Monday couldn't arrive soon enough for Laura. It marked a refreshing return to her routine after a weekend that felt like a marathon of social activities. She wasn't one to seek the limelight, and Melanie was relentless in her attempts to play matchmaker, particularly with her awkward effort to nudge Laura towards a date.

Laura returned to her apartment after the gym and got ready for work when Melanie knocked on the door, offering coffee and some company on their walk to the office. Laura never understood the hype surrounding coffee; it always tasted like bitter regret. However, Melanie treated it like a sacred morning elixir.

Laura strolled beside Melanie along a pathway bordered by meticulously kept gardens and ornamental maple trees.

Melanie, ever the social detective, said, "You and Adam seemed pretty cozy the other night. Is there going to be a round two?"

"He's my trainer," Laura replied, her tone flat. She hoped to stamp out any spark of rumour before it could catch fire.

But Melanie wasn't easily deterred, and her grin widened. "Gotcha. Don't worry—we're expanding your horizons next weekend: new faces and vibes. And hey, trainer or not, Adam's still fair game," she teased, giving Laura a playful nudge.

"I'm just looking to make friends right now. Plus, there's someone back in Windfield I'm interested in."

Melanie halted and steered Laura to a quiet spot near the entrance of their building. Her tone shifted to serious. "Look, Laura, going back to Windfield isn't an option. Long-distance relationships aren't encouraged here, but we'll talk about that another time. I needed to catch up with you before work to update you on something important. Over the weekend, I received word that they're pushing to get your story out as soon as possible. I'll be right by your side, but you must stick to the script. Everything's been prepped for you."

Laura felt the world tilt beneath her, caught off guard by the revelation. "What do you mean my story is already prepared?"

"Exactly that. It's all set, which means you can focus on the filming part."

"But that's not my story. They weren't there."

"It's the version they want aired, Laura."

Laura's lips tightened. "I don't want to do this."

The thought of recounting a narrative other than her own—one scripted by someone else—felt deeply unsettling, a violation of the truth she held within her.

"Laura, I'm right here with you. But this is something you have to do. Letting down the Head of Government isn't an option."

With a sense of resignation, Laura trailed Melanie into the bustling building. The usual workplace buzz surrounded them—groups of people clad in business attire chatting and laughing as they navigated the corridors adorned with striking paintings and vibrant potted plants at every turn.

Their path led them across an internal bridge that spanned a stunning atrium, offering a glimpse of the lush greenery outside. They entered an event hall that had been transformed into a makeshift studio. One wall displayed impressive portraits of military jets and uniformed personnel, paying tribute to the might and pride of the forces, along with photographs of the dedicated teams behind them. Opposite this display, expansive images showcased satellite cities in all their splendour, with Windfield prominently featured, its size and modernity rivalling that of the others. The visuals served as a reminder of the broader narrative she was expected to fit into—a story that was not entirely her own.

Laura felt a knot of apprehension form in her stomach. The room was bathed in harsh artificial light, featuring two chairs against a backdrop. Professional lighting rigs and camera equipment loomed like silent spectators. However, the presence of several individuals in suits—each carrying an air of significance—heightened Laura's unease. The setup, intended to record her story, suddenly felt more like an interrogation chamber than a space for personal reflection.

Laura trailed behind Melanie, clutching her coffee cup as if it were an anchor. Her stomach churned when the crew's attention shifted toward them. Their approach was interrupted by a man who clapped his hands together with unmistakable zeal. He was middle-aged, with longer hair gathered into a neat bun, and his well-groomed beard framed a welcoming smile. Dressed in a dark blue collared shirt paired with black, tailored pants, he exuded professionalism and a certain polished charisma.

"Is this the star of the hour?" he asked Melanie, his eyes twinkling with curiosity.

"Laura," Melanie introduced, "meet Jackson. He's our media director."

Jackson extended his hand toward Laura. She hesitated, not used to such formalities, before finally letting go of her coffee cup to return the handshake. His grip was firm, almost too assertive. "Laura," he greeted warmly, flashing a reassuring smile. "In just a bit, I'll introduce you to Chris. She's our go-to for hair and makeup. After you're all set, Jodie will walk you through the script."

Laura's eyes darted around the room, taking in the flurry of activity. Each person seemed to have a specific role, moving with purpose as they prepared for the shoot.

"I don't understand," Laura whispered to Jackson, "how is there already a script for this?"

Jackson maintained his warm demeanour, though his tone hinted at practised patience. "It's based on your witness statement along with others' accounts to ensure we accurately capture the story."

Turning to Melanie, Laura's voice cracked. "I don't want to relive this. Can't I move on?"

Melanie's smile softened, her eyes filled with something meant to be compassion, but it felt like pity to Laura. "This is more than just recounting a painful memory, Laura. It's about sharing your experience to bolster our collective resolve and remind us of what we're standing against. Your contribution is invaluable—it helps ensure others are spared from the horrors of such attacks. I know it's tough, but your story, your voice, has the power to unite and protect. We're truly grateful for your courage."

Laura felt as though the room was closing in on her. The walls, which had once been lined with inspiring images, now seemed to mock her, suffocating her with the weight of their expectations. "Is there a bathroom?" she managed to ask, a wave of nausea rising uncomfortably in her stomach.

Melanie raised an eyebrow, then gestured toward a corridor at the back of the hall. "Restrooms are on the left."

"Could you hold this for a moment?" Laura handed her coffee to Melanie and hurried toward the bathroom, a hand clamped over her mouth.

She barely felt her feet touch the ground as she dashed, the fear of not reaching in time propelling her forward. Miraculously, she flung open the first cubicle door and vomited, a rush of relief flooding her as she realised she hadn't succumbed to her nausea in front of everyone.

After washing her hands, Laura paused to study her reflection in the mirror. She had dodged death, yet here she was, stomach tied in knots over what seemed like a simple task. All she had to do was share her story—the same one she'd already written down—except now it had been polished and prepped by someone else. But deep down, Laura knew her anxiety wasn't about speaking up; she was about to be the poster girl for a pro-government narrative, spotlighted in a way she had never asked for and didn't want.

Realising there was no backing out, she took a deep breath and stepped back into the fray. Melanie was waiting, coffee in hand.

"Are you ok?" Melanie asked.

Laura managed a nod, though it felt mechanical.

"Do you need a moment?"

"No. Let's get this over with."

The day dragged on in a haze of instructions and retakes. Laura did her best to follow the crew's guidance, which was initially welcoming and supportive. However, as the hours passed, marked by an endless cycle of takes, retakes, and adjustments, Laura's patience began to wear thin. Fatigue set in among the crew members, and their initial encouragement gave way to signs of frustration.

The teleprompter was particularly challenging. Laura found it almost impossible to read the scripted lines while speaking naturally. The words felt foreign, like someone else's thoughts. To make matters worse, Jackson began to critique her performance, pointing out her lack of conviction and the awkwardness of her delivery.

Melanie stepped in several times to ease the tension and offer support. She encouraged Laura and tried to soothe Jackson's growing impatience, but nothing seemed to make the process any easier. Jackson pushed harder, demanding they pick up the pace.

Frustrated, Laura gestured toward the teleprompter. "Can't we just do away with this?"

Jackson, arms folded and an irritated look. "Laura, we've gone over this. The script has been vetted and approved. Your job is to read it."

"But that didn't happen. It's a blatant lie."

Jackson sighed, his impatience spilling over as he called out to Melanie, who was seated in the front row, taking a sip of water. "Melanie, can you please talk to Laura?"

Melanie put the bottle down and jumped into action. But as she approached, Laura's focus moved to a figure emerging from behind Jackson. A man in a suit, someone familiar yet out of place in this setting.

Laura's stomach twisted again as recognition hit her—it was the agent who had visited Jacob's family in Orange Hill.

Jackson turned, and with a broad smile, he shook the agent's hand. "John, how are you?"

John glanced at Laura, his eyes narrowing as he offered a calculating smile. "It's been a long day. How did it go? Are you ready to wrap things up?"

Jackson lowered his voice, but Laura could still hear him. "She's questioning the content."

"Is she refusing to read it?" John asked.

"No, no," Jackson replied. "We have a few takes, but they aren't convincing."

"The AI can fix that."

Hearing that made Laura angry. The thought that they had enough footage to allow an AI to complete the job—making her seem more convincing—felt like the final betrayal. They were turning her into a puppet, manipulating her image and words until she was unrecognisable, a hollow shell spouting their lies.

Jackson turned to Laura. "One more take."

But Laura had reached her limit. She pushed herself up and said, "I'm done."

"Laura—" Melanie stepped forward, trying to calm the escalating tension.

"I'm not going to sit here and continue to repeat lies! It won't make them more real. In fact, it makes me feel more and more like a fake. I know what happened. I was there. I can't stop this from happening, but I'm done."

John stepped closer, his presence darkening the space between them. "Sometimes, Laura, the world demands sacrifices. And some of us, well, we're just more silent lambs than others, aren't we?" His smile was cold, condescending. "We never expected anything great from a community girl."

Melanie, visibly taken aback by John's harsh words, stepped in front of Laura, her expression of surprise and protectiveness. "I'm sorry; what's your role in this?"

John brushed off his jacket. "I am the project sponsor. And Laura has a fair point. This type of thing is beyond her capability. In the interest of wrapping things up, we will arrange for the AI to finish the final product." He then turned to Jackson, his demeanour shifting to something almost jovial. "Despite it being Monday, how about we treat the team to drinks? My treat, as a token of appreciation for their hard work."

It wasn't long before the room's atmosphere lightened. Jackson and a few others laughed with John as the team packed up.

Sensing an opportunity to escape, Laura headed towards the exit, but a firm grip on her shoulder halted her.

"Where are you going?" John's voice was smooth, but it had a dangerous edge.

"Home. I'm tired."

"We can't celebrate a team effort without you," John insisted with a forced smile, his grip tightening.

Laura stepped back. Despite John's polished appearance, she couldn't shake the feeling that something dark lurked beneath his surface. Every instinct screamed at her to get away from him. "I'm still recovering from my injuries."

"That's okay. We'll have an early night. Just one drink."

"No, I—" Laura's refusal was cut short.

Melanie intervened. "Absolutely, she'll be there for one drink." She pulled Laura aside, leaning into a whisper. "He's an executive. It's not easy to say no. But don't worry; I'll take care of you."

Spending even one more minute with John made her skin crawl. He represented danger. She felt like she was walking on a razor's edge, where one wrong step could send her closer to a tragic end, much like Jacob's execution.

****

Laura trailed behind Melanie, intentionally lagging as they walked through the quiet streets. The idea of being forced out for drinks left her on edge. She'd never had alcohol before, and this didn't feel like the right time to start. Melanie had to coax her forward multiple times, especially when they entered a dark alleyway. The dimly lit path seemed to swallow any sense of safety.

Melanie turned and gave her a firm reminder. "This isn't a choice, Laura."

Laura pushed on, her footsteps growing heavier.

The group entered the venue through an unmarked door that looked like a service entrance. They made their way down a narrow, dimly lit hallway, the black walls lined with strange paintings of skulls and distorted creatures.

The space opened into a bar with high tables scattered throughout the room. It was half-full, with the crowd primarily dressed in corporate attire as if they had all come straight from work. The floors were made of white-washed wood, and the unusual art continued to adorn the walls. The atmosphere felt like a place where secrets were shared, and she didn't want to be a part of it.

Laura sat beside Melanie at the end of a high table, hoping she had escaped John's attention. But her relief was short-lived as he changed places.

"I want to sit next to our star," John announced with an unsettling smile. "What can I get you?"

"I don't..." Laura looked to Melanie for an answer. "Soda?"

"Nonsense!" he exclaimed as he slammed his hand on the table before making his way to the bar.

Laura shifted uncomfortably, feeling trapped.

"It's ok, Laura," Melanie said. "Drink slowly. You don't have to finish anything."

John returned and drummed his fingers on the table. Soon after, a waiter appeared with a tray of shot glasses filled with a clear liquid. Laura knew from movies what these shots were meant to do. John distributed the shots to everyone at the table with a grin. His gaze landed on Laura, and her cheeks flushed as the situation grew more uncomfortable by the second.

"I'd prefer a soda," she tried to say politely.

John's grin turned wolfish. "You're in Government City now, time for you to grow up!" he cheered, raising his shot glass high.

Around the table, the others followed suit, though a few gave her sympathetic glances. One of the crew members sitting diagonally across caught her eye, offering a look that said he understood her discomfort but wouldn't do anything to help.

In one swift motion, John downed his shot, slamming the glass back on the table with a satisfied sigh. The rest of the group followed.

"Go ahead," John urged with a challenge embedded in his words.

Laura felt everyone's eyes on her, her hand trembling over the shot glass. She couldn't muster the courage to drink it. "No, that's okay. I don't drink."

"Then it's time you popped that cherry, community girl," John sneered, his laugh grating and humourless. When Laura stayed silent, he pressed on. "You're a survivor, Laura Reid, like your father—a survivor. You didn't kill any soldiers, you didn't save any lives, but you certainly survived. Drink to your survival. Drink to your father's recovery."

Laura furrowed her brows, confused by his comment. How did he know about her father? Her mouth opened slightly as she struggled to form the question. "How did you know about my fa—"

But John pounded the table before she could finish, drowning out her voice with his relentless chant. "Drink, drink!"

The others joined in reluctantly, forming an awkward chorus. The pressure from the group became too much, and she picked up the glass, drinking quickly. The burn of the alcohol seared its way down her throat and into her chest. She winced and coughed. John laughed, clearly enjoying her discomfort.

"Another round!" he bellowed to the waiter.

Laura tried to decline with a wave, but John wasn't finished. He slid another shot in front of her with a sinister grin.

"For every person who died, you should drink to their sacrifice."

"Sir, this isn't a healthy topic," Melanie cut in, trying to steer the conversation away from dangerous territory.

John slammed his fist on the table, startling the entire group. "Did you know her boyfriend was a traitor? Committed a faith crime."

The group gasped.

Laura's world tilted, and her vision blurred as the weight of John's words hit her like a freight train. This was supposed to be her fresh start, a chance to move on from the past. Yet here she was, unable to escape the shadow of Jacob's family's crime.

Melanie cut through the awkward silence. "Sir, may I ask—what is your role here? I understand you're new to the city?" Her voice was almost casual.

Laura glanced at Melanie, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. She was grateful for the intervention. Melanie wasn't trying to pry further into her past—she was trying to protect her, redirecting the conversation before it spiralled further.

John's chest puffed out with pride, pleased to be the centre of attention. "I volunteered to come here on a special assignment."

Melanie tilted her head slightly, resting her chin on her hand, pretending to be intrigued. "That sounds fascinating. What amazing achievement landed you that role?" Her voice was smooth, practised—stroking his ego.

"It's not about one achievement. It's about what I can do for this country."

"Oh? What exactly are you doing for the country?"

Laura stared at the table, her fingers tracing the rim of her shot glass as she tried to tune out. The alcohol was beginning to dull her discomfort.

"I'm here to reform the city agency bodies and unify them. I also offered to help with Laura's little video. We Windfield folks have to stick together." He downed another shot as the waiter delivered another round of drinks.

"They aren't unified?"

"Each city zone operates independently and has an Agency faction run by a director who reports to the Head of Government. But there's no unified operating model, no information sharing, and no oversight from the central government. It's chaos, a mess." He waved his hand dismissively. "But we're fixing that now. One step at a time." He snapped his fingers at the waiter. "A round of beers, barkeep!"

Jackson, sitting next to John, joined the conversation. "Why do they need to be unified? They aren't an army," he asked.

John sneered at Jackson, looking at him as if he were beneath him. This reaction was unexpected for someone in a senior position. "Domestically, they operate as a pseudo-army. They combat rebels and terrorists."

"The borders are closed between states, and travel is monitored," Jackson continued, genuinely curious. "What information would they even be sharing?"

John waved him off as the beers arrived. "I wouldn't expect this to be an area of your expertise. There is no Agency here, after all."

Trying to make herself invisible, Laura pushed her untouched shot glass behind the beer, hoping John wouldn't notice. But her subtle movement caught his eye. "Not like this one," he said, pointing at Laura. "She knows all about the Agency."

Melanie asked, "How do you mean?"

"She was investigated for faith crime. The only reason she avoided a guilty charge was because the agent investigating her was a traitor."

Laura's stomach dropped as she met his gaze, her lips trembling. The room felt as though it were closing in on her, and her pulse quickened.

Noticing her reaction, John seized the moment. "You thought you escaped because you were innocent. No, you got away because that traitor tricked Government City into letting you in. She believed she could hide you here."

Laura's vision blurred as her heart pounded, memories flooding back—classmates jeering and calling her a traitor, accompanied by whispers and suspicious looks. It was a narrative she had tried to escape.

Just as Laura opened her mouth to speak, Melanie intervened. "Government City conducts thorough due diligence checks, sir. Are you suggesting that the vetting officers made a mistake?"

John leaned back in his chair, smirking as if he had won some secret game. "Of course not."

"I need to go to the bathroom," Laura mumbled as she stood. She leaned toward Melanie, her voice a whisper, "I'm going to go. Can you cover for me? I promise I'll repay the favour."

Melanie nodded. "I've got you."

Laura turned and walked back the way she came. When she stepped out into the alleyway, she leaned against the cold brick wall and took a deep, shaky breath. Now was not the time to break down, but how could she not be upset? John was trying to destroy her reputation and ruin her chance at a fresh start.

The alley was quiet and empty, except for the faint light from the footpath ahead. Suddenly, Laura felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. Before she could register the sound behind her, something slammed her hard against the wall.

A firm, crushing pressure wrapped around her neck, cutting off her air.

Laura was being strangled.

She couldn't see her attacker; his face was hidden behind a mask, a hoodie pulled over his head.

Laura's vision blurred as she fought for air, her instincts kicking in. Memories of the soldiers, of the violence in the field, of Vanessa—all the terror she had faced before—flashed before her eyes. Before unconsciousness crept in, Laura lifted her legs and kicked toward his groin. The first blow didn't do much, but the second found its mark. He grunted, loosening his grip just enough for her to gasp in a breath of air.

Laura stumbled forward, her chest heaving and her vision swimming. She didn't get far before he grabbed her leg, yanking her back down. Her hands hit the pavement hard, barely preventing her head from striking the concrete. She twisted around, kicking wildly in a desperate attempt to free herself. One kick landed solidly against his head, sending him reeling back and giving her the chance to scramble toward the footpath, seeking the safety of the artificial lights.

But as she crawled, he lunged for her again. Suddenly, a sharp light cut through the darkness, illuminating him as he reached out. He recoiled, clutching his hand as if he had been burned. Laura blinked through her panic, realising something had struck him, stopping him in his tracks.

She scrambled backward, her entire body shaking as shock set in. Her breaths came out in shallow gasps.

"Do you require medical assistance, Laura Reid?" Hearing Anika's voice was a relief.

"I need the fucking police," Laura rasped, her throat raw and aching from the man's vice-like grip.

"There are no police in Government City," the man said, his voice disturbingly calm as he lit a cigarette. He pulled off the mask, but his face remained hidden by his hoodie.

An invisible wall now existed between them, a strange and unsettling pause in their violent encounter. He just stood there, smoking casually, as if they were discussing the weather.

Her legs felt like jelly, too weak to support her, but her heart pounded so hard that all she wanted to do was run. The adrenaline coursing her body urged her to flee, but she couldn't move.

She rolled onto her side, slowly pushing herself up, her body trembling.

"Why me?" she asked, her voice shaky as she tried to make sense of the situation. "What have I done?"

The man took a drag from his cigarette, watching her with detached interest. "It's nothing personal."

She glanced down at the faint burn mark on his hand, where the laser had struck him. "I hope the AI got you good. The police will be on their way. Why are you just standing there? If you think—"

He interrupted her with a bitter chuckle. "This isn't about if, Laura Reid. It's about when. There are no police here, only the AI, and the AI can't see everything." He flicked his cigarette at her, embers flying through the air, and then he vanished into the darkness.

Laura pushed herself up, legs trembling, and did the only thing that made sense: she walked home.

As she walked, she tried to reach out to the only help she had. "Anika, my friends are in that bar, and there's a man in the alleyway who tried to hurt me. Can you do something?"

"That area is out of bounds. No personnel are permitted to be out of bounds."

"Anika, call the police."

"I have assessed your security, and there is no current threat. Your heart rate is elevated, and you appear to have sustained minor injuries to your neck. Do you require medical assistance?"

Laura stopped in her tracks, feeling helpless. No police. No threat. Was this how Government City worked? Anika, the AI supposed to protect them, couldn't even recognise the danger she'd just been in.

She sped up the pace, driven by fear and anger. Melanie and the others were still in that bar, and she didn't know if they were targets. But she couldn't go back through that alleyway to warn them.

When she reached her apartment, her mind was spinning. She stood in front of the mirror and examined her injuries. Her neck looked fine, but her arms and legs were scraped from falling on the pavement, but those were nothing compared to the ache in her throat.

She paced her apartment, mind swirling with a thousand thoughts, trying to figure out her next move. After a while, a thought struck her, and she turned to the AI.

"Anika, show footage of my activities in the last hour."

"Certainly, I can assist with this," Anika responded. "I'm sorry, my system cannot track your location from exactly an hour ago. While I am an AI, like a human, sometimes I have flaws. I'll investigate this issue and report back. Your first activity in the requested period was thirty minutes ago."

An image projected onto the blank wall—a recording of Laura stumbling and falling onto the footpath, scrambling out of the alley. The space behind her, the alley where the attack had happened, was pitch-black, hidden from Anika's view.

Laura looked at the blank spot on the footage where the alley should have been. "How is this possible?"

"Were you out of bounds, Laura Reid?" When she didn't respond, Anika continued, "Being outside of bounds is prohibited."

"Am I in trouble?"

"Incidents are only reportable if captured within an area I monitor. Your condition appears to have changed, but there is no record of how this occurred."

"Am I in trouble?" Laura repeated.

"There have been no events or incidents. Do you require medical assistance?"

"No."

Laura's legs gave out, and she crumpled onto the floor. She gripped the sides of her head as the panic set in, hyperventilating, unable to stop her tears.

"What did I do?" she whispered.

Eventually, her tears dried up, leaving her hollow and exhausted. She stared out the window into the night, watching the city below with vacant eyes.

"It's John."

The thought hit her like a punch to the gut. John had manipulated everything—the forced invitation, the location out of bounds, the attack. He knew things about her he shouldn't, and he had orchestrated this entire ordeal.

She took deep breaths, trying to calm herself, but stopping her body from shaking was difficult. A new city. A new life. But the reality was sinking in. This wasn't a fresh start. She wasn't safe here. The battle wasn't over.

In Government City, where safety and order were supposed to reign, she had been reminded that power and control still thrived. And now, she was in the middle of it.