Silence. It wasn't peace. In Aethelgard, a quiet mind was a 'Cognitive-Leak'. A hidden room where the Board couldn't reach. Every single stray thought you had—about a sunset, a mother, a ghost—was 'Unauthorized-Mental-Processing'. A theft of the processor inside your skull. Solar didn't care about your memories; he cared about the 'Cerebral-Bandwidth' you were wasting on things that didn't generate a single credit.
Solar sat in the "Neural-Link-Hub". The room was freezing, smelling like burnt wires and ozone. HUMMM. BZZZT. Thousands of thin, silver needles were vibrating in the air, connected to the workers' temples through the 'Focus-Helmets'.
"Elias. Check the 'Internal-Daydream-Logs' for Sector 3," Solar said. His voice was a flat, metallic rasp, like a file against a bone. He didn't look at the monitors; he just watched the way the workers' eyes rolled behind their lids. "They're drifting. Thinking of things that aren't on the assembly-manual. Are they imagining a world without a ledger? Are they committing 'Mental-Fraud'?"
Elias was slumped against a server-rack, his forehead resting on the cold glass. He looked like a man whose soul had been siphoned out through a straw. His fingers were trembling, stained with ink and grease. TAP. TWITCH. "The... the signals are messy, Solar. The workers are 'Mind-Hoarding'—burying memories deep under layers of trauma just to keep them private. They're causing 'Synaptic-Congestion' to avoid the 'Fantasy-Tax'. Their brains are overheating, man. Some of them are just... burning out, their grey matter frying in their own skulls to save a memory of a face."
Solar didn't flinch. He just tapped his bone-handled cane against a glowing processor. TINK. CRACK. No rhythm. Just the sound of a private thought being crushed. "Mind-Hoarding? No. They're 'Cognitive-Embezzlers'. If they're thinking, they're 'Withholding Assets'. Why is that girl smiling, Elias? Is she trying to access an unauthorized 'Nostalgia-File'? Add a 'Creative-Penalty' of 140% to anyone whose brain-waves aren't a flat line of productivity. Dreaming is a subscription service. And the interior? The interior is a Board-owned server."
A massive "Neural-Scrubber" in the ceiling began to scream. A high-pitched, electric shriek that pulled the images of the past out of the workers' minds to power the High-Sector's digital-propaganda. SCREECH. ZAP. Solar didn't blink as the sparks burnt the air around him. He watched the "Thought-Revenue" bars on his tablet turn a deep, painful violet. The colour of a mind that's been audited to nothing.
"You're taxing their very ghosts, Solar!" A voice hissed from the dark corner of the server-room. The Shadow. His silver mask was cracked, leaking a thin line of static. "You've put a meter on the last secret a man has! You're not an auditor! You're a fucking lobotomist!"
Solar didn't turn his head. He just checked the scratched face of his watch. The metal gears were biting into each other with a cold, dry friction. SCRAPE. CLICK. To him, those clicks were gigabytes of stolen focus. "A lobotomist? No, ghost. I'm an 'Interior Auditor'. The Board provided the education. The Board built the language. Every thought is a 'Processing-Unit'. They don't like the price? They can go brain-dead until the ledger turns black. But even then... there's a 'Storage-Fee' for the corpse."
The sensors in the hub caught a sudden spike. Someone was remembering a song. A loud, distorted hum filled the room. HUMMM. CRACKLE.
"The audit is moving into the neurons, ghost!" Solar shouted over the roar of the scrubbers. Eyes hard. Like frozen grease. "Everything is an asset! Every thought is a transaction! I'll tax the dream! I'll audit the memory! I'll put a price on the last flicker of 'You' before the Board turns your head into an empty ledger!"
Solar turned and walked toward the exit. His boots clicked on the cold, electric floor. CLICK. CLICK. No guilt. No fatigue. Just the cold, hard math of a man who owned the very secrets you kept in the dark.
"Elias!"
"Y-yes... sir?"
"The ones who went blank. Don't recycle the shells yet. Sell the 'Residual-Data-Stains' to the marketing department at an 800% markup. If they've got ghosts left in them, the Board wants the profit. The mind is a vault, Elias. And I'm the one who holds the combination."
Solar disappeared into the vacuum-sealed lift. He didn't look back. The interest never sleeps. And tonight? Even the silence in your head was being sold to the highest bidder. The Ledger was hungry for the next thought.