Chapter 7 - Living A Lie

The pod closed like a confession.

No seal. No hiss. Just a closing of options. And then...

Silence.

Not sacred. Not theatrical.

Clinical.

I sat where I had been placed. Not like a prince awaiting coronation. Like a file awaiting review.

No breath stirred the chamber. No whisper of the Rose Clan lingered. Even my reflection, that final loyal thing, had abandoned me.

Then a light clicked on above my head.

Not soft. Not divine. Functional. It buzzed with the sound of maintenance.

A voice followed. Genderless. Sweetened. Artificial.

"Vitals stabilized. Neural latency: low. Response potential: suboptimal. Cadet J-145, welcome to your reintegration chamber."

Cadet.

J-145.

The syllables bounced off my skin like someone had addressed me in a foreign tongue and expected applause.

I didn't respond.

The light brightened.

A circular screen unfolded from the ceiling. It glowed with pale blue data streams, clean geometric fonts, and a spinning insignia I did not recognize: three nested rings forming an upward helix.

"Please remain seated while your memory scaffold is refreshed."

Memory scaffold.

I tried to raise one eyebrow. The motion arrived half a second late.

The chair adjusted.

Not to flatter. To stabilize.

My lower back sank into alignment. The footrest retracted by 4.2 centimeters. The armrests pivoted inward, just enough to discourage theatricality.

It was a chair designed for someone who should not be allowed to stand without permission.

"I have questions," I said, voice calm.

The screen flickered.

"Vocal engagement detected. Linguistic strain: ceremonial deflection. Codex overlay recommended."

A second screen appeared. Holographic. Projected just above my lap.

A woman.

Or rather — the concept of one. Too symmetrical. Too calm. Dressed in a uniform that belonged to no military I'd studied, trimmed with blinking data beads instead of medals. Her mouth moved before her voice emerged.

"Hello, Cadet. I am your assigned cognitive realignment companion. You may call me Aera. I'm here to help reintroduce you to the Core World's shared reality, correct your false emotional expectations, and reintegrate you as a productive citizen."

She smiled.

Not a comforting smile.

A placeholder.

"We understand you may be experiencing resistance. That's normal. Delusions of importance, aesthetic fixation, and personal deity symptoms are all expected outcomes of containment-culture conditioning."

My fingers curled.

Not a fist. A shape closer to prayer.

I tried to stand.

The chair clicked.

It did not restrain. It… reminded.

My weight redistributed. Muscles relaxed. Something in the base of the pod emitted a low, approving tone.

The screen shifted.

"Let's begin with a review of your previous designation."

The words appeared beside her head:

Subject: J-145, Outpost Bloomseed

Containment Construct: Rose Simulation

Role: Narrative Anchor / Local Control Variable

Condition: DEVIANT

Status: Awake

Narrative anchor.

Local control variable.

I stared at those terms like they were slurs carved into gold.

I tried to speak again.

This time, I said only: "No."

Aera's smile widened.

"We understand. Initial rejection is common. It may help to remember: your world was not real. It was an emotional compensatory biosphere. Its goal was not truth. It was containment. You were not raised. You were curated."

My breath did not catch.

Because it had nowhere left to go.

"Subject J-145, your role within the fantasy structure was central. You served as a distortion sink, absorbing reality excesses to preserve thematic purity. Unfortunately, this elevated your ego modelling index beyond safe cognitive parameters."

A new screen opened:

EGO INDEX: 412%

Deviation Class: Celestial Narcissist

Correction Required: Yes

I stared at the numbers.

I had always assumed I was excessive.

But quantified?

That felt like treason.

The chair vibrated gently, like a mother hushing a crying infant.

My vision blurred for half a breath. The scent of silvervine. The shape of a rose. My sister's voice

Alaria?

The name snagged.

For a moment, I was back in the Rose Chamber. The mirror hadn't blinked yet. The tea hadn't arrived. The world hadn't betrayed me.

Then Aera spoke again.

"Now that orientation has begun, please prepare for psychological filtration. Your false memories will be gradually suppressed. Your authentic self will be reconstructed."

I opened my mouth.

And smiled.

Not out of obedience.

But because I had never felt more insulted.

The smile wasn't mine. But the rage beneath it was.

The pod purred.

Not like a beast. Like an appliance.

Soft vibrations skimmed beneath the seat, crawling up the spine in rhythmic intervals — not to comfort. To calibrate.

Aera's smile reappeared.

"Let us begin with your earliest truth."

I didn't answer. 

The chamber dimmed. Not entirely just enough to allow the projections room to bloom.

At first: my bedroom.

Not the one I woke in yesterday. A smaller one. Plain. White sheets. Metal walls. A single mirror, cheap and rectangular, anchored too high.

The projection pulsed. Grew richer.

The sheets became silk. The walls curved into carved stone. The mirror warped into bronze, lacquered in filigree. Roses bloomed on the headboard. A window appeared, then a view. Then a garden. Then the servants.

All at once.

Like a lie remembering how to decorate itself.

"This is where you began," Aera said. "Age ten. Your first construct was a bed. Your second was a title."

I watched.

The child-version of me stood in the center of the room. Back straight. Chin high. Naked except for posture.

"I am Lord Dorian," he said, to no one.

The mirror bowed.

"I am Lord Dorian," he repeated. "You will adjust to me."

The walls shifted. The bedframe thickened. The window acquired stained glass.

And just like that, the world obeyed.

I inhaled slowly. Carefully.

The scent was off. The flowers looked right, but didn't smell. The sheets hung wrong. The servants repeated gestures in loops, the same flick of the wrist, the same half-turn. One even blinked at the same interval. Five seconds. Always five.

"Your imagination stabilized quickly," Aera explained. "Subject J-145 created twelve thousand square meters of architectural delusion in the first month. By age twelve, you had populated an entire micro-society, complete with ceremony cycles, aesthetic laws, and a worship caste."

The projection expanded.

The Pavilion. The Promenade. My sister.

Except

Her face wasn't there.

Not obscured. Not shadowed.

Just… absent. A blur. A placeholder texture waiting to load.

"Who was she?" I asked.

Aera's head tilted.

"Does it matter?"

I said nothing.

"She served her role. She was admiration. Devotion. Restraint. You sculpted her to echo you, but never rival. That was part of the pattern. Containment cults rely on contrast."

The sister turned in the projection. Smiled. Mouth moved.

No sound emerged.

"She doesn't have a name," Aera said gently. "You never gave her one."

The words landed sideways.

I tried to file them under irrelevance. But they didn't fit.

The next memory unfolded.

The first poetry event.

I stood on stage, flawless robes, perfect pitch, my voice lifting like scripture sung in mirrors. The crowd swayed. My name rang like a bell. The sky brightened.

And then, in the corner of the scene: a wireframe grid.

Barely visible. Behind the roses. A flicker of code. The scaffolding of the world.

"You are not being punished," Aera said. "You are being reoriented. Your life served a purpose. It was a simulated growth loop. Lord Demetrius believed narcissistic delusion could catalyze unique affinity emergence. He was correct."

Another screen opened:

ENTRY AGE: 10

MENTAL TYPE: Performative Narcissist / Closed-System Monotheist

PRIMARY AFFINITY: [WATER]

SECONDARY: [INCOMPLETE – BLOOD / GODTYPE POTENTIAL]

SIMULATION STATUS: COLLAPSING

HOST AWARENESS: OVEREXPRESSION RISK

I smiled. Or tried to. My lip twitched wrong.

"So I was designed," I said.

"You were permitted," she corrected. "You designed yourself. That was the brilliance. No script. No injects. Just a room and a prompt: 'Who are you?' And you built divinity."

The smile stabilized.

"You're welcome."

Her tone warmed.

"But now it's time to let go. Your simulation has served its function. The grandeur, the adoration, the precision it fed your soul structure. But you don't need it anymore."

The room darkened further. The air thinned.

"Let us ease the burden of being seen."

One by one, the images dimmed.

The servants bowed and disappeared. The Pavilion faded into lines. The sister smiled, then flickered. The garden unbloomed. The throne melted.

I felt the weight leave.

No more worship.

No more symmetry.

No more Dorian.

It was a relief.

And I hated it.

The chair reclined, gentle as a parent. My eyelids pulled heavy.

Aera whispered: "You are no longer the center."

And then

I saw him.

Not me. Him.

The child in the mirror.

He stood alone. Dull-eyed. No robes. No name.

Just standing.

It smiled.

My heart flared.

Not emotionally.

Aesthetically.

That smile did not suit the moment. That gesture had been stolen. My symmetry had been breached.

Something cold and sharp bloomed behind my ribs.

A thought arrived, not summoned:

They think I am done.

And for one glorious instant, I felt it.

The blood.

Mine.

It pulsed upward. No wound. No cut.

It just rose.

A spiral. A red glyph. A refusal.

The simulation paused.

ANOMALY DETECTED.

EMOTIONAL DAMPENING INCOMPLETE.

SUBJECT MAINTAINS SELF-MODELING ABOVE SAFE THRESHOLD.

The screen stuttered.

Aera blinked too slowly.

The world shook.

Not violently. Systemically.

The garden returned. Then vanished. The tower loaded sideways. Then collapsed.

The chair retracted. The projection pixelated. Aera opened her mouth

Her voice did not arrive.

Outside the pod, the chamber cracked.

Not a wall. The concept of space. The simulation peeled back in layers, Rose, silver, code, white.

Just white.

And then…

Stillness.

The chair sat in the center of a white cube. No floor. No sky. No depth.

Only one other thing.

A man.

Dark robes. Hair pale. Eyes unspeakable.

Lord Demetrius.

He smiled.

"Well," he said, stepping forward.

"You lasted longer than we expected."

I didn't answer.