Chapter 7 - The Currency of Pity
Inside Sector Nine, the sterile examination room had turned into a frantic command center. Five technicians had entered the room, repositioning lights, spraying subtle moisture into the air to catch the camera beams, and adjusting the audio gain to accentuate every whimper Leo made.
Leo didn't know why more people had arrived. He only knew they smelled like chemicals and wouldn't let him leave the metal bench.
""Keep him crying,"" Proctor Vance instructed coolly, watching a floating holographic display that tracked the live metric climb. ""The audience retention rate drops three percent every time he catches his breath. Threaten him with the scanner again.""
A technician reached forward with an electric prod disguised as a measuring wand, waving it inches from Leo’s face. The toddler recoiled, pressing his back against the cold concrete wall, his breathing shallow and jagged.
""Don't hurt me,"" he squeaked, his voice cracking into silence.
The live comment section exploded into a tempest of outrage, sorrow, and performative grief. Digital currency tokens poured into the system by the millions as viewers paid to bump their outraged comments to the top of the stream. The Algorithm thrived on conflict; anger was twice as valuable as joy, and sorrow was five times more addictive than peace.
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""He just generated more capital in ten minutes than this entire district produced all month,"" Proctor Vance muttered, her fingers dancing over her console to route the revenue to the regional directorate. ""This child is a goldmine. We aren't archiving him. We're franchising him.""
Suddenly, the fluorescent panels in the ceiling flickered once, twice, and went completely black, plunging the room into shadow lit only by the glowing monitors.
