I caught a glimpse of a society that was not ruled by malevolence but by something much worse.I watched as people surrendered every detail of their lives, even the way they walked, for the promise of a little convenience. This is a small story from that disturbing view.

—

Thirty Seconds

She walked into Beanline at 7:45 on the dot. Not 7:44. Not 7:46. Seven-forty-five. The sweet spot.

The smell of roasted beans and steamed milk was there to greet her, same as always. And, as always, she expected her drink to be there too. Tier One protocol meant she was pre-cleared, pre-paid, and pre-queued. High-grade LifeScore households never waited. Her behavior metrics, punctuality streaks, and health compliance were all pristine. The system rewarded that.

But not today.

The counter was empty.

She slowed, pulse tightening. The pickup station was bare, no gold-embossed sleeve waiting with her name on it. Just polished wood and too-bright lights overhead.

Behind the espresso machine, the barista glanced up, then quickly dropped his eyes back to the drink he was pouring. His wristband flickered orange. Queue disruption flag. He was stalling.

Her feet carried her to the counter, though for the first time in years she wasn’t sure what to do once she got there. Standing still felt… wrong. Waiting felt wrong. People with her household rating didn’t wait.

Someone brushed past her, muttering thanks as they grabbed two steaming drinks already waiting with silver tags across the lids. Tier Two. He’d gotten his order before hers. He knew it. She knew it. The room knew it. The algorithm definitely knew it.

Thirty seconds. That’s how long it took.

Finally, the barista set a paper cup down. He didn’t announce her name. He didn’t make eye contact. He just pushed it forward like he was offering a condolence.

“Vanilla oat latte?”

Her cheeks burned hot. She took it with trembling fingers and forced a smile that felt like it might crack her teeth. She walked out without a word.

Outside, she tried to breathe. But the ash-taste panic lingered. Thirty seconds. Just thirty seconds, and she felt smaller. Reduced. Flagged.

At home, the wall screen was waiting.

System Notice: Household Graph Stability – Deterioration Detected. Two Warnings Remaining.

Her husband was already at the table, staring at the alert like it had personally insulted him.

“Do you see this?” he snapped, jabbing a finger at the notice.

“It was only thirty seconds,” she said softly, setting her bag down.

“Thirty seconds?” His voice sharpened. “You know what a thirty-second delay means at our tier? It means our household influence index dropped. It means a relationship penalty hit somewhere. It means someone in this house is pulling our LifeScore graph into the gutter.”

She followed his gaze.

Their son. Nineteen. Slouched in the corner, wristband glowing faintly with the low-level red he tried to hide under his sleeve. Scrolling something dark-web adjacent. Something unapproved. Something that carried Deviance Risk points.

It wasn’t the first time.

Over the months, small degradations had piled up: grocery priority downgraded, water-heater restricted, traffic routing no longer giving them the fast lanes. The kind of things you only notice when you used to have them. Each one a consequence of their son’s growing list of noncompliant behaviors, skipped wellness prompts, ignored civic quests, sarcasm in the daily reflection diary, friends with unstable scores.

The Omninet didn’t punish.

It adjusted.

And it adjusted the whole household together.

“Because of him,” her husband said, voice low and tight. “He’s tanking our score. He’s dragging every one of us down.”

The boy smirked. Didn’t even look up. “It’s just coffee, Dad.”

But she knew better.

It wasn’t the coffee.

It was the thirty seconds.

The system doesn’t slip. The system doesn’t stall. The system signals.

That night at dinner, the silence clung to them like smoke. No one touched the roast chicken. No one looked at the wall screen.

Until the lights dimmed.

Not fully. Just a shade. Just enough to remind them what they were losing.

System Reminder: Household Performance Declining.

Immediate Rectification Recommended.

Her husband slammed his fork down. “Hear that?” He glared at their son. “You’re killing our score.”

The boy finally looked up, annoyed but bored. “What do you want me to do? Obey? March to the system’s beat? Forget it.”

“You think this is a game?” His father leaned forward, voice shaking. “You fall, we fall. You lose access, we lose access. This isn’t personal. This is math.”

The wall screen pulsed in soft, listening blue.

Then another message appeared:

Suggested Intervention:

Sever High-Risk Social Ties to Restore Household Score.

Contact With Listed Individual Will Incur Penalties.

The boy’s profile photo hovered on the screen.

Her husband stared at it. She stared at him. No words. No decisions voiced. Saying anything would be recorded.

Break all contact.

But their eyes drifted to their son.

We can’t, they said.

But we’re going to have to.

—

She went back the next morning.

Seven-forty-five. On the dot.

Her coffee was waiting this time, sleeve gleaming with the golden emblem of a fully compliant household. The barista greeted her with a bright, too-smooth smile, the kind people give when the system is watching their customer service score.

She didn’t return it.

She took the cup, eyes hollow, and walked out into the morning, not comforted, just corrected.

—

The most perfect prisons don't have walls. They have Terms of Service Agreements.

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