, their faces bloodied, their glasses shattered under the boots of the Purists. They called them reeducation camps, but everyone knew the truth: they were torture centers disguised as redemption. There, scientists were forced to renounce their theories, burn their books, and kneel before the dogma that science had been the poison that nearly exterminated humanity. 

Just months ago, the world had been different. Science was hope, progress, the light guiding humanity toward a better future. But then came the Great Climate Collapse, the droughts, the famines—and with them, the rise of the Purists. Their message was simple: Science brought us ruin. Only the purity of faith and tradition will save us. 

Simon clenched his fists under the table, feeling his nails dig into his palms. He had seen the data, knew the real culprit hadn't been science but human greed, unchecked exploitation. But that didn't matter now. The only thing that mattered was survival. 

It was no coincidence the government had allowed Transhumanic to keep operating secretly in the tunnels. It was a trap, an illusion of freedom designed to identify the most rebellious scientists—those who still believed in forbidden knowledge. 

And Simon had fallen for it. 

Just like Cooper had. 

The memory of his friend hit him like a blow. Cooper Tower, the man who had laughed with him in the labs, who had shared his riskiest theories, had vanished after an interview like this one. Two hours of interrogation, and then… nothing. No trace, no body, no goodbye. Just silence. 

Simon swallowed, noticing Detective Sandy watching him with that cold, calculating smile. 

"We still don't understand your motivation," she said, leaning slightly forward. "After the attack on Transhumanic, when so many researchers fled or were… reeducated, you chose to stay. Aren't you afraid for your life? Or do you truly believe these tunnels will lead you to immortality?" 

The question was a trap. If he admitted he believed in the project, they'd accuse him of blasphemy. If he denied it, they'd brand him a traitor to the company. Simon took a deep breath, tasting the metallic tang of fear on his tongue. 

"There weren't many options," he replied, keeping his voice as steady as possible. "Out there, a researcher like me has no future. I just thought… it was this or die in the streets." 

Detective Sandy exchanged a glance with her partner, Abe, who had remained silent until now, watching Simon's every move like a hawk studying its prey. 

"There's work on the surface," Sandy said, running a finger along the edge of her notepad. "The restoration fields need hands. Everyone must contribute to healing the Earth." 

Simon shuddered. Restoration fields. Such a pretty name for what were, in reality, forced labor camps—places where scientists were turned into laborers, tilling barren soil under the Purists' whips. 

"My specialization is energy," Simon replied, forcing an awkward smile. "I know nothing about agriculture." 

"Everyone must adapt," Abe interjected for the first time, his voice as grave as the sound of a door slamming shut. "The age of scientism is over." 

Simon noticed the investigator toying with his pen, as if he'd already written his sentence. 

"Let's talk about your research," Abe proposed, shifting tactics. "You claim you're reducing Transhumanic's energy consumption. What concrete results do you have?" 

A cold sweat trickled down Simon's back. They can't know about the reactor. The project was a secret even within the company—a miniature fusion device capable of replacing nuclear plants. If the government discovered he was still researching advanced energy, they'd consider it an act of rebellion. 

"Progress is slow," he lied. "Current technology has limitations." 

Abe arched an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. Sandy, however, smiled as if she enjoyed the game. 

"Let's discuss something else," Abe said. "Your colleague, Cooper Tower, disappeared weeks ago. You knew him well. Do you think his disappearance was related to his work at Transhumanic?" 

Simon held his breath. They're testing me. If he admitted Cooper had been eliminated for his research, he'd be accusing the government. If he denied it, he'd sound like a coward. 

"I don't know," he answered carefully. "I just hope he's alright." 

Sandy scribbled something in her notebook, the pen scratching the paper with a sound that made Simon's skin crawl. 

"And you, Mr. Hands?" she asked, looking up. "Do you believe in Transhumanic's consciousness transfer project? Or is it just another lie to keep government funding?" 

Simon felt the ground shift beneath him. This was the crucial question, the one that would decide whether he walked out of here alive. 

"The machine transfers data," he replied, choosing each word as if it were his last. "But there's something missing. Something we can't replicate." 

"The soul?" Sandy suggested, leaning forward. 

Simon nodded slowly. 

"The soul isn't binary code," he murmured. "It belongs to something greater." 

Transhumanic had been a fraud from the start. It sold illusions of eternity, promising to transfer consciousness when, in reality, it only copied data patterns. "The soul?" the engineers mocked in private. "That's for the gullible." But the public needed to believe, and Simon had learned to play the role of the devout scientist. 

"That's curious," Abe said, folding his hands on the table, his knuckles sharp under his skin. "I thought Transhumanic aimed to store the soul in databases. Don't you trust your own work?" 

Simon felt the trap closing. A direct answer would betray him; evasion would make him seem guilty. He forced an awkward smile, noticing how the fluorescent light glinted off the sweat on his temples. 

"Things aren't that simple," he replied, measuring each word as if walking on broken glass. "I don't study the body as if it were just a machine. There's something more… something data can't yet capture. But I think I'm getting closer to the nature of God." 

Sandy smiled, satisfied, and Simon knew he'd said what they wanted to hear. 

Simon returned to his apartment with his shoulders tense, the detectives' words still echoing in his head like a bad omen. "The soul?" The question had haunted him the entire way, through the shadows of the dimly lit tunnels and the suspicious faces of passersby. 

He slumped into his work chair, facing the computer whose blinking numbers were the only testament to his silent struggle. He'd said the right thing, he told himself. The Purists would have no reason to come for him. But fear was a worm that wouldn't stop gnawing at his guts. 

The synthetic food machine emitted a sharp beep, announcing his dinner: a pale yellow gelatinous block that vaguely smelled like chicken. Simon eyed it with disdain. How long had it been since he'd tasted something real? When he was a child, markets still had fruit, meat… Now, even flavors were a luxury. 

As he chewed without enthusiasm, his gaze landed on the worn photograph on his desk: him and Cooper, Simon somehow idolized Cooper, like the first friend he'd ever had. The image sent a sharp pain through him. Cooper had disappeared for speaking the truth. And Simon was still here, lying to survive. 

"Pathetic," he muttered, crushing the leftover food cube against the table. 

The consciousness transfer project had been his hope. The idea of waking up in a future where the air was clean again, where rivers weren't poisoned… But now he saw the harsh truth: it was just another deception. No one would escape. The Purists would make sure of that. 

A sudden knock at the door made him jump. 

Simon held his breath. The Purists never announced their arrival. 

Before he could react, he recognized the voice: 

"Simon, it's me. Open up." 

That tone, that cadence… It was impossible. 

With trembling hands, Simon approached the door, pushing aside the torn curtain to peer through the peephole. 

But this wasn't the Cooper he remembered. This one had long, tangled hair, an uneven beard, and sunken eyes as if he hadn't slept in weeks. He wore a tattered jacket, too large for his emaciated frame. 

Simon yanked the door open. 

"How…?" 

"No time," Cooper said, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him with his shoulder. "I need what you've been keeping in the apartment." 

Simon blinked, confused. 

"What did they do to you?" he asked instead, noticing the scars on his friend's wrists—like marks from too-tight handcuffs. 

Cooper didn't answer. Instead, he headed straight for the kitchen, moving metal dishes aside until he found it: a small device the size of a coin, hidden behind a mug. 

"I need to tell you something—only you can help me," Cooper whispered, holding the object as if it were sacred.