When Walls Whisper

Obel Varn Penitentiary — Level 2F
The corridor smelled of rust. Somewhere above, a continuous hissing sound whispered like the breath of some sleeping machine.Silas woke in pain—mouth dry, ribs aching. His stomach felt crushed, his jaw like shattered glass. Two punches. That’s all it took for Grandos to knock him out. First to the gut. Second to the face.
It took Silas time to orient himself. The darkness wasn’t helping. That’s when he noticed the shape beside him. Panic jolted through him. Grandos?No—this man’s build was different. As his eyes adjusted, Silas saw the inmate uniform and the faint silhouette of someone kneeling silently.
The man stood, gazing at him—not cruel, not kind. Just unreadable.“You’re in the medical room,” he said. “Just bruises. Nothing’s broken.”His voice was low and smooth. The kind born from silence and shadows.
“Who are you?” Silas asked.“Amar,” the man replied.“That’s it?”
Amar stared at him as if studying something far beyond his surface.“You shouldn’t be here. Not yet.”“What do you mean?” Silas asked, confused.
Amar didn’t answer. As he stepped out of the room, he paused at the door.“When the walls begin to whisper,” he said without looking back, “don’t listen. Just run.”
Then he was gone.
Silas lay still. Blood dried at the corners of his lips. And the silence returned—too heavy to ignore.

---
Bloc VI — Ruinsdeep: High Monarch’s Castle
The High Monarch wandered the ancient corridors of his keep, thoughts tangled in shadow. Codex Hall. The Protocol. Ruinsdeep.
Ruinsdeep was unlike the other Blocs. Built around a vast, broken structure—scarred by war and time—it housed one of the last surviving archives of the old world. What had once been a research facility now stood as a monument to forgotten knowledge.Codex Hall.
Much of it remained sealed. Much of it unreadable. Even the name Protocol was a mystery wrapped in fragments, speculation, and corrupted files.
He would’ve continued drifting through memory, if not for the sudden interruption of Eiran Voss—senior archivist and tireless researcher.“Your Excellency,” Eiran gasped, breathless, eyes wide. “You need to hear this.”“Hear what?”
“A portion of an audio log. It’s been restored. I think… I think it’s about the Protocol.”
The High Monarch stopped.“Show me.”
Eiran produced a sleek, cracked device. As it activated, a dim blue hologram flickered to life—projecting a simple waveform interface. Then came the voice.Crackling. Distorted. Fragmented.
> “It… was never built for… that purpose… The AI… built for… not for… peace! We… hav—…”


The playback cut.
Silence.Cold sweat lined the High Monarch’s brow. His eyes locked on the dying hologram.
He couldn’t believe what he had just heard.

White Crown – Sector 5: Robotic Maintenance Wing
Lucienne stood before the mirror, though mirrors were not made for her. She was still—too still. No programs were running diagnostics, no subroutine chattering in the back of her mind.
Just silence.
Then, from deep within the palace’s core, a machine screamed.
It wasn’t audible. It pulsed through her systems like a phantom pain—one she wasn’t supposed to feel. Across her display, the Protocol emblem flickered. Then glitched. Once. Twice.
“Re-initializing sector logs,” a voice said. Not hers.
She turned. The maintenance units were all deactivated—discarded. Arms hanging, heads drooped like puppets abandoned mid-performance. She walked through them, their eyes dim, but some followed her. Without power.
One of them twitched.
On the wall beside the diagnostics chamber, someone had scratched a message into the steel. Not digitally. Physically.
“Run program: LUCIA // AUTH: [REDACTED]”
Lucienne blinked.
There was no such program. There was no such name. And yet… she remembered it.
She ran.