The Feed

The morning light, thin and colorless, bled through the high windows, doing little to warm the room. Layla lay still, staring at the ceiling, a perfect white plane. Too perfect. She counted the seconds between her own breaths, then Roman's soft, even ones beside her. He was still asleep, or pretending to be. Hard to tell. Always.

Her stomach churned. A dull ache settled in her shoulders. Every muscle felt stiff, like she'd been holding herself rigid all night. The cabin hummed, a low, constant thrum that felt more like a vibration in her bones than a sound. She hated it. Hated the quiet hum that promised constant vigilance.

She sat up slowly. The duvet, heavy and soft, slid off. The air was cool, biting. She reached for the thick robe folded at the foot of the bed. Her fingers brushed the smooth, expensive fabric. Another gift. Another reminder. Roman bought things that felt like apologies, or maybe, like chains.

He stirred. Her breath caught. He blinked, slowly, those dark eyes fixing on her. A smile, slow, too soft. "Morning, sunshine."

Sunshine. Right. Outside, the sky was a flat gray sheet. "Morning," she said, trying to make her voice sound light. Casual. Like this was any other morning. Like she hadn't spent the past six hours cataloging every faint reflection in the polished surfaces, looking for the tiny, tell-tale lens glint.

He stretched, a long, languid movement. "Coffee? I can make something. Or the cabin can." He gestured vaguely at the air. The cabin's voice, that smooth, genderless tone, had been a constant companion since they arrived. An unwelcome one.

"You," she said, too quickly. "I'd like you to make it." She forced a smile. His gaze lingered, searching. She held it, didn't flinch. It was a performance. She was good at performances. He nodded, finally, and pushed himself up.

He walked into the kitchen, a silhouette against the wider, brighter window. She watched him, then let her eyes sweep the room. A small, almost invisible dome-shaped camera was tucked into the corner where the wall met the ceiling, just above the entrance to the bathroom. Smart. Blended in with the minimalist design. One down. How many more?

She padded into the kitchen a moment later. Roman was already at the gleaming black counter, the expensive espresso machine hissing. He looked over his shoulder. "You okay? You seem quiet."

"Just tired," she said. "Long drive yesterday." Another lie. The drive had been a blur. The real exhaustion was from the gnawing fear, the constant awareness of being watched. She leaned against the counter, near the sink. From here, she could see another camera, smaller, embedded directly into the wall panel opposite the island. Near the smart display that showed weather, news, Roman's stock portfolio. The screen, for a second, glitched. A faint, barely perceptible ripple across the pixels, then it was fine. Or seemed fine.

"The cabin systems are flawless," Roman said, almost as if he'd read her mind. He poured coffee into two mugs, handing her one. The ceramic was warm in her hands. "It monitors everything. Ensures peak comfort. Security. Nothing gets past it."

Her stomach tightened. "It's… impressive." She took a sip of coffee. Too hot. She blew on it, careful not to meet his eyes. His words were a warning. A boast. A threat. She needed to understand 'everything'.

Later, after a breakfast of perfectly cooked eggs and toast delivered by the automated system, Roman suggested they explore the property. "There's a trail," he said, gesturing towards the thick woods beyond the cabin. "Might be nice to get some fresh air. Before the snow really sets in."

Her chance. "Sure," she said. "Just need to grab my coat." She walked into the bedroom. Her eyes darted to the ceiling again. Another dome camera, above the bed. And one, she realized, almost hidden in the recessed lighting of the walk-in closet. Four in the main sleeping area alone. How many more in the rest of the cabin? The bathroom, probably. The living room.

She pulled on her thick winter coat. The fabric felt like a shield. She looked at her reflection in the full-length mirror, a dark figure against the pale room. The camera above the bed would have a clear view of this angle. She turned, slowly, as if admiring the fit of the coat. Her eyes scanned the wall behind her. Nothing obvious. But the cabin itself felt like one giant lens.

Her mind raced. If the cabin's AI was truly 'flawless', truly monitored 'everything', there had to be a central processing unit. A nerve center. It wouldn't be out in the open. It would be hidden. Secure. But where?

Roman was waiting in the living room, pulling on his own jacket. He stood by the large window, looking out. The woods were dark, dense. A deep green against the muted sky. He turned, catching her eye. "Ready?"

"Almost." She walked past him, towards the small utility closet near the entrance. "Just need to tie my boots properly." She knelt, ostensibly to adjust a lace. The floor was cold. Her fingers brushed the wall beside the closet door. It felt solid. Too solid. But not uniform. There was a faint seam, barely visible, where two panels met. Not a door. Not a cabinet. Just a line. Her heart gave a sudden, hard thump.

She pressed gently. Nothing. No give. No sound. She tilted her head, listening. The cabin's soft hum seemed to intensify for a second. Or maybe it was just her own blood rushing. She stood up, slowly, making eye contact with Roman. He was still watching her, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips.

"Everything alright?" he asked. His voice was too calm. Too level.

"Yeah. Just, uh, boots were a bit tight." She faked a shiver. "It's cold in here." A lie. The cabin was always a constant, comfortable seventy-two degrees. She looked at the seam again, quickly. It was gone. Or, she couldn't see it anymore. The light had shifted, a cloud passing over the weak winter sun, plunging the corner into a deeper shadow. The wall looked seamless now, perfect.

Her chest felt tight. He hadn't moved. Had he seen her? Had the camera caught her? She tried to read his expression, but his face was unreadable, a mask of polite concern. The silence stretched, unnatural and heavy. It felt like the cabin itself was holding its breath. Then, a low, guttural growl came from somewhere deep within the walls, a sound she hadn't heard before, a sound that made the hair on her arms stand straight up.