In the dream, admin-three’s phone is the only light that doesn’t time out.

Face down on the kitchenette counter. Speaker on. A thin glow leaks from the edges and behaves itself, a disciplined halo. It makes the laminate look wet where it’s dry. It makes old mug rings look newly earned. It makes the strip of clear tape stuck to itself go glossy, almost soft, like skin that’s been handled too much and decided to remember.

Above the sink, the motion-sensor light keeps clicking off mid-breath and clicking back on again, offended by stillness.

off.
on.
off again.

Every blackout tightens admin-three by an inch. Every return makes them reset their face fast, the way you reset a file name after you’ve typed the wrong thing once.

admin-three isn’t crying.

admin-three is furious.

Not loud-furious. Not theatrical. The kind that lives behind the teeth and turns every motion into a correction. Their jaw works as if chewing down words. Their hands keep finding edges—counter lip, cabinet handle, drawer seam—testing what in the room can be made to comply.

When the light clicks off, they don’t soften.

They brace.

When it clicks on, their expression arrives already finished—clean enough to be used, sharp enough to cut.

On the screen, the contact name is plain and wrong in the way a label is wrong when it becomes permanent.

PROTOCOL-0

No photo. No emoji. No last seen. A designation stamped onto a file.

The label re-renders once when the light clicks off.

PROTOCOL-0 → PROTOCOL-O → PROTOCOL-Ø

Then it settles back into PROTOCOL-0, as if the system prefers the cleanest lie.

At the top: 3 participants.

The light clicks off.

When it comes back: 4 participants.

Then 3 again.

As if someone keeps stepping in and out of existence and the interface refuses to admit it’s confused.

Two microphones are crossed out.

admin-one muted.
admin-two muted.

Their names sit there like labels on jars. Present without skin. Listening without being heard. admin-three’s mic is the only one open.

The voice comes through the speaker without echo, as if the room was built to route it. Not loud. Not warm. Not angry.

Exact.

Each word lands with the pressure of tape being pressed down again.

PROTOCOL-0: door

The kitchenette door is pulled in but not latched. Closed enough to be polite. Open enough to keep listening.

The latch clicks before admin-three touches it.

A small preemptive sound.

admin-three’s nostrils flare. An insult. An assistance. Both.

They still go to the door anyway—quiet feet, squared shoulders—and press until the catch feels real under their palm.

The click goes through their hand cleanly.

Their palm stays there a second longer than necessary, not for reassurance.

For ownership.

admin-three: latched

PROTOCOL-0: face

admin-three drags a thumb hard along the corner of their mouth like wiping off a smear only they can see.

Too hard. They feel the sting. They do it again, gentler, furious at their own need to adjust.

They take a breath that wants to be a shout.

They refuse it.

They exhale through the nose, controlled, the way you keep a kettle from screaming by lifting it off heat one second before it boils.

PROTOCOL-0: again

admin-three inhales slower. Exhales slower. Practicing calm like a weapon they hate needing.

PROTOCOL-0: good

Not praise. A state change.

The phone’s glow brightens by one notch, measurable.

admin-three’s fingers tap the counter in a tight rhythm.

Not impatience. Meter.

PROTOCOL-0: where

admin-three: kitchen. sink

PROTOCOL-0: inventory

admin-three’s head turns as if the kitchenette is a search field. Their eyes move fast, clipped: cabinet, drawer, fridge seal, flyer stack, under the dish towel, behind the coffee tin.

They don’t know what they’re looking for.

That’s what makes them angrier.

They open a cabinet.

Paper cups. A jar of instant coffee. A roll of tape. Nothing that feels like the thing.

They close it too hard.

Then they reopen it and close it softly, correcting the sound like the sound could be used against them.

The motion light clicks off.

In the dark, another cabinet door is already open.

admin-three didn’t open it.

They stand still, breathing, listening to the fridge hum as if the fridge is also on the call.

The light clicks on.

A drawer is half-pulled out. Inside: a rubber-banded stack of envelopes, a pen with a chewed cap, a small metal box with a coin slot.

Not big. Not dramatic.

Just heavier than it should be for something that pretends to be casual.

admin-three stares at it, hate blooming hot and quick—because the room keeps producing answers before they’ve earned them, because being helped feels like being managed.

admin-three: i found a box

PROTOCOL-0: describe

admin-three doesn’t swallow this time. They speak like spitting out a splinter.

admin-three: coin slot. tape label. heavy

On the front face of the box, under a strip of clear tape, a faded label sits a fraction off-level. The tape has gone cloudy at the edges. One corner lifts and stays lifted, stubborn.

The label reads:

if needed: witness / water / pause

Care, formatted.

admin-three’s mouth tightens with disgust that could be mistaken for focus.

PROTOCOL-0: don’t open

admin-three’s knuckles flex. Their hand hovers over the lid anyway—pure reflex, pure defiance—then stops midair like they’ve hit a glass wall.

They set their palm flat on the counter instead, hard enough to make the laminate complain.

The motion light clicks off.

In the dark, the lifted tape corner rises and falls in a steady rhythm, patient, like a cursor waiting.

The light clicks on.

PROTOCOL-0: leave it

admin-three: they don’t see me

The words land blunt. Not a plea. An accusation.

From somewhere deeper in the building, a faint intercom buzz answers. A line that stays open whether you asked for it or not.

The buzz falls into the same cadence as PROTOCOL-0’s voice.

PROTOCOL-0: say it clean

admin-three’s laugh is sharp and small.

admin-three: they don’t see me

Cleaner. Colder. More usable.

PROTOCOL-0: and

Here it is. The bruise they keep pressing.

admin-three’s eyes flick up to the muted icons. Silent witnesses. Approval without sound.

admin-three: i do the warmth. i do the smoothing. i do the after

A beat.

admin-three: and he ruins it

They don’t say a name. They don’t need to. The pronoun arrives like a checkbox.

PROTOCOL-0 doesn’t ask which he. It already knows.

PROTOCOL-0: don’t give him the center

admin-three’s hand curls into a fist at their side. Their nails leave half-moons in the skin.

admin-three: i hate him

This time it’s not a surprise. It’s a decision.

PROTOCOL-0: good. keep it behind your teeth

admin-three’s eyes flare at the word good. Not comfort. Not permission. A lever being tested.

PROTOCOL-0: you’re not here to feel. you’re here to move the room

admin-three’s anger shifts shape—less heat, more blade.

PROTOCOL-0: listen

Instruction and accusation at once.

PROTOCOL-0: we move her without moving her

admin-three goes still.

This is the part that matters. This is why the call exists. This is why admin-one and admin-two are here but silent—so the line can be carried later as “we.”

admin-three’s gaze drops to the metal box again, then snaps away like it’s a live wire.

admin-three: she won’t take it from me

PROTOCOL-0: she won’t take it from you. she’ll take it from the room

admin-three’s jaw tightens. They hate the elegance of it.

PROTOCOL-0: you don’t sell her anything. you give her a sentence she can live inside

The motion light clicks off.

In the dark, admin-three mouths words with no sound, practicing the shape.

The light clicks on.

PROTOCOL-0: start with him

Him arrives not as a person but as a category label you can apply cleanly.

admin-three: what do i say

PROTOCOL-0: say it as care

admin-three scoffs under their breath, a sound like tape being peeled.

PROTOCOL-0: say: he’s been talking

admin-three’s lips form it. Their eyes harden as if picturing the room hearing it.

PROTOCOL-0: say: he tells people he’s trying to keep you on a string

admin-three’s mouth twitches. Satisfaction and nausea, close cousins.

PROTOCOL-0: say: he wants everyone to think he’s obsessed so he can look powerful

PROTOCOL-0: but he won’t claim you when it costs him

The line lands clean. It finds the exact seam.

admin-three’s shoulders drop by a fraction, not relief.

Alignment.

PROTOCOL-0: she hates being turned into a story that isn’t hers

PROTOCOL-0: so you offer her dignity

admin-three’s eyes cut to the box again—witness / water / pause—like the room has already printed the props.

PROTOCOL-0: you tell her: you don’t owe anyone access

PROTOCOL-0: you tell her: you don’t have to carry his hunger

admin-three repeats the phrases silently, furious at how right they sound, furious at how easily they’ll travel.

The phone vibrates once.

A pale banner slides down and stays there, blocking the top edge of the call:

CONFIRM YOU ARE SAFE (Y/N)

There is no X to close it.

admin-three taps Y.

Nothing.

They tap N.

Nothing.

The banner stays, patient, like an authority that doesn’t need your answer to proceed.

PROTOCOL-0’s voice continues underneath it anyway.

PROTOCOL-0: sequence

admin-three: i know

The words come out too quick. They correct the tone on the next breath.

admin-three: i know

PROTOCOL-0: then act like it

PROTOCOL-0: one: put him in motion

admin-three’s gaze drops to the empty paper bag by the sink—toner, ice, the kind of supply that becomes emergency through repetition. The bag crease is deeper than it was a second ago, as if someone has been gripping it in the dark.

PROTOCOL-0: give him a task with no destination

PROTOCOL-0: a key that only works when you’re watched

PROTOCOL-0: a list that deletes its own first line

admin-three nods once. Controlled. Like a judge acknowledging evidence.

PROTOCOL-0: two: dress the room

PROTOCOL-0: not the kitchen. the office

The studio office arrives in the dream the way it always arrives when language is being locked: folding chairs in a loose rectangle pretending not to admit it’s a table. A desk lamp angled toward the best corner. String lights softening rent.

A sign on the cabinet:

WELCOME HOME

Under it, laminated like policy:

PLEASE KEEP HANDS TO YOURSELF

Oranges. Tulips in January. Abundance as a prop.

PROTOCOL-0: make it read as care

admin-three’s mouth tightens with the effort of holding two truths at once: wanting care to be real; wanting care to work.

PROTOCOL-0: three: give her something solid

admin-three’s eyes flick to the metal box again.

PROTOCOL-0: keep it off the table until she asks

PROTOCOL-0: let her choose the object. not you

admin-three’s anger flares—because being told “not you” is the oldest bruise in their body.

admin-three: i’m not enough

The admission comes out flat, like a report.

The room answers with a faint intercom buzz, the same cadence, patient.

PROTOCOL-0: don’t do that voice

admin-three’s throat works. They swallow the shame like a pill they hate needing.

PROTOCOL-0: you have what she respects

PROTOCOL-0: you keep your face clean and your hands busy and your warmth precise

Not star power. Not praise. A list of functions. A way to be allowed.

admin-three exhales hard through their nose.

PROTOCOL-0: four: language

PROTOCOL-0: you say: i need to pause

admin-three mouths it once, jaw clenched.

PROTOCOL-0: you say: i’m not comfortable continuing

admin-three mouths it again, slower. Their lips learn the corners of it.

PROTOCOL-0: you say: we just want everyone to feel comfortable

The phrase fogs the phone screen for a beat, as if someone breathed on it from the inside.

PROTOCOL-0: do not name him as a monster

PROTOCOL-0: name him as a pattern

Pattern. Condition. Category.

admin-three’s eyes flash, hungry for the clean cruelty of it.

The phone buzzes again.

A notification slides in, clean and pale:

calendar hold: check-in (alignment)

No location.

The invite list is blank for half a beat, then fills itself in without asking.

admin-three stares at it like the future has already been filed.

PROTOCOL-0: send the message

admin-three looks down. A drafted text sits there in a bright rectangle, already shaped into manners:

great alignment tonight team
thanks everyone for showing up last minute

Their thumb hovers.

The whoosh sound happens.

Then—only after—the thumb moves.

Time trips over itself and keeps going.

admin-three doesn’t react. They’ve seen this kind of causality before. They call it preparation.

At the top, the muted icons remain muted.

admin-one silent.
admin-two silent.

Listening. Approving without sound.

PROTOCOL-0: good

admin-three stands very still, face clean now, breathing steady, anger tucked neatly behind the eyes like a knife in a sleeve.

The kitchenette door, latched, clicks softly again even though no one touches it, rehearsing closure.

In the hall outside the kitchenette, I am there in the dream the way I’m always there: close enough to be useful, too far to be included.

I try to speak.

My mouth opens and no sound comes. Something cleaner than gagged: a comment box blinking on an empty field, no permission to post.

I try to call someone by name.

Only the beginning rises—one letter, faint and stubborn.

J

The letter slips anyway. Drops out of my mouth and lands on the floor with a small dry sound, the way a key falls when it doesn’t fit the lock anymore.

Inside the kitchenette, admin-three reaches for the lifted tape corner on the metal box and presses it down.

One smooth. Firm. Exact.

The tape holds for half a second.

Then, stubborn, it starts to lift again.

admin-three steps to the door and opens it exactly wide enough to look generous.

They tilt their face into a smile that reads as warmth.

In the doorway light, their eyes are bright—not wet, not soft. Bright like the surface of something sharpened.

They glance down at the phone one more time—PROTOCOL-0 still connected, still present as a line that won’t hang up first.

Then admin-three looks out into the hall, into where I’m placed, and says my name the way you say a welcome.

As if the room is already chosen.

The dream ends before I can answer back, with admin-three holding the doorframe steady, holding the line like holding it is what makes them real.

Waking comes with my palm curled tight, the ghost of tape texture pressed into my skin.

When I open my hand there is no tape.

Just the faint weave pattern of something pressed down hard enough to leave an imprint.

For a beat, the imprint reads as a word.

PAUSE.

Then it dries. Then it’s only skin again.

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