SomniaCorp's slogan was everywhere.
In the subway. On elevator screens. In banners that slipped between articles about mental health.
"Sleep. And stay in control."
On the 32nd floor of headquarters, however, no one seemed in control.
The crisis room had white walls, glass tables, and a constant smell of disinfectant—as if even the air needed authorization to circulate. On the main wall, a panel displayed real-time orders: a cascade of numbers climbing so fast it looked like an attack.
The head of public relations, her voice smooth and her gaze sharp, pointed to the screen.
— Demand for suppressors is four hundred and eighty percent above normal — she said. — And that's just today. Tomorrow, when more images from Street 9 leak…
She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't have to.
A man in a dark suit, representing the board, folded his arms.
— Then increase production.
The gray-haired scientist, out of place in that environment of marketing and glass, replied with the patience of someone who had explained chemistry too many times to too many people:
— It's not bread. The synthesis of the active compound depends on controlled inputs. And the DAO has already requisitioned part of the line for "government use." If we ramp up without control, we lose quality. If we lose quality, people die.
— What kills people is sleeping — the board representative replied.
The sentence landed like a heavy object on the table.
No one reacted immediately. Not out of agreement, but because it was the kind of horror that became acceptable when fear turned into a market.
On the other side of the room, a presentation advanced on its own.
Communication Plan – Street 9.
Bullet points in elegant font.
Reinforce: suppressors do NOT cause Echoes.
Reinforce: suppressors reduce anxiety.
Reinforce: SomniaCorp cooperates with authorities.
Reinforce: dreaming without control is a risk.
The PR director moved to the next slide.
— We need to dominate the narrative — she said. — The public is looking for someone to blame. If the media decides Dreamers are the villains, we have two options: position ourselves as protection… or be dragged down with them.
The gray-haired scientist stared at her, with a weariness that wasn't only physical.
— Don't put this on the Dreamers. Many of them don't have a choice. They dream. It's physiological.
She wasn't cruel. She was efficient.
— Doctor, I'm not talking about moral blame. I'm talking about corporate survival.
A sales executive leaned forward, smiling like someone who had found an elegant exit.
— Corporate survival… or a historic opportunity?
He projected a chart of rising green lines.
— The standard suppressor is sold out. But the premium line — Somnia Black — can be repositioned.
He savored the name.
— "Total control. Dreamless sleep." Monthly packages. Subscription. Dedicated consulting.
The scientist raised a hand, irritated.
— "Dreamless sleep" doesn't exist. You can reduce REM, not eliminate it. The mind compensates. Dream rebound. More intense nightmares. Hallucinations. You'll cause breakdowns.
— Breakdowns are a public health problem — the sales executive replied, still smiling. — We sell peace of mind.
The PR director cut in before the tension turned into an argument.
— Enough. The decisive factor is the DAO. — She took a breath. — They know more than they're saying. I spoke to a government contact. They're putting together a new protocol for Dreamers.
The board representative tilted his head.
— Registration?
— Registration. Monitoring. Possibly containment, in extreme cases.
— Will the public accept that? — he asked.
— The public always accepts it — she replied. — When it's afraid.
The scientist closed his eyes for a moment.
— And what if the problem isn't the Dreamer?
The sales executive let out a short laugh.
— Then what is it? A demon?
The word came out as a joke. But it lingered in the air too long.
On the table, a tablet vibrated. An employee read the message and went pale.
— It leaked.
— What? — the director asked, without raising her voice.
— A video from the Street 9 perimeter. Before and after. The moment the street reappears.
She inhaled slowly, calculating damage the way one calculates dosage.
— Then we move the commercial up. Today. Now. A "sleep safety" campaign. We need to occupy the space before another narrative does.
The gray-haired scientist stood up slowly.
— You're feeding the panic.
The sales executive replied without raising his tone, with surgical precision:
— The panic already exists, doctor. We just give it shape. And we sell the shape.
In the elevator, on the way down, the scientist saw his own reflection in the mirror. He looked older than he remembered. He thought of the Dreamers he had treated in the lab, of the people who cried because they didn't want anyone to see what their minds showed them.
He thought of Street 9.
Of dirt where there should have been asphalt.
And for the first time in his career, he wished sleep were just sleep.