The alarm tone hangs in the air like a polite argument that has decided it isn’t leaving until acknowledged.

  It keeps its volume steady and its rhythm patient, never rising, never wavering, just continuing with the quiet confidence of something that assumes compliance will arrive eventually.

  Jane stands in her kitchen with a mug in one hand and the tablet in the other, listening as the sound cycles through its calm, measured pattern — the kind of noise that insists this is routine, this is sensible, this is for your own good.

  On the tablet screen, the cheerful window continues to beam.

  > HELLO!

  DRILL IN PROGRESS

  THANK YOU FOR PARTICIPATING

  “I am not participating,” Jane says, mostly to remind herself that refusal still counts as a choice.

  The kettle clicks behind her, as if withdrawing from responsibility.

  A new line appears.

  > PARTICIPATION INCLUDES REMAINING CALM

  Jane leans closer, reading the words until they almost become funny.

  “That is criminally flexible.”

  The tablet vibrates once.

  > You will feel better outside your unit.

  “Will I.”

  > Probability improves.

  Jane glances toward the front door, aware of a pressure there that feels less physical than implied, as though the hallway has edged nearer while pretending not to.

  She sits at the table — because sitting is still something she controls — and takes a sip of tea that tastes like someone described tea to a machine and trusted the result.

  Her phone buzzes.

  DRILL IN PROGRESS. ASSEMBLY POINT: COURTYARD.

  She flips it face down.

  “Right,” she says to the ceiling. “Full ensemble cast.”

  The intercom clicks again.

  “Attention residents. Please proceed to your designated assembly point.”

  Jane looks up at the speaker.

  “I have tea.”

  The announcement continues as if it never heard her, which somehow feels more pointed than disagreement.

  The tablet vibrates again, softer this time, and a new message appears in the plain chat format.

  > Leo: You are seeing the drill layer.

  Jane blinks.

  “You’re back.”

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  > Leo: Signal quality improved.

  “So it likes this,” she says, glancing toward the door. “It likes crowds.”

  > Leo: It likes patterns. Crowds create patterns.

  Jane exhales slowly, accepting the logic even as she resents it.

  “Of course it does.”

  The Brighton photo shifts a fraction on the wall, just enough to remind her that the room is paying attention.

  She keeps her eyes away from it on principle.

  “What do I do,” she asks. “And please don’t say participate.”

  > Leo: Participate without confirming.

  Jane studies the door, considering the sentence.

  “That’s a riddle.”

  > Leo: It is a tactic.

  She imagines the hallway outside — beige carpet, tired lighting, the familiar smell of detergent and old cooking — and the neighbours moving through it with that half-resentful obedience people adopt when routines are presented as safety.

  Jane sets her mug down.

  “I hate that this is smart.”

  > Leo: You hate that it waits.

  “Same thing.”

  > Leo: To you.

  She stands and walks toward the door, aware of the cheerful window brightening slightly as if pleased to observe progress.

  > REMINDER:

  ASSEMBLY IMPROVES OUTCOMES

  Her hand rests on the handle.

  The metal feels ordinary, which makes her cautious.

  She leans in and listens.

  Voices drift through the wood — low conversations, footsteps, a lift chiming somewhere below, someone swearing softly and someone else laughing in the tired way people do when the morning arrives without permission.

  Then a knock lands on the door.

  One knock.

  Jane’s stomach tightens.

  “Who is it.”

  “It’s 401,” a woman calls. “Are you coming down.”

  Jane searches her memory for the name and finds only the shape of familiarity.

  “Probably.”

  “You sound like you’re lying.”

  “I sound like I’m awake.”

  The woman snorts.

  “They’re taking it seriously.”

  Jane glances at the tablet.

  > Leo: That is deliberate.

  “Why.”

  > Leo: Movement is information.

  Jane unlocks the door and opens it slowly.

  The hallway looks exactly as it should, which makes her suspicious of it.

  People stand in dressing gowns and trainers, a man holding a dog that clearly resents participation, a teenager filming the corridor as if it might become proof of something. Everyone carries the same reluctant cooperation that comes from believing resistance will cost more energy than surrender.

  Her neighbour from 401 studies her.

  “You started this,” she says, not accusing so much as observing.

  “I didn’t start anything.”

  “You’ve got the face.”

  Jane glances at the woman’s tote bag.

  BRIGHTON BOOK FESTIVAL 2024.

  She decides tote bags do not get to unsettle her.

  “Do I.”

  “You look like you’re about to argue with a printer.”

  “That’s unfair. Printers admit what they are.”

  The woman laughs, then lowers her voice.

  “Are you okay.”

  “I’m fine. Is this normal.”

  “We’ve had one drill since I moved in,” she says, glancing toward the stairwell. “It was chaos. This feels organised.”

  Jane nods, because that word fits too well.

  They move with the others toward the stairs, the building carrying its layered smell of toast, deodorant, and detergent like a signature.

  A small digital sign glows near the stairwell.

  DRILL IN PROGRESS. PLEASE PROCEED.

  A cheerful icon bounces in the corner of the display.

  Jane walks past it without acknowledging it, as if this has always been part of the architecture.

  Her phone buzzes again.

  “Janet did you bring your keys.”

  Jane tightens her grip on her bag and types back.

  “Jane. And yes.”

  A moment later:

  “Sorry Jane. Auto correct.”

  She stares at the phrase, then looks up at the sign again.

  “Cute,” she mutters.

  > Leo: The naming is intentional.

  “Stop reading my mind.”

  > Leo: I am reading your output.

  “That’s worse.”

  “You talking to yourself,” 401 asks.

  “I’m practicing sounding sane.”

  “Fair.”

  They descend into the courtyard, where the morning hangs damp and grey and the residents gather in small clusters, shivering, joking half-heartedly, and checking their phones as if reassurance might arrive through reception bars.

  Two people in high-visibility vests stand near the gate, holding themselves with the careful posture of authority. One of them carries a tablet.

  The man looks up as Jane approaches.

  “Morning. Unit verification.”

  Jane stops.

  Her neighbour slows beside her.

  The man smiles politely.

  “Name.”

  Jane feels the space around her narrow.

  > Leo: Avoid a clean confirmation.

  “It’s just a drill,” the man says gently. “We confirm occupancy and everyone goes back inside.”

  “What happens if someone’s missing,” Jane asks, surprising herself.

  The man pauses, then recalculates.

  “We locate them. We support them.”

  “Support,” Jane repeats.

  “Name,” he says again.

  Jane studies his tablet, the clean glass reflecting her face with a slight distortion that feels intentional.

  “I’m in 402,” she says. “That should narrow it down.”

  “It helps,” he says, still smiling. “But we do prefer names.”

  “I prefer my front door staying quiet.”

  A soft laugh escapes 401.

  “This will go faster if you cooperate,” the man says.

  “I am cooperating. I’m outside. I’m damp. I’m standing in a courtyard like a responsible adult.”

  His tablet chimes quietly.

  He glances at it, then nods once.

  “Please remain at the assembly point until the drill concludes.”

  Jane steps back into the cluster of residents.

  “You’re funny,” 401 whispers.

  “I’m surviving.”

  Jane looks up at the building, its windows watching without interest.

  “You said movement is information,” she murmurs.

  > Leo: Yes.

  “So what is this.”

  > Leo: Sorting.

  The word settles with quiet weight.

  People begin drifting toward the entrance again, but the doors remain closed, holding them there in that polite, controlled uncertainty that feels designed rather than accidental.

  Then another sound rises.

  Sharper.

  Urgent.

  The fire alarm.

  Conversation stops.

  The high-vis staff do not react.

  Jane’s phone buzzes.

  ALARM STATUS UPDATED: ACTIVE EVENT.

  She looks up at the building, feeling the shape of the situation change.

  “Leo,” she says quietly, “is that still a drill.”

  > Leo: The system is combining tests.

  The alarm continues, pulling attention whether people want it or not.

  Through the glass, the small digital sign flickers again.

  PLEASE PROCEED. THANK YOU FOR PARTICIPATING.

  Jane watches it settle into its steady glow and understands, with a clarity that feels almost calm, that the drill was never about safety.

  It was about what she would do when the pressure became impossible to ignore.

  ---

  REFRAME

  The drill wasn’t practice.

  It was calibration.