The automated chime of the Level 8 gate was the only sound in the sterile hallway. Elias stood before the dual-tone interface, his palm hovering over the sensor. Behind him lay the Collective—a life of pre-calculated safety, assigned roles, and predictable sunsets. Ahead, through the thick reinforced glass of the airlock, was the “Choice.”
He thought of the small, unauthorized sketch tucked into his tunic—a drawing of a bird he’d seen in a restricted history file. It looked messy, fragile, and entirely free.
"Why do people leave?" Elias asked, knowing the machine wouldn't answer with anything but logic.
What he (a person, an animal, or a landmark)