Mara didn't go to Admin.
Admin was where paper made things real—and whatever was happening to her already felt too real.
Instead, she went where records lived before they were "official."
The old student forums. The cached archives. The forgotten drives. The places people dumped stolen files and called it justice.
She locked herself in her room and pulled out the laptop she barely used because it ran hot and slow and made her feel like she was back in middle school, refreshing pages that never loaded fast enough to save her from embarrassment.
Her phone sat beside it, timer blazing like a bruise.
67:22:09.
Above the numbers, the new line still taunted her:
CONNECTION REQUIRED: prior consent source detected.
Prior consent source.
Not her.
Someone else.
Mara opened the group chat and typed with stiff fingers.
Mara R.: PRIOR CONSENT SOURCE DETECTED.Mara R.: I THINK IT'S FAMILY.Mara R.: FIND ANYTHING "LEGACY." 2010–2012.
Theo responded instantly, like he'd been waiting for a new angle to chase.
Theo V.: ON IT. I HAVE BREACH ARCHIVES BOOKMARKED LIKE A NORMAL PERSON.
Nina's reply came a minute later—too calm, too controlled.
Nina P.: My parents signed "packages" for scholarships. If it's family… it's not new.
Jace didn't type for a beat.
Then:
Jace L.: if this is inherited, opt-out was never an option.
Mara's stomach turned.
She clicked into Theo's shared folder link—an ugly little archive site full of zipped "leaks" and forum threads titled like dares.
HALCYON PARTNER PROGRAMS — 2011STUDENT PERKS BETA — CONTRACTSLEGACY SCHOLARSHIP PACKAGE — INTERNAL
Mara's hands shook as she scrolled, not from fear of what she'd find, but from the feeling of being watched while she looked.
Her cursor hovered over a file named:
LEGACY_CONSENT_PROGRAM_2011.pdf (REDACTED)
She downloaded it.
The file opened slowly, like it was reluctant.
Page 1 was black bars and official language. A seal in the corner she didn't recognize. Something that looked governmental without being government.
Then a phrase that made her skin go cold:
Guardian Signature Authorization
Mara didn't read the paragraphs. She scanned for names.
Halfway down page 3, under a section labeled Minor Participant Binding, she saw it:
A list of signatures.
Some were blacked out.
Some weren't.
And there—printed in clean, bored letters like it was nothing—was her mother's name.
Mara's vision narrowed.
Her heartbeat filled her ears.
She clicked the search function and typed her own last name.
One hit.
Then another.
Then, on page 8, a line that made her throat lock:
Dependent: MARA R. // Consent Status: PRE-SIGNED
Mara's fingers went numb.
The timer on her phone kept counting down as if nothing monumental had happened.
67:11:34.
She took screenshots. Every page. Every line that mattered. She didn't trust the file to exist twice.
Then her phone buzzed—not a punishment buzz, not a warning buzz.
A cheerful buzz.
A push notification from a sender name she hadn't seen before:
ELIGIBILITY SERVICES: Legacy consent verified.ELIGIBILITY SERVICES: Stability recalculation continues.
Mara stared at the words until they stopped meaning anything.
Legacy consent verified.
Like she'd just been stamped approved.
Like she'd just been branded.
She opened Notes and wrote, in all caps because her hands couldn't do subtle right now:
I NEVER GOT A CHOICE.
She didn't let herself cry. Crying felt loud. Loud felt dangerous. Dangerous felt like minutes disappearing off the clock.
Instead, she stood up and started moving, because movement was the only thing that kept panic from hardening into something permanent.
She grabbed her bag, stuffed the laptop inside, and left her room.
She didn't head to Admin.
She headed off campus.
Home.
Her house smelled like lemon cleaner and old cooking oil. Familiar in a way that stabbed.
Her mother was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, hair clipped back, moving through chores like it was a prayer. She turned when Mara entered, smile forming automatically.
"Hey, sweetheart—"
Mara flinched at the word, not because it hurt, but because it reminded her how easily affection could be treated like a "non-essential anchor."
She forced a nod.
Her mother's eyes sharpened. "Are you okay? You look pale."
Mara didn't answer.
She took her phone out, opened Notes, and typed a sentence with shaking hands.
I CAN'T TALK ABOUT IT OUT LOUD.
She turned the screen toward her mom.
Her mother blinked, confused. Then she gave a small laugh that was more relief than humor. "What is this, a game?"
Mara's phone buzzed softly in her pocket, like the system enjoyed the misunderstanding.
Mara typed again, harder.
PLEASE. JUST READ.
Her mother's smile faltered. She leaned closer, reading the note carefully now, the way parents read things that might be dangerous.
"What's going on?" she asked, but she kept her voice low, as if instinctively matching Mara's fear.
Mara's hands shook as she pulled the laptop out and opened the PDF.
She didn't scroll fast. She didn't want to accidentally read something aloud. She didn't want her throat to betray her.
She turned the screen so her mother could see.
Black bars. Legal text. The heading:
LEGACY CONSENT PROGRAM (2011)
Her mother's expression changed in small, quick steps. Confusion first. Then recognition, faint as a bruise. Then something sharper: dread.
"No," she whispered.
Mara's timer didn't drop—her mother had spoken, not Mara—but Mara felt the air tighten anyway, like the house itself had leaned in.
Her mother scrolled with one finger, slow.
She stopped on the signature page.
Her own name.
Her mouth went slightly open.
"I—" she started, then stopped like she'd bitten her tongue.
Mara's phone buzzed again.
A banner flashed across her lock screen, just for a moment:
CONNECTED SYSTEM DETECTED: GUARDIAN DEVICE
Mara's mother's phone—lying facedown near the sink—lit up.
A soft ding.
Her mother froze.
Mara reached for it before her mom could, and flipped it over.
A notification, clean and polite:
ELIGIBILITY SERVICES: Welcome back.ELIGIBILITY SERVICES: Consent history detected.ELIGIBILITY SERVICES: Would you like to review your legacy package?
Two buttons.
[REVIEW][LATER]
Mara's breath caught.
Her mother stared at the screen like it was a ghost with paperwork.
"I didn't—" her mother whispered.
Mara typed fast in Notes and shoved it toward her:
DID YOU SIGN THIS? DID YOU KNOW?
Her mother's hands trembled as she held the phone, but she didn't tap anything. She looked at Mara instead, eyes wet and furious and scared.
"We were told it was a scholarship program," she said, voice cracking on scholarship like the word itself was a bad memory. "They said… they said it would help you. That it would—"
She stopped herself, swallowing the rest.
Mara's throat burned. She wanted to scream. She wanted to say you signed me away. She wanted to pour language on it until it made sense.
But language was the weapon.
So she typed.
WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME?
Her mother's eyes darted down to the note, then back up.
"I forgot," she whispered, and the way she said it made Mara's stomach twist because it didn't sound like an excuse.
It sounded like a symptom.
Her mother shook her head hard, like she could shake the truth loose. "No. I didn't forget. I— I remembered. I just…" Her voice went smaller. "It was paperwork. It was— it was years ago. It didn't feel real."
Mara's phone buzzed—neutral, interested.
Her mother looked down at her own hands as if trying to find the memory physically. "They called it a 'Legacy Package,'" she said softly. "They said it was safe. They said it was… an advantage."
Mara typed another question, hands shaking.
WHAT DID IT COST?
Her mother blinked fast. "Nothing," she said automatically, then stopped. Her face tightened, like something in her mind had snagged.
She stared past Mara, toward the window, as if searching for an answer in the yard.
"I—" Her voice wobbled. "There was… there was a section about—about 'stability.' About 'eligibility.' I didn't read it like you read things." She swallowed. "I just signed."
Mara's chest felt too tight for air.
Her mother's phone dinged again.
This time, the notification was colder.
ELIGIBILITY SERVICES: Legacy package active.ELIGIBILITY SERVICES: Minor adjustments may be required to preserve outcomes.
Mara's mother went still.
Then she frowned, as if a simple thought had slipped away and she was trying to catch it.
"What was… what was the name of your—" she began, and her face creased with genuine confusion. "Your pet. When you were little. The one that—"
Mara froze.
A harmless anchor.
A tiny life fragment.
The kind of thing you didn't realize mattered until it went missing.
Her mother's eyes widened slowly as she realized she couldn't reach it.
"Oh," she whispered, panic rising. "Oh, no."
She pressed her fingers to her temples. "It was— it was—"
Mara felt ice pour down her spine.
Because her mother wasn't forgetting in a normal way.
This was the blankness of a file that had been deleted.
Her mother's breath hitched, and her gaze snapped to Mara like she needed confirmation that Mara still remembered.
"What was it?" she pleaded. "Tell me. Tell me the name."
Mara's mouth opened.
And then she stopped.
Because if she said it out loud—if she described what was being taken—would the system treat it as confirmation? Would it take more? Would her mother's panic become a trigger?
Mara clenched her jaw so hard it hurt.
She typed the pet's name into Notes instead and held the screen up.
Her mother read it.
For a split second, relief loosened her face.
Then her expression crumpled into something worse.
Because she didn't look like she remembered it.
She looked like she was reading it for the first time.
Her mother's phone vibrated—one long, satisfied buzz.
A new message appeared on her lock screen, centered, polite as poison:
INHERITED CONSENT ENFORCEMENT: INITIALIZING
Mara's own phone buzzed in answer.
Her timer flickered.
Not a drop.
A flicker—like the system was deciding how much of Mara's life to claim next.
And then, on Mara's screen, a new line appeared beneath the countdown:
GUARDIAN LINK ACTIVE.LIABILITY REASSIGNMENT NOW AVAILABLE.
Mara stared at the words until her vision blurred.
Because the system wasn't just attached to her.
It had roots.
It had family.
It had inheritance.
And now it had a new option that sounded like a way out—
but felt exactly like another trap.
To be Continued
© Kishtika., 2025
All rights reserved.