Dash Follows the Voices

  Setting: Late afternoon, Lennox Estate – dim corridor off the west wing, leading to a seldom-used lounge

  The sun had begun its descent, distorting yellow glimmers that expanded into elongated shadows across the neglected wooden floors. Dash quietly descended the narrow servant staircase behind the pantry, his footsteps muted by the dust motes. This staircase, once a passage of laughter and mischievous secrets, was the route he and Maisie had taken during their lively games of hide-and-seek. Back then, the world felt energetic and alive, filled with limitless possibilities. Now, the air was thick with the weight of unstated words, and her voice, a sound that had once been sweet and melodic, had turned sharp and distant, echoing like a memory of a time long gone, much like the laughter that had once filled these halls.

  He stealthily steered beyond the antique grandfather clock, the chilly, textured plaster of the wall pressing against his shoulder, sending a quiver down his spine. Each creak of the floorboards beneath his soft socks echoed through the silence, piercing the tense quiet like an alarm in his chest.

  The voices reverberated more distinctly in this poorly lit corridor.

  “…cognitive leak is progressing faster than predicted.”

  With a racing heart, Dash paused, crouching low beside the ornate frame of an arched doorway. Ahead, a narrow passage led into one of the old lounges, now a relic of the past, only disturbed when his father sought solitude. A long fissure in the door allowed warm, golden light to pour onto the wooden floorboards, casting flitting shades that footed like ghosts in the pall.

  In his dimly lit office, Harry Lennox stood beside a man Dash didn’t recognize. The stranger was not a servant or security personnel; he exuded an air of authority that set him apart. Clad in a sharply tailored black suit, the kind one might see at a somber funeral or a high-stakes legal meeting, he conveyed a sense of purpose. Yet, his posture was unsettlingly clinical, suggesting a detachment that made Dash uneasy. The man’s expression was inscrutable, revealing nothing about his intentions.

  The man leaned closer to his small datapad, his brow furrowed in concentration as he altered the luminance of the screen, brightening the room with a cold, manufactured glow. “He’s been lingering near the younger one. Watching,” he said, his voice laced with a hint of stress.

  Dash felt a chill seep into his bones, a dread sinking his stomach. The younger one. He was the center of their scrutiny.

  His father’s voice broke through the thickening atmosphere, low and edged with urgency. “Observation’s one thing,” he mumbled, glancing around the room with a cautious eye, as if unseen ears might be listening, “but if the leak compromises his utility—”

  The suited man’s demeanor shifted, his face steeling into an expression of resolve as he tapped the screen once, the sound echoing like a gunshot. “We’ll need to reset the programming if we want him to be stable by the next evaluation.”

  Time seemed to suspend around them, an electric stillness hanging in the air, thick with unarticulated fears and the weight of their unspoken words. Dash felt his palms grow clammy as he pushed them against the cool, unforgiving wall, seeking solace in its unyielding surface amid the turmoil inside him.

  Harry leaned in closer, his voice dropping to an urgent whisper, as if sharing a dangerous secret. “Maisie can’t know—not yet.”

  As Dash absorbed the gravity of their conversation, a wave of panic washed over him, each heartbeat drumming louder in his ears.

  They were talking about Igor. Again. He heard something earlier that day, but not to the same extent.

  Dash stood as if he were made of stone, his mind trying to grasp the concept of a cognitive leak, a term that sounded like something out of a science fiction novel. He had always regarded himself as tech-savvy, but this was beyond his comprehension. Fear wrapped around him, tightening its grip as he overheard their conversation. They spoke in calm tones, discussing Igor as if he were nothing more than a malfunctioning appliance—merely a tool that needed repair.

  He instinctively stepped back, then another, acutely aware of the old wooden floorboards creaking beneath him. Each movement felt like a betrayal of his growing unease. The dim light, failing to illuminate the room, deepened his sense of uncertainty, leaving him questioning what he had stumbled into.

  When he was finally out of earshot, he couldn’t compose himself any longer; he broke into a silent run, his heart beating fast and his thoughts spiraling like leaves caught in a whirlwind. The hallway around him felt like it went on forever, stretching forward into an ominous tunnel.

  Whatever they had imposed upon Igor… it was starting to unravel before his eyes.

  Maisie wasn’t supposed to know anything at all. She had her battles to fight and her ambitions to chase, oblivious to the shadows lurking in their world. But Dash understood the stakes; he had pieced together the fragments of their reality, and with that knowledge came a burden. It altered everything, every friendship, every plan, every moment that lay ahead.

  He didn’t stop running until he reached the east wing, where the walls basked in the afternoon sun, exuding the comforting scent of citrus polish mingled with the musty aroma of old books. The familiar atmosphere enveloped him like a warm embrace. Breathless and overwhelmed, he slipped into the music room, slamming the door behind him with a force that echoed against the tall wooden panels. His heart raced, each beat a frantic reminder of the chaos he had just fled. He stood there for what felt like an eternity, eyes fixed on the polished keys of the grand piano. The complex designs of the wood and the velvety ivory beckoned him, but the storm in his chest roared louder than any melody. He took a deep breath, trying to quiet his thoughts and emotions, seeking solace in the beauty of the room that once felt like a refuge.

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  Igor wasn’t just sick. He was being controlled. Monitored. Reset like some broken toy. And Dash had seen the way Igor looked at him lately—those strange, faraway pauses, the way his eyes would lock on Dash like he was trying to remember something. The thought sent a shiver down his spine. What if his presence was triggering something worse?

  Igor wasn’t just sick; a simple illness couldn't explain the vacant stares and unsettling shifts in his personality. He was being controlled, manipulated by some unseen force. Monitored his every action and reaction, analyzed, and influenced. Reset like a broken toy, his memories and thoughts cleaned and rewritten in a horrifying cycle. And Dash had seen the way Igor looked at him lately—those strange, faraway pauses, the troubling disconnect behind his eyes. Igor’s gaze would lock on Dash, remaining for too long, as if he were trying to remember something. What if his presence was triggering something worse? What if their shared history, their friendship, was a glitch in the system, an anomaly that threatened to unravel the control exerted over Igor? He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was a key, unknowingly unlocking something dark and dangerous within his friend. He had to figure out what was happening, and fast, before Igor was lost completely.

  Dash clenched his fists, knuckles white. His jaw tightened, the muscle ticking nervously. The words replayed in his head, a toxic loop eroding his composure. He couldn't tell Maisie. Not yet. The weight of the secret pressed down on him, a suffocating blanket of responsibility. If they didn’t want her to know, then blabbing would be a reckless gamble, a dangerous move that might put Igor in even more danger than he already was.

  But he had to do something. Ignoring this wasn't an option. He couldn’t just stand by and watch. He needed leverage. Find more proof. Concrete evidence to back up the whispers he'd overheard. Observe, analyze, anticipate. Watch more closely. Every move, every conversation, every fleeting glance. He had to become a shadow, a silent observer piecing together the puzzle.

  He wasn't just the younger brother lurking in the corner anymore, dismissed and overlooked, a cloud clinging to the edges of their brightly lit lives. Not after what he'd heard, the silent whispers that cut through the walls like shards of ice, the reckless admissions they thought him too inconsequential to understand. Not if they were talking about him like a pawn, a disposable piece on their grand chessboard, like bait in a trap designed to catch something far more valuable, something they were willing to sacrifice him to obtain. The idea that his own family, the people who were supposed to cherish and protect him, had potentially used him that way, treated him as a mere tool, ignited a slow-burning fury within him.

  It wasn't a sudden, explosive rage, but a deep, simmering resentment that promised to reshape him. This betrayal forged a resolve within him, a steely determination to protect himself and those he cared about, even if it meant defying them all, even if it meant shattering the carefully constructed facade of familial harmony they clung to so fiercely. He would no longer be a passive observer in his own life. He would be a player, and he would make damn sure they knew it.

  He sat down stiffly on the piano bench, the ancient wood groaning slightly beneath his weight. His fingers, long and slender from years of practice, hovered above the ivory keys, a hesitant squadron afraid to engage. He didn't press them down, didn't coax a single note from the silent instrument. The piano was a phantom of happier times, a repository of memories he desperately tried to conjure. He used to play duets here with Maisie, rambunctious, cheerful pieces that filled the house with laughter. Back then, Maisie was in a better mood, mischievous and bright, and things in the house still felt like a game, a playful charade. Now, the laughter was gone, replaced by a hush so dense it felt like a physical weight. Everything was brittle, sharp-edged, ready to splinter at the slightest tremor. The air crackled with unspoken anxieties. His father’s clipped, acute voice still echoed in his ears, a constant, nagging reminder: “Maisie can’t know.” The words felt like a frigid stone in his stomach. Which meant whatever they were doing, whatever secrets his father was guarding with such ferocity, it wasn’t just dangerous. It was personal. It involved Maisie, threatened somehow. And the realization, like a shard of ice, pierced through the fog of chaos, nestling itself deep within his fear. He had to protect her, even if he didn't know from what.

  Outside the window, the sky had darkened to a smoky blue, clouds gathering over the treetops like bruises. A pre-storm calm hung in the air, broken only by the rustling of leaves that seemed to whisper warnings. Dash watched the clouds roll in, a mirroring tempest brewing within him. He couldn’t shake the image of the man in the suit. Crisp, corporate, utterly devoid of warmth. The way he spoke about Igor, his tone clinical and detached, like a thing, not a person. As if they’d built him in a lab, piecing him together from algorithms and data points. "Cognitive leak," the man had said, as if diagnosing a faulty machine. "Reset the programming." The cold precision of those words chilled Dash to the bone. Was Igor even allowed to choose what he remembered? Did he have any agency over his past, or was it simply wiped clean and rewritten at the whim of these shadowy figures?

  The ethical implications were staggering, a chilling invasion of the very essence of personhood. Dash felt a surge of protectiveness towards Igor, a fierce determination to understand the truth behind the man in the suit's pronouncements, and to help Igor reclaim his narrative, whatever it might be.

  A chilling new thought, a tendril of fear, wormed its way into his consciousness. It wasn't just the immediate danger to Igor, or even to himself, that now plagued him. This was something far more insidious, far more extensive. What if Igor wasn't an isolated case? What if their twisted experiment, their insidious rewrite, hadn't been confined to a single victim? What if they'd done the same to others? What if Igor wasn’t the only one who’d been rewritten, his memories and personality surgically altered, his very essence violated? But the true gut-wrenching horror came with a specific name, a face he cherished. What if Maisie had been, too? The idea hit him like a physical blow, leaving him breathless and reeling. Could the person he loved, his sister, whom he thought he knew so intimately, be nothing more than a carefully crafted fabrication, a puppet dancing on strings he couldn't even see? The question lingered, a poisonous seed planted in the fertile ground of his worry, threatening to blossom into a full-blown nightmare.