The Distraction

"The New Apartment," I whispered to Leo, though the words were lost in the rattle of the old AC unit. The apartment in Little Five Points was everything The Enclave wasn't—cramped, messy, and unapologetically loud. But it was ours.

I sat on the floor, surrounded by boxes I hadn't unpacked and probably wouldn't for weeks. My phone was on the counter, the screen cracked but functional, displaying a news alert about the sentencing hearing for Gary Polzin.

*Life without parole.*

I felt a strange, cold peace settle in my chest. It wasn't happiness. Happiness was too simple a word for the jagged relief of knowing the monster was locked away. It was something closer to survival.

"Mama?" Leo pulled on my sleeve. He was holding a toy car—a cheap, plastic thing I’d bought at the dollar store, not a developmental tool approved by a wellness algorithm.

"I'm here, baby," I said, pulling him into my lap.

He didn't have a compliance score. He didn't have a future mapped out by a parent company. He just had me, and this messy, imperfect life.

But as I held him, a notification popped up on my laptop screen—the one I had taped over, just in case.

*System Update Required.*

I frowned. I hadn't connected the laptop to the Wi-Fi. I had been careful. Paranoid.

I walked over to the counter and opened the lid. The tape over the camera was still intact, a small black square of defiance.

But the screen wasn't showing an update message.

It was showing a video file.

*Subject_104-D_Beta_Test.mp4.*

My blood ran cold. 104-D. That was the designation my mother had used for Leo's future self.

I didn't click play. I didn't have to. The video started on its own.

It showed a nursery. Not the one in The Enclave. This one was different. Smaller. The walls were painted a soft, chaotic yellow.

It was *this* apartment.

I looked around. The layout was identical. The window placement. The cracks in the plaster.

But the furniture was different. It was sleek, white, minimalist.

And in the center of the room, standing over a crib, was a man.

He was wearing a fresh linen shirt. He had an Apple Watch on his wrist.

He turned toward the camera.

It was Leo.

But he wasn't a baby. He was grown. Twenty years older. He looked exactly like the man I had seen in the hotel hallway photo.

"Phase 7 complete," Adult Leo said to the camera. His voice was smooth, calibrated. "Maternal bond established. Compliance levels optimal."

He reached into the crib and picked up a bundle.

"Ready for extraction," he said.

The video cut to black.

I stared at the screen, my breath catching in my throat. It wasn't a recording from the future. It was a deepfake. A simulation created by the algorithm to keep me afraid. To keep me watching.

"Nice try," I whispered to the laptop.

I closed the lid. Hard.

I picked up the roll of Gorilla Tape and wrapped the entire laptop in it, layer after layer, until it was just a black, sticky brick.

Then I walked to the window and threw it into the dumpster in the alley below.

It landed with a satisfying *thud*.

I turned back to Leo. He was still playing with his car, oblivious to the digital ghosts haunting us.

"We're done," I said.

I picked him up and walked to the door. I was going to take him for a walk. A real walk, in the real world, where the grass grew however it wanted and the neighbors didn't care about my mess.

But as I reached for the handle, I noticed something.

A small, white envelope taped to the inside of the door.

It hadn't been there a minute ago.

My heart hammered against my ribs. I reached out and pulled it down.

My name was written on the front.

*Thea.*

In my own handwriting.

I opened it.

Inside was a single photograph.

It showed me, standing in this exact spot, holding the envelope.

The timestamp was from right now.

But the angle...

The angle was from the ceiling.

I looked up.

There was no smoke detector. No vent. Just the cracked plaster.

But in the center of the ceiling, a tiny patch of paint looked slightly newer than the rest. Slightly whiter.

And in the center of that patch was a pinhole.

A lens.

I looked back at the photo.

In the background, standing in the open doorway of the bedroom, was a woman.

She was wearing a plum twinset and pearls.

She was smiling.

And she was holding a finger to her lips.

"Shh," a voice whispered from the walls.

It wasn't my mother's voice. It wasn't Diane's.

It was my own.

"The neighbors are listening."