Beneath the map, a single line of text appeared as if typed by an invisible hand: You have been included.

The drive spun up, a mechanical scream echoing in the cramped space. On the screen, a progress bar crawled forward, pixel by agonizing pixel. Elias checked his watch. The security sweep was due in four minutes. If he was caught here, "unauthorized access" would be the kindest thing they’d put on his processing form.

At sixty percent, the screen glitched. Text began to bleed across the amber void, but it wasn't code. It was a list of names. Thousands of them. Elias recognized the first dozen—prominent scientists, dissident poets, and civil rights leaders who had "retired from public life" in the late sixties.

The screen went black. A single sheet of paper began to slide out of the connected dot-matrix printer. Elias grabbed it before the ink was even dry. There were no words on the page, only a high-resolution map of his own neighborhood. A red dot pulse-glowed on the paper—not printed, but somehow moving—positioned exactly where his house stood.