Threadless : A growing novel

"Some signals don't break encryption. They rewrite what counts as locked."

Mei sat alone in the observation bay.

Three locked threads floated in front of her — blinking in sequence. Not Developer-red. Not loop-blue. This was white. Unregistered, untouchable.

Her fingers hovered over the interface.

It didn't recognize her.

"You don't want me here," she said to the system.

"Too bad."

She tapped into the manual override. It resisted. Then relented — as if inviting her.

The screen glitched — once.

Twice.

Then settled into a different UI altogether.

"This... isn't ours," Mei whispered.

A message appeared:

"Mei. You always were the curious one."

She froze. Not a general greeting.

Not a standard data echo.

This was addressed to her. By name.

"Who's writing this?" she asked aloud.

A response appeared instantly:

"The one who stitched your first story loop."

The tablet pulsed faintly. Then a data packet unfolded — not in code, but in handwritten text. Literal handwriting, as though etched by a stylus across digital paper.

It read:

"I did not mean for you to suffer. I meant for you to notice."

"They started pruning after I left."

"I left because they were afraid."

"You were always meant to be the one who remembered why laughter matters."

Mei swallowed.

This wasn't surveillance. It was... personal. Intimate.

Then the last line appeared:

"The mirror loop will fail."

"When it does, tell them not to run. Tell Rin not to choose silence."

The system shuddered.

The signal terminated.

Her screen returned to normal.

Except for one final addition in the corner:

TW//01 — TAG RESTORED

Mei stood slowly, heart pounding.

"He's not dead," she whispered.

"And he's not done."