Cora had first seen it late at night, when the feeds were supposed to be scrubbed, sterilized, safe. She had been doomscrolling as usual, the same monotonous drivel clogging the screen—official statements, propaganda pieces, and mindless engagement bait designed to pacify the population. But then, the screen glitched. Just for a moment. A flicker, like an old VHS tape struggling to stay in sync.
Then, the cartoon appeared.
Black and white. Grainy. As if it had been pulled from a bygone era. A simple character—round head, blank eyes, almost childlike in its simplicity—stood in the center of the frame. It did not move at first, just stared at her through the screen, unblinking. Then it spoke, its voice distorted, a mixture of electronic noise and something eerily human.
“Are you awake?”
Cora shivered, her finger hovering instinctively over the power button. Part of her wanted to shut it off immediately, to pretend she hadn’t seen anything. That’s what she always did, wasn’t it? Look away. Stay safe. Survive. The Circle taught that curiosity was dangerous—a lesson she’d learned all too well through others’ misfortunes. Yet she remained frozen, unable to tear her eyes away.
The character cocked its head, as if listening for a response. “I do because I am awake,” it said.
The words sent a jolt through her, though she couldn’t say why. The phrase wasn’t quite right. It was broken, unnatural—yet something about it felt deliberate. Intentional. She should forget it, she knew. Remembering dangerous things was itself dangerous. How many times had she witnessed others slip up, mentioning something they shouldn’t have known about, something that had supposedly never happened?
The feed cut back to normal a second later. No notification, no way to rewind, as if it had never happened at all. But Cora knew she had seen it. She had heard it. Relief washed over her as the familiar propaganda resumed—the anchor’s plastic smile, the soothing voice recounting approved stories. The moment had passed. She could pretend it never happened.
Within hours, whispers started appearing in the comment sections. Strange posts with no clear author, no official source. Users asking, “Did you see it?” and “What does it mean?” and “Is it real?” Cora read them with growing anxiety, her heart pounding. She closed the comments, then reopened them, then closed them again. Even looking at these discussions felt dangerous. Anyone tracking her viewing habits would know she’d lingered too long on forbidden topics. She quickly navigated to a state-approved entertainment channel, increasing the volume as if to drown out her own thoughts.
The Circle’s moderators tried to shut it down, banning accounts, scrubbing comments, inserting counter-memes mocking the whole thing. But the harder they tried, the more it spread. Cora watched the cycle unfold with a sick fascination. Those who engaged openly disappeared first. Then those who merely acknowledged it. The boundaries of safety kept shrinking, and she wondered how long before even passive witnesses like herself would be deemed contaminated.
Then, the second message came.
This time, it hijacked a government feed in broad daylight. A scheduled address from a Circle official was mid-sentence when the screen fuzzed out again, the signal replaced with another of the crude cartoons. The character sat at a desk, tapping its fingers impatiently, as though it had been waiting for someone.
“Do you really exist?” it asked, voice thick with sarcasm.
It gestured to the empty blackness behind it, then leaned in close to the screen, its wide, unblinking eyes seeming to bore through the glass.
“No?” It tilted its head, as if considering something. “Then you won’t mind if they take you, too.”
And then it was gone.
Cora’s blood turned to ice. She lunged for the device, shutting it off completely. For several minutes, she sat in the silence of her apartment, listening to her own ragged breathing. The cartoons weren’t just disruptions anymore—they were threats. Or were they warnings? She couldn’t tell the difference, and that uncertainty terrified her. She found herself glancing at her windows, checking that the blinds were fully closed, though she knew how irrational that was. If they wanted to watch her, blinds wouldn’t stop them.
This was different. It wasn’t just a joke. It was a warning.
The Circle responded with fury. The security forces issued statements condemning “digital vandalism” and “cyber terrorism.” Reports surfaced of sudden disappearances—users who had engaged with the messages vanishing overnight. No charges. No trials. Just… gone. Cora watched her neighbors discuss the events in hushed tones in the hallway. When they invited her to share her thoughts, she simply shook her head and hurried past. Engaging meant remembering, and remembering meant risk.
But the messages kept coming.
Each one more pointed, more deliberate. They targeted the hypocrisy of the system, exposing its contradictions in a way the Circle’s propaganda machine struggled to combat.
A politician caught with offshore accounts while preaching economic sacrifice? A new cartoon, the character dragging a giant sack labeled “YOUR TAXES” toward a private jet, whistling innocently.
The Chairman hugging a dictator he had once called the enemy? A grainy image of the cartoon figure in a mock military uniform, saluting in one frame, then shaking hands in another, then back to saluting.
The Circle’s endless crackdowns on dissidents while rewarding its own corrupt officials? The cartoon staring blankly at a list of government arrests before slowly flipping the page to show a mirror.
Cora began avoiding the news altogether. She claimed her device was malfunctioning when coworkers discussed the latest broadcasts. She developed a sudden interest in pre-approved historical documentaries. She volunteered for extra shifts that kept her away from screens during peak hijacking hours. The cartoons revealed truths she’d always suspected but had carefully trained herself not to see. Acknowledging them now meant admitting she’d been willfully blind before—and what kind of person did that make her?
The movement became something more than a meme. It was a cipher, a test, a way of weeding out true believers from those who could still be reached. People who commented on it, shared it, or even laughed at its jokes quietly received messages on the dark web, links to hidden forums, cryptic instructions leading them deeper down the rabbit hole. The ones who followed the clues? They weren’t just spectators anymore. They were recruits.
Cora heard rumors of these underground connections but recoiled from them. Participating meant choosing a side, and choosing meant risking everything. She thought of all she still had to lose—her modest apartment, her tedious but secure job, the illusion of normalcy that kept her functioning day to day. Was truth worth sacrificing security? Was wakefulness better than the comfort of sleep?
The underground had found a way in.
But Cora hesitated.
She wanted to know more. She wanted to understand. But she had spent too long watching the consequences of curiosity.
She had seen what happened to Alex.
Alex, who had once been just like her—cautious, compliant, invisible. Until the day he wasn’t. Until the day he’d leaned close to her in the break room and whispered, “There’s more beyond what they show us.” Three days later, his apartment stood empty. His name disappeared from company records. When she asked about him, her supervisor had smiled thinly and said, “Who?” The message was clear: forget, or be forgotten.
Would she follow his path? Or would she do what she always did—stay quiet, stay hidden, pretend none of it mattered? The weight of that choice crushed down on her. Waking up meant pain. It meant seeing the cage that had always surrounded her. It meant acknowledging that her safety had always been an illusion maintained through willful ignorance. Wasn’t it easier to remain asleep?
The next video hijacked the feed at exactly midnight.
The cartoon character looked directly at her now, its stare unwavering.
“You already know the answer,” it said.
Cora swallowed hard. She did know. She had always known. With trembling hands, she reached for her device, her finger hovering between two choices: power off or engage. To sleep or to wake. To remain a passive observer or to finally see.
The feed cut to black, leaving Cora alone with the hardest question she’d ever faced: was she brave enough to face reality, knowing she could never unsee what had been revealed? Or would she choose comfort over truth, security over freedom, as she always had before?
Her hand remained suspended in that moment of terrible choice—caught between worlds, between selves—the ghost of Alex’s fate whispering caution while the cartoon’s eyes demanded courage she wasn’t sure she possessed.
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