The house stood at the end of the block, a single-story building painted in an unassuming neutral gray. Simple, functional, and boring. A stark contrast to the garish neon billboards recently erected on the main road.

  Ciel wheeled his bike into the small garage, locking it with habitual precision, then stepped inside.

  The scent inside the house was distinct. Not the smell of mother’s cooking or lavender air freshener, but the scent of floor wax and a faint metallic tang. Silence welcomed him.

  The interior reflected its occupant with military accuracy. No items scattered about. No dust on the credenza. Shoes on the rack near the door lined up straight as if standing for morning roll call.

  On the living room wall hung an ebony-framed photo. Hannes Evans. The man in the photo stared straight ahead in full ceremonial dress uniform, rows of medals decorating his left breast, and the gold pin of the Ministry of Defense gleaming on his collar. His father. An officer serving in the Crownbelt—the capital's defense ring.

  Beneath the photo, on a small table, several memorabilia were neatly arranged: an artillery shell casing polished into a vase (empty of flowers), a miniature combat tank, and a "20 Years of Service" award plaque. Everything clean, cold, and masculine.

  Ciel tossed his sling bag onto a corner chair, then threw his body onto the black leather sofa in the center of the room.

  Thump.

  The sofa sighed softly accepting his weight. Ciel stared at the plain white ceiling above. This house was too big to inhabit alone, and its silence felt increasingly suffocating today.

  Three months.

  Hannes Evans hadn't come home for three months.

  Usually, his father would return at least once every two weeks on weekends, bringing censored stories or just sitting quietly reading the newspaper while sipping black coffee. But this time was different. His father's short messages became rarer, shorter, and stiffer.

  "Currently on duty," read his last message, two weeks ago.

  Ciel closed his eyes, massaging his temples. His instinct, honed by the silence of this house, began connecting the dots.

  His father was an important person in the Ministry of Defense.

  The city was suddenly flooded with fake happy news.

  Media was silenced and forced to turn 180 degrees.

  "Is there an emergency, Dad?" he whispered to the empty room.

  If the Ministry of Defense had to mobilize media to conduct a massive scale psyop—psychological operation—in the form of "mass happiness," it meant the threat faced wasn't just small rebels or corruption scandals. It must be something capable of triggering total panic if the people knew.

  Ciel reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone again. The screen lit up, displaying social media feeds.

  He scrolled the homepage with a cynical gaze.

  Video of a dancing cat getting 2 million likes in an hour.

  News of a bountiful wheat harvest (even though Ciel knew the dry season was long).

  Interviews with celebrities saying life in Carta was heaven on earth.

  Everything transient. Everything plastic. Everything was high-dose anesthesia injected by the government into the brains of its citizens.

  And his father... Hannes Evans, surely knew about this. Or worse, his father might be one of the people designing this scenario behind the thick walls of the Crownbelt.

  Ciel’s thumb stopped moving. He stared at the green phone icon on the screen.

  He typed a name in the contact search bar.

  "Dad"

  The number appeared. The profile photo was just an image of the national flag fluttering stiffly.

  Ciel’s heart beat a little faster. The unwritten rule in this house was: Don't call Dad unless the house is on fire or you're dying. Defense officer communication lines were often monitored or had to remain sterile for emergencies.

  But wasn't this an emergency? When the entire city was being mentally manipulated, wasn't that a danger sign?

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  Ciel’s thumb hovered hesitantly over the call button.

  If I call, and Dad doesn't answer... I'll be even more scared, he thought.

  But if he answers, and his voice sounds feigned calm... that's also scary.

  He looked at Hannes Evans’ eyes in the wall photo. His father’s firm gaze seemed to pierce the room, demanding discipline even when he wasn't there.

  "Dad..." Ciel hissed softly, finger trembling slightly, warring between a son’s longing and the fear of a civilian realizing he lived in a gilded cage.

  Should he press that button?

  Ciel’s index finger finally pressed the glass screen.

  Riiiing... Riiiing...

  The connecting tone sounded long and monotonous, echoing in the quiet living room. Ciel held his breath, counting his own heartbeats racing against the call tone. One second. Two seconds.

  Usually, calls to his father’s service number would be diverted to an adjutant or go to voicemail if on duty. But this time, on the third ring, the voice was heard.

  "Hello, Ciel."

  The voice was heavy, calm, and very clear. No background noise. No sound of paper turning, no staff typing, or military vehicle roar. Absolute silence, as if Hannes Evans was calling from inside a soundproof box at the bottom of the earth.

  Ciel straightened his back on the sofa, gripping his phone tighter.

  "Dad," Ciel called, his voice slightly choked. He cleared his throat, trying to normalize his intonation. "Dad... when are you coming home? The house feels weird being empty all the time."

  There was a one-second pause on the other end. "Dad still has business at the command center, Son. Routine defense evaluation procedures. You know ministry bureaucracy, right? They like keeping this old man for long boring meetings."

  Hannes chuckled softly. A chuckle that sounded polite.

  Ciel frowned. His father never called military meetings "boring" to his son. Hannes was a rigid patriot who considered every second of service an honor.

  "Dad," Ciel cut in, steeling himself. "It's not just about you not coming home. But... this city. Carta. Today is so weird. All good news, everyone partying, media like it's silenced. Julian said Director Ratautan..."

  "Ciel," Hannes cut in. Gentle, yet severing Ciel’s sentence with surgical precision.

  "Yes, Dad?"

  "Listen to Dad," Hannes’ voice flowed low, very patient. Too patient. "There is nothing to worry about. What you see is just a public relaxation program. The government wants to raise citizen morale post-inflation last month. That is normal. Media is just doing its job spreading optimism."

  "But, Dad—"

  "There is no emergency, Ciel," Hannes asserted again, tone flat as a windless lake surface. "Crownbelt is safe. Borders are quiet. Sky is clear. You don't need to think about weird conspiracies. Just focus on your studies. Enjoy your youth. Go watch the concert or fireworks tonight, hm?"

  Ciel’s blood ran cold hearing that last sentence. Fireworks. His father even knew about tonight’s agenda.

  "Dad promises?" Ciel asked softly.

  "Dad promises everything is fine. Sleep well tonight. Dad must return to duty. Guard the house."

  Click.

  Connection severed.

  Ciel lowered his phone slowly, staring at the screen turning dark again.

  To a layman's ear, that conversation might sound reassuring. A father reassuring his son. But to Ciel Evans, who grew up under Hannes Evans’ tutelage for 18 years, that conversation was a loudly wailing danger siren.

  Ciel knew that "tone."

  It wasn't Hannes’ tone as a Father. It was his tone as Colonel Evans.

  Ciel had heard the exact same tone five years ago, during a hostage incident at the city bank. He heard his father talking on the phone with the hostages. A voice calm, patient, full of control, and denying danger... solely to prevent mass panic before the assault team entered.

  It was a De-escalation Voice. A manipulative voice designed to lull people standing on the brink of death to sleep.

  If Hannes was truly relaxed, he would grumble, snap about office politics, or at least sound tired. But earlier? He sounded perfect. He sounded like a machine.

  "Nothing happening he said..." Ciel whispered, standing from the sofa with trembling hands.

  His father’s lie confirmed his fear.

  If Hannes Evans—the most honest and rigid man he knew—had to lie with a voice that calm to his own biological son, then the situation out there wasn't just critical.

  The world might be ending, and they were all being coaxed to die smiling.

  The phone flew a short distance, landing with a soft thump on a plush sofa cushion.

  Ciel exhaled a rough breath, long and heavy, as if expelling the entire burden of suspicion suffocating his chest into the empty air of the living room. He massaged the bridge of his throbbing nose.

  "I don't know," he mumbled to the mute wall. "Maybe I really am just paranoid."

  His brain was tired of spinning in conspiracy theories. The more he tried to assemble the puzzle pieces—cheerful citizen faces, steered news, his father’s overly calm voice—the more he felt like chasing ghosts. He needed a pause button. He needed to stop thinking.

  Ciel tried not to stress. At least for now.

  His hand snatched the white DualSense controller from the coffee table. His thumb pressed the 'PS' logo button in the center.

  Beep.

  The familiar sound was soothing. The console under the TV table lit up with soft blue light. The 60-inch LED TV before him blinked to life, displaying an elegant interface menu.

  Ciel scrolled through the menu fast, passing rows of adventure games requiring much thought, and stopped at the annual soccer game icon. He needed something instant. Something primal. Run, pass, kick.

  He pressed the X button.

  The screen instantly turned bright green. A virtual grass field spread out.

  The roar of tens of thousands of digital spectators exploded from the soundbar under the TV, breaking the house's gripping silence. The voice of a British commentator with a thick accent and fast tempo began filling the room, shouting star player names.

  Ciel adjusted his sitting position, leaning back on the sofa, and let his eyes lock on the ball rolling on the screen.

  His thumbs began dancing nimbly on analog sticks and triggers.

  Hard tackle. Through pass. Right wing dribble.

  The real world slowly faded. The shadow of his father’s stiff face was replaced by 4-3-3 formation strategy. The fear of a "drugged" city drowned under the cheers of virtual spectators every time he managed a shot on goal.

  Inside that screen box, Ciel had full control. Here, there were no lies. If he won, he won. If he lost, he lost. Simple.

  For the next few hours, he chose to deafen his ears to reality, letting himself drown completely in the frenzy of the artificial stadium, ignoring the bad premonition still throbbing softly at the back of his head.