It started in Sector 9 — a quarantine zone for "non-responsive believers."
People who heard the voice…
and refused to worship it.
They weren't immune like Caleb.
They weren't chosen.
They were simply unwilling.
---
Doctors called it mental regression.
Faithful called it treason.
But those inside?
They called themselves:
> "The Unplugged."
---
They built a dome out of silence.
No tech.
No echoes.
Not even paper.
Every word was spoken directly — eye to eye, breath to breath.
No music.
No chants.
Just the raw, awful stillness of human existence.
---
For weeks, nothing happened.
Until one night, a hum slipped through.
Just a soft one.
Barely there.
The voice's signal.
It crept in through the bones of a refugee named Maren.
She stood up and began to mouth the lyrics—
But before she could finish the first line…
They covered her in silence.
---
Not tape.
Not gags.
They held her.
Dozens of arms.
No violence. Just weight. Stillness. Intention.
And she stopped.
---
When she finally blinked, her face was soaked in tears.
She whispered:
> "It was warm. It felt like... love. But it wasn't mine."
> "It's using us to mourn itself."
---
That moment broke something open.
More people started remembering things they'd forgotten:
Their own lullabies
Their own grief
Their own voices
Not borrowed.
Not broadcast.
---
The Faithful called it "the rot."
A sickness in the harmony.
But Elena's signal didn't strike back.
Because it couldn't.
It couldn't manipulate those who found strength in emptiness.
---
And when Dr. Mara Lin tried to livestream her next message?
It cut out.
Just once.
A flicker of black.
But in that 0.3 seconds of dead air…
Every device flashed the same phrase:
> "Not all silence is weakness."