Chapter 1: Client 4417

The file said Silas Morrow. Age twenty-four. Pre-compulsory counseling, standard resistance profile. Intake form completed in pen, which was unusual. Most clients used the digital form. His handwriting was messy, pressing too hard in some places, the words slanting right like they were in a hurry.

I straightened the form on my desk, aligning it with the edge. Tuesday, 2:15 PM. Client 4417. He was eleven minutes late.

The counseling room smelled like cleaning solution and recycled air. Temperature locked at seventy-two. Fluorescent light humming above me in the same frequency it always did, the same frequency as every Bureau building, every transit station, every apartment in the monitored grid. I'd stopped hearing it years ago the way you stop hearing your own breathing.

The door opened.

He didn't look like a resistance case. They usually came in tense, combative, already rehearsing their arguments. He walked in like he'd been taking a long walk and happened to find my office. Sat down in the chair across from me, set a paperback on his knee, and said: "I don't want it. I want to feel everything. Even the terrible parts."

I'd heard this before. Twelve times this year alone. Standard resistance protocol: acknowledge the fear, reframe the language, present the data. Ninety-four percent satisfaction rate post-Cure. Zero reported cases of regret at the five-year mark. The Cure wasn't loss. It was liberation.

I opened my mouth to begin.

My implant stuttered.

Not a headache. Not a glitch I could name. A micro-hesitation, like a skipped frame in a video. The room stayed the same. The light didn't change. But for a fraction of a second, the steady hum of nothing that I'd lived in for seven years flickered, and something warm passed through my chest like a bird taking off from a wire.

Then it was gone.

"Ms. Calloway?"

I blinked. He was watching me. Patient. Not the kind of patience that's polished and performed. The kind that comes from waiting a long time for something and learning not to rush the wait.

"Counselor," I corrected. "Not Ms."

"Counselor Calloway." He tried it out, nodded. "Okay."

"You said you want to feel everything." I folded my hands on the desk. Standard redirect. "Can you tell me what specifically concerns you about the procedure?"

"Nothing concerns me about the procedure. The procedure is effective. I've read the literature." He rubbed his thumb along a small scar on his right hand. "I'm not here because I'm scared of the Cure. I'm here because I don't want it."

"There's a difference?"

"Between fear and refusal? Yes." He leaned forward slightly. The paperback slid to the edge of his knee. "Fear you can treat. Refusal is a decision."

I noted his language in the file. Articulate, non-aggressive, clear ideation. Standard resistance, sub-category philosophical. I'd seen this profile before. They came in certain and left with an appointment for the procedure within two sessions. Three at most.

"The Bureau allows a pre-compulsory grace period specifically for this process," I said. "You have twelve months until your twenty-fifth birthday. In that time, we can work through any reservations."

"I don't have reservations. I have convictions."

"Convictions can change."

"Yours haven't."

I paused. That wasn't a standard response. I checked the protocol sheet in my mind, the laminated card I'd memorized years ago. There was no line for when the client redirected.

"My convictions aren't relevant to your case, Mr. Morrow."

"Silas." He settled back in the chair. "And they are. You took the Cure at eighteen. Voluntary. You've been Cured for seven years, and you're the Bureau's top counselor. Either you genuinely believe in what you're selling, which would mean your convictions are the foundation of this entire conversation, or you don't, which is a different problem."

I wrote: Client demonstrates above-average verbal engagement. Redirect recommended at next session.

"We have forty-five minutes," I said. "Would you like to discuss why you chose to delay until age twenty-four?"

"I was waiting."

"For what?"

"To see if the world would change its mind."

The session continued. Standard questions, standard responses. He answered calmly, without defensiveness. He talked about his parents, briefly, a mention that they'd valued emotional authenticity, that they'd died when he was nineteen. He didn't elaborate. I didn't push.

At forty-five minutes exactly, I closed the file. "Same time in two weeks, Mr. Morrow."

"Silas."

"Same time in two weeks."

He picked up his paperback and stood. At the door, he turned. "Counselor Calloway. When was the last time you wanted something irrational?"

"The Cure eliminates irrational attachment, not irrational desire. There's extensive literature on the distinction."

He smiled. Not at me. At the answer. Like it confirmed something he already suspected.

"Goodnight, Counselor."

The door closed. I sat in the empty room, fluorescent light buzzing, HVAC humming, temperature at seventy-two.

I looked down at my notepad. I'd written his name three times. Not his file number. His name.

Silas Morrow. Silas Morrow. Silas Morrow.

I tore off the page and threw it away.

It meant nothing. Systems have errors.