_*]:min-w-0 !gap-3.5">Helena Voss stood motionless before the holographic dispy in her private office, her expression betraying nothing as she scrolled through the quarterly pyer statistics. After three years of marriage to Marcus, she had perfected the art of keeping her true thoughts hidden, even in supposedly secure spaces. Corporate monitoring had become increasingly sophisticated, and she assumed every room—even in their home—might be under surveilnce.

  The numbers floating before her told a story that turned her stomach.

  Pyer entrance rates: Up 47% (enforced "volunteer" quotas from Worker districts) Average survival duration: Down 38% (most deaths occurring within first ten floors) Advancement beyond Floor 20: 12% (down from original 36%) Pyer deaths resulting in "preserved consciousness": 97.8% (up from 64%)

  The Game that she and the other Original Seven had designed as a genuine advancement opportunity had twisted into something monstrous. What had begun as a revolutionary meritocratic system had been methodically corrupted into a popution control mechanism over eight years of "refinements."

  Helena closed the file with a gesture and opened another—the official corporate report that would be presented to the public. The sanitized version painted a completely different picture:

  "Tower of Ascension Opportunity Program shows record advancement rates with 94% participant satisfaction. Resource optimization through merit-based advancement continues to address Terminus's sustainability challenges."

  The lies were so btant they would be ughable if the consequences weren't so devastating. Helena closed that file too, suppressing the anger that threatened her carefully maintained composure.

  Eight years. It had been eight years since the Game's unch as a "voluntary advancement opportunity." Eight years of watching their creation transform from vision to nightmare. And now, the final corruption was about to be implemented—mandatory participation for all citizens at age 18.

  A soft chime announced an incoming message. Helena accepted it with a gesture, and Marcus's face appeared in a floating dispy.

  "The announcement ceremony begins in an hour," he said without preamble. "Will you be attending in person or observing remotely?"

  "Remotely," Helena replied, her voice neutral. "I have critical neural interface modifications to complete before tomorrow's implementation meeting."

  Marcus nodded, unsurprised. "Sensible prioritization. The announcement is merely formality at this point. The decision was finalized in yesterday's council session."

  Despite three years of marriage, Helena still found it remarkable how Marcus could discuss condemning millions to death with the same tone he might use to discuss production quotas or resource allocation. His perspective wasn't cruel, exactly—just utterly detached from conventional morality. In his mind, popution reduction was an ecological necessity, not an ethical question.

  "I reviewed the Game statistics," Helena said, watching his expression carefully. "The death rates are higher than projected."

  "An adjustment period," Marcus replied without concern. "The psychological filtration system is still calibrating. Once mandatory participation is fully implemented, the algorithms will optimize for appropriate popution reduction rates."

  "Of course," Helena said, maintaining her mask of analytical detachment.

  After exchanging a few more logistical details, the call ended. Helena allowed herself ten seconds of closed eyes—ten seconds to feel the full weight of horror at what their creation had become—before resuming her composed expression. There was too much at stake for emotional indulgence.

  The corporate presentation theater had been designed to magnify authority, with elevated stages and acoustic enhancements that gave speakers' voices a subtle but commanding resonance. Today, it was filled to capacity with carefully selected representatives from each social css—mostly those already aligned with corporate interests.

  Helena watched the livestream from her office, noting the distribution of attendees. Architect and Privileged csses dominated the front sections, with a carefully curated selection of Servicers pced strategically for camera visibility. Workers were present only in the back rows, their expressions ranging from resigned to fearful. No Unaligned had been permitted entry, of course.

  The ceremony began with typical corporate pageantry—historical retrospectives highlighting the Game's supposed successes, testimonials from the few Pyers who had actually returned from the Tower with enhanced status, and carefully edited footage of advanced floors that few would ever reach.

  Marcus took the stage st, his commanding presence amplified by the theater's design. Helena had to acknowledge his skill as a communicator; he projected absolute conviction without appearing zealous, authority without seeming dictatorial.

  "Citizens of Terminus," he began, his voice perfectly moduted, "today marks a pivotal evolution in our collective journey. For eight years, the Tower of Ascension has served as a voluntary opportunity for advancement, offering pathways to merit-based resource allocation and skill enhancement."

  Helena noted his careful nguage—never mentioning the death rates, never acknowledging that "advancement" was almost statistically impossible for Worker-css participants.

  "As our popution approaches critical thresholds, we face unprecedented resource challenges," Marcus continued. "Projections indicate unsustainable consumption patterns within three generations if current growth continues unchecked."

  The theater's dispys showed carefully constructed graphs illustrating resource depletion against popution growth—accurate data maniputed to tell a particur story.

  "Therefore, the corporate council has unanimously approved Implementation Directive 37: Universal Advancement Opportunity. Beginning in thirty days, all citizens will participate in the Tower of Ascension program upon reaching their eighteenth year."

  There it was—the death sentence delivered in the nguage of opportunity. Helena watched the reactions in the crowd, noting the subtle shift in body nguage among the Worker representatives. They understood what this really meant, even if they dared not speak it aloud.

  Marcus continued outlining the implementation details—the mandatory neural interface impntation on birthday anniversaries, the entry schedules, the "support systems" for families. His presentation was masterful, framing systematic popution culling as a societal advancement program.

  "This is not merely a resource management initiative," he concluded, his expression serious but optimistic, "but an evolutionary opportunity. The Tower identifies and nurtures exceptional potential regardless of original social css. Those who demonstrate merit will advance not just themselves but all of humanity. Together, we ascend."

  The appuse was immediate from the front sections, spreading reluctantly to the back rows where Workers cpped with mechanical obligation. Helena could see the fear in their eyes even through the filtered camera feed.

  They knew. Everyone knew. The Game was popution control disguised as opportunity, and there was nothing they could do about it.

  The protests began within hours. Despite corporate information control, the Worker districts erupted in desperate resistance. Helena watched the security feeds from her private terminal, witnessing scenes deliberately kept from public broadcasts.

  In Sector 14, thousands gathered in the central pza, their voices unified in opposition. Signs denounced the "Death Game" and demanded the return of democratic governance. For a brief moment, Helena felt a surge of hope seeing their solidarity.

  Then the ProtectoCorp units arrived.

  The suppression was swift and merciless. Sonic weapons deployed first, sending protesters to their knees in agony. Then came the neural disruption fields, inducing confusion and disorientation. Finally, the physical round-up of identified "instigators"—hundreds dragged into transport vehicles while barely conscious.

  Simir scenes pyed out across every Worker district that attempted resistance. By nightfall, the protests had been completely suppressed, with thousands detained and public spaces occupied by ProtectoCorp enforcement units.

  The official news broadcasts showed none of this. Instead, they featured carefully selected images of "citizen support celebrations" and interviews with eager volunteers praising the opportunity for advancement.

  Helena switched off the propaganda broadcast, turning instead to the cssified security feeds she had access to through her position. One by one, she reviewed the suppression operations, memorizing faces of resistance leaders, noting patterns in ProtectoCorp's tactics.

  Her hand unconsciously moved to her abdomen as she watched, a gesture so subtle it would have been missed by most surveilnce systems. Three weeks—not long enough to be certain, but her carefully tracked biological signs suggested new life had begun. The timing couldn't have been more critical.

  For three years, she had maintained her position within the corporate structure, gathering information, building her understanding of the system's vulnerabilities while appearing the loyal corporate partner. She had watched in silent horror as Soren Vale disappeared after raising concerns, as Dr. Reed was reassigned to a remote facility for questioning Guardian design modifications, as Talia Chen's psychological safety protocols were systematically disabled.

  Of the Original Seven, only she, Era, Kapoor, and Wright remained in their original positions—all making compromises to maintain access and influence within an increasingly corrupted system.

  But seeing the protests crushed, understanding what mandatory participation would mean for millions of innocent people—something crystallized within Helena. Compliance was no longer an option, but neither was open resistance. She needed a longer strategy, one that could work within the system while subverting it.

  Helena closed the security feeds and initiated a new file, beling it innocuously as "Neural Development Parameters." Inside, she began drafting ideas for a specialization initiative—one that would officially research enhanced neural integration for "exceptional subjects" while actually creating something far more significant.

  If the Game had become a tool for death, she would create a counter-tool for life. If they sought to control evolution through elimination, she would nurture it through enhancement. And if they believed they controlled the future of humanity, she would show them how wrong they were.

  As she worked through the night, the foundation of what would become her greatest project took shape—a carefully hidden rebellion disguised as corporate research. She would need allies, resources, and above all, time. But for the first time since watching the Game transform into a killing field, Helena felt something beyond despair.

  She felt purpose.

  Three days ter, Helena sat across from her sister in a corporate coffee lounge carefully selected for its ck of sophisticated surveilnce. Their conversation appeared casual to observers—two sisters catching up on work and life—but their actual discussion was conducted through a subtle tap code developed in their childhood, their fingers drumming seemingly random patterns on the table's surface.

  Have you reviewed the implementation protocols? Helena tapped.

  Era's fingers responded: Yes. Consciousness preservation parameters have been expanded far beyond our original design. They're building a digital workforce from harvested minds.

  Helena sipped her tea to cover her reaction. Do the preserved minds retain autonomy?

  Minimal. They're using partitioning algorithms to maintain technical skills while suppressing identity. Effectively ensving consciousness.

  This was even worse than Helena had feared. The Game wasn't just killing people—it was capturing their minds for computational exploitation.

  I'm developing a counter-strategy, Helena tapped. Long-term implementation. Need your expertise on consciousness protection protocols.

  Era's expression remained pleasantly neutral while her fingers conveyed urgency. Marcus suspects nothing?

  He sees what he expects to see. My compliance, my partnership.

  Be careful, sister. Those who question the system tend to disappear.

  Helena thought of Soren Vale, whose "reassignment to northern research facilities" fooled no one among the Original Seven. His questions about pyer death rates had been met with immediate removal.

  I'm creating something they won't recognize until it's too te, Helena tapped. Will you help?

  Era's fingers stilled for a moment—the only outward sign of her considering the profound risk Helena was proposing. Then her fingers moved decisively: Always. What do you need?

  As she outlined the beginnings of her pn, Helena felt the weight of their shared responsibility. The Game had been their creation too—they shared in the guilt of what it had become, even if they had fought against its corruption. Now they would have to work within that corrupted system to pnt the seeds of something that might, eventually, transform it.

  It would take years. It would require perfect patience, fwless deception, and accepting that they might not live to see the results.

  But watching the news broadcasts showing the first eighteen-year-olds being processed for mandatory Game entry, Helena knew there was no alternative. The system would not reform itself. Change would have to come from within—subtle, patient, and ultimately unstoppable.

  As she left the coffee lounge, Helena passed a public viewscreen showing Marcus announcing additional "success metrics" for the Game. His voice echoed through the atrium: "The Tower of Ascension represents humanity's future—identifying exceptional potential and elevating it for the benefit of all Terminus."

  Helena allowed herself a small, private smile. Marcus wasn't wrong about the Game identifying exceptional potential. But what that potential would ultimately be used for—that was something he couldn't possibly imagine.

  Not yet.