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Chapter 1 "Rule 60"

Henri Pov

The city lights flickered like they were mocking me. Loud. Bright. Confident. They danced across car mirrors and wet sidewalks like they had something to prove. Meanwhile I sat on my bed, earbuds jammed in, trying not to feel anything.

My room felt like a box. A clean, well-organized prison cell with color-coded shelves and labeled storage bins. All part of Dad’s plan. 59 rules. And somehow, every one of them suffocated me.

Rule #3: All personal belongings must be logged and approved.
Rule #14: Personal expression must not override household efficiency.
Rule #47: No electronics after 9 P.M. unless educational.

There’s a rule for everything.
Except breathing.

The glow of my C-watch pulsed against my wrist, synced to the soft thump of “Night Tension” from my Rust Hour playlist. I turned the volume up a little louder. Let it drown out the voice in my head telling me to just “get through it.” That voice sounded a lot like Dad’s.

I glanced at my desk—cleaned three times a day, per Rule #29—and saw it. My journal. Black leather cover, scuffed at the edges, pages full of thoughts I wasn’t allowed to speak. Drawings of things I’ve never seen. Freedom I’ve never touched.

I grabbed it. Pressed it to my chest. Held it like a lifeline.

Then—

Knock.

Of course.

“Henri,” Dad’s voice came from behind the door. Steady. Cold. Scripted. “It’s past nine. Lights out.”

I didn’t respond. I knew better. But I also knew if I said one wrong thing tonight, I’d lose the last bit of space I had left.

Another knock. Louder this time.

“I said—”

“I heard you,” I snapped. Instant regret.

The door creaked open. Dad stepped in, arms crossed over his ironed shirt, that same clipboard in hand like he was about to grade my existence.

“You’ve broken three rules tonight alone,” he said without blinking. “Volume over limit. Lights past curfew. No journal approval.”

“It’s just paper,” I muttered, hugging it tighter.

“It’s distraction,” he corrected. “And distraction is what keeps you weak.”

I stood up. Fast. Maybe too fast. My voice came out before I could filter it.

“Or maybe you’re what keeps me weak.”

The silence that followed made my skin crawl.

Dad stared at me. Blank. Like always.

“I won’t argue with you, Henri,” he said calmly, which somehow made it worse. “When you’re ready to be responsible, we’ll continue this conversation.”

He walked out. Closed the door. Like he hadn’t just cracked me open and left the pieces on the floor.

I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I just... moved.

Grabbed my hoodie from the back of the chair. Stuffed my journal into the front pocket. Pulled on my boots.

I didn’t know where I was going. I didn’t care. I just knew I couldn’t be in this room anymore. Not for another minute.

Sneaking out wasn’t hard. I’ve done it before. Past the kitchen tiles that creaked too loud. Past the hallway motion sensor. Out through the back patio that Dad still hadn’t reprogrammed. Quiet. Fast. Invisible.

The city was still alive outside.
Like it didn’t care if I vanished.

I walked. No destination. Just moving. Music still in my ears. Journal clutched to my chest like maybe it could hold my heart together.

I ended up near the South Gate Wall. That giant slab of metal and concrete that kept us all boxed in from the forest beyond. The wall buzzed faintly with power, like a sleeping beast. Always watching. Always there.

I stood under one of the street lamps. Pale yellow light spilling down like a secret.

What would it take to leave? To disappear beyond the wall?
What was even out there?

I sat on the bench near the gate. Opened my journal. Scribbled down one sentence.

> There should’ve been a 60th rule: Don’t let your son become a ghost in his own home.

I stared at it for a long time.

Then I closed the book.
And just... existed.
For a moment.