Trapped in a $200,000 Corporate Contract That Erases Eight Hours of His Life Every Day, a Software Engineer Must Defy His Own Father to Expose the Darkest Tech Secret in Silicon Valley
👉 Previous Decision: You chose Option A – Conceal a handwritten micro-note inside your fountain pen before entering the severance elevator.
I stepped onto the polished metal platform of the severance elevator. The doors hissed shut, a cold shiver running down my spine as the magnetic field engaged. My heart hammered against my ribs, a steady rhythm against the hum of the ascending mechanism.
A soft click echoed in the small space. A green light blinked on a display panel above the door. My hand instinctively went to the inner pocket of my jacket, where the fountain pen rested.
I felt the hard, small cylinder of the pen. The micro-note, rolled tightly and tucked inside its cap, remained undisturbed. I let out a slow breath, realizing the first hurdle was clear.
The elevator doors opened onto a long, silent corridor. Fluorescent lights cast a sterile glow on the pristine walls. This was it: the classified Severance Floor.
Hours later, the world outside the memory-suppressed zone felt starkly different. The air was cool, carrying the scent of damp asphalt after a brief afternoon shower. I walked quickly, my head feeling light, a strange hollowness where the day’s work should have been.
I stopped at my car, fumbling with the keys. Then I saw it. Tucked beneath the windshield wiper, a small, folded piece of paper.
My blood chilled. This wasn’t a parking ticket.
I unfolded the paper carefully. It was a note, scrawled in my own handwriting, but somehow foreign, as if from another person. The ink was a dark, rich blue—the same color my fountain pen used.
“NORA. NDA. TIMES.”
I read it twice. Nora. NDA. Times. What did it mean? My severed self, the version of me working inside, had found a way to leave a message. A desperate, almost frantic scribble.
The paper felt rough between my fingers. I could almost feel the urgency in the hurried strokes. It pointed to non-disclosure agreements. It pointed to a name: Nora.
And it mentioned “times.” Timestamp discrepancies. My mind began to race, piecing together the fragmented thought. My own hand had delivered a warning.
What had I seen inside those walls that my conscious mind couldn’t retain? The sheer audacity of the situation left me reeling. My own father, Arthur Kincaid, had orchestrated this.
I gripped the note tighter, the edges digging into my palm. My severed self had given me a lead. A crucial thread to pull.
➡️ Read CHAPTER 4 to continue the story.
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