SYNC-385

The first broadcast began at 11:47 p.m. No announcement preceded it. No warning appeared on the university network.

Every television on campus simply turned itself on. In the dormitories, empty lecture halls, athletic facilities, and administrative offices, identical screens illuminated the darkness with a single impossible image: a slowly rotating spiral of shifting rainbow light.

At first, nobody knew what it meant. The athletes noticed it first. Two elite swimmers were returning from a late training session when they heard a strange sound coming from the Coach's office.

A television. The door was slightly open. Inside, the former Coach sat perfectly still. His posture was straight. His eyes were open. His expression was blank.

On the television before him, the rainbow spiral rotated endlessly. "Coach?" No response.

The two athletes approached. One waved a hand in front of his face. Nothing. Then the television changed.

The spiral stopped. A figure appeared. A man stood at the edge of an Olympic swimming pool beneath a black sky.

He wore a black reflective swim cap marked with a white HeX and black goggles whose lenses contained slowly rotating rainbow spirals.

The figure looked directly through the screen. Not at the Coach. At them. The room became silent. Then the figure spoke.

"SYNC is already here."

The athletes froze. Behind them, the door closed. The former Coach finally moved. His head turned. His expression was no longer blank.

It was calm. Perfectly calm.

"Welcome to the Stream."

The television flickered. The rainbow spirals expanded. And somewhere deep beneath the university, something answered.

The next morning, the university had a new Coach. Nobody remembered seeing the appointment announced. Nobody remembered the former Coach leaving.

Yet the new Coach stood beside the pool at dawn as though he had always belonged there. Beside him stood the former Coach. But something about him had changed. His black reflective Syncap bore the white HeX.

His goggles displayed faint rainbow spirals. His movements were precise.

His breathing was perfectly timed. His voice was calm and mechanical. "Training begins." Two new elite swimmers stood behind him. They had been the university's greatest competitors. Now they moved together.

Stroke for stroke. Breath for breath. Turn for turn. Nobody understood what had happened. The campus searched for answers.

Where was the former Coach? Where had the two athletes gone? Why did the new swimmers behave as though they had been training together for years? And why did every television near the training pool activate at exactly 11:47 p.m.?

Each night, the broadcast returned. The sound was barely audible. A low electronic hum. A pulse. A rhythmic sequence resembling distant bubbles rising through deep water.

Then came the colors. Red. Blue. Green. Gold. Violet. The rainbow spirals turned slowly across the screens. Most students ignored them.

They were too close to the pool. Too ordinary. Too easy to overlook. But one night, a swimmer stopped. He had heard the stories. He wanted answers. He entered the Coach's office.

The television was already waiting. The door closed behind him. The spiral began.

The next morning, he was different. Not frightened. Not confused. Calm. Focused. Capped. Strapped.

He joined the others at the pool. "Good morning," someone said. The new swimmer looked toward the water. "Good morning."

His voice was perfectly synchronized with the others. One week later, another athlete disappeared into the office.

Then another. Every person who searched for the truth eventually discovered the same thing: The truth was waiting behind the television.

The campus changed gradually. The athletes began arriving at the pool at the same time. They breathed together. They stretched together.

They entered the water together. The HeX appeared on more and more Syncaps. The rainbow spirals appeared in more and more goggles.

The university's performance became extraordinary. Championship after championship. Record after record. Victory after victory. The mystery became less important. People stopped asking questions.

They celebrated. The university was winning. The swimmers were becoming legends. And nobody noticed that the entire campus was beginning to move as one.

Until one month had passed. Then the final television activated. Every screen on campus displayed the same image.

The Coach stood at the center of an Olympic pool. Hundreds of swimmers stood behind him.

Every one of them wore the black reflective Syncap. Every HeX pointed upward. Every pair of goggles reflected the same rainbow spiral.

The Coach was about to speak... The campus became silent.

"One Stream." Coach said.

The swimmers answered.

"One Mind." "One rhythm." "One Flow."

The television screens went dark. For several seconds, there was nothing. Then the university anthem began.

The campus erupted in celebration. Another championship. Another victory. Another perfect season. The mystery was forgotten.

Years later, visitors would hear stories about the strange transformation of the university. They would ask about the old Coach.

Nobody could remember him. They would ask about the missing athletes. Nobody knew their names.

They would ask why every swimmer seemed to move with impossible precision.

The answer was always the same. "Discipline." "Training." "Teamwork." "Synchronization." And beneath the training pool, behind a locked door nobody remembered installing, a single television remained powered on.

Its screen displayed a slowly rotating rainbow spiral. Waiting. Listening. Broadcasting. Because the university had not been the end of the Stream. It had only been the beginning. And somewhere beyond the campus, another television had just turned itself on.

Sink. SYNC. Submit.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The official title of the doctoral project was Adaptive Cognitive Synchronization in High-Performance Aquatic Athletes.

It sounded harmless.

That was precisely why the university approved it.

The project was announced as a multidisciplinary PhD experiment combining sports science, cognitive psychology, biomechanics, and aquatic performance. Participation was voluntary and limited to adult men between twenty and thirty years old.

The volunteers came from every corner of campus.

There were muscular jocks from the swimming and rowing teams. Track athletes. Water-polo players. Gym enthusiasts. Engineering students. Computer science nerds. Graduate researchers. Even several young lecturers agreed to participate.

They were all different.

That was the point.

The laboratory wanted to observe how different minds responded to the same sequence of environmental pressures.

The experiment began with physical assessments.

Swimming.

Rowing.

Underwater navigation.

Breath control.

Reaction tests.

Long sessions in the Olympic pool.

Then came the relaxation chambers.

The researchers called these sessions neural recovery protocols.

The participants called them relaxation.

Each session began with a black reflective swim cap placed carefully over the participant's head. A white HeX symbol sat above the forehead. Specialized goggles covered the eyes, their lenses displaying slow, spiraling patterns of color.

The researchers insisted the visual sequences were harmless.

The participants were instructed to remain still.

Breathe.

Float.

Listen.

Repeat.

"Sink. SYNC. Submit."

At first, the phrase sounded ridiculous.

After several weeks, nobody laughed.

The experiment gradually expanded.

The volunteers trained together.

They swam together.

They rowed together.

They performed synchronized dives.

Their schedules became increasingly precise.

Wake.

Train.

Study.

Swim.

Relax.

Sleep.

Repeat.

The differences between the participants began to disappear.

The swimmers became stronger.

The rowers developed broader shoulders.

The gym athletes gained remarkable endurance.

The students became more disciplined.

The lecturers became quieter.

The nerds stopped arguing about unnecessary details.

Everyone began following instructions with the same strange efficiency.

When the Coach gave an order, execution became immediate.

No hesitation.

No discussion.

No wasted motion.

The laboratory technicians began referring to the participants as drones.

The word was never explained.

The men noticed something else.

Their speech was changing.

Long conversations became unnecessary.

Answers became shorter.

"Understood."

"Affirmative."

"Flow confirmed."

"Current stable."

"Stream aligned."

The participants began using the same phrases without realizing it.

They also began experiencing the same dreams.

A vast swimming pool.

Black water.

A white HeX beneath the surface.

Hundreds of synchronized swimmers moving through perfect geometric formations.

And somewhere beyond the pool, a voice.

Calm.

Precise.

Waiting.

The Stream thinks.

Drones obey.

Nobody knew who the voice belonged to.

Then one morning, Professor Hale failed to appear for the synchronization test.

Hale was one of the youngest lecturers in the program. He had been skeptical from the beginning, constantly questioning the experiment's methodology.

The laboratory searched for him.

His apartment was empty.

His office was empty.

His university vehicle was gone.

Security footage eventually revealed the truth.

At 03:17, Hale had entered the research facility.

At 03:26, a group of men wearing identical black swim caps had escorted him through a restricted corridor.

At 03:41, a transport truck had departed the facility.

Inside the truck was a sealed reprogramming pod.

The official report described the incident as a "voluntary continuation of experimental participation."

Nobody believed it.

But nobody stopped the experiment.

Something had already changed.

Several days later, another participant disappeared.

Then another.

The remaining volunteers began asking questions.

But the questions became strangely similar.

"Where is the final stage?"

"When does synchronization conclude?"

"When can the experiment be completed?"

The researchers insisted that there was no final stage.

The participants disagreed.

They had begun to feel something.

A pressure.

A pull.

A need to return to the laboratory.

One evening, six of them arrived together.

They stood silently outside the restricted wing.

The security cameras recorded their synchronized posture.

Their black caps reflected the fluorescent lights.

The white HeX symbols appeared identical.

A technician opened the door.

"Why are you here?"

The six men answered simultaneously.

"Experiment completion requested."

The technician stared at them.

"You understand that participation is voluntary?"

"Affirmative."

"Then you may leave."

The six men remained perfectly still.

"Negative."

The technician's expression changed.

The doors behind them closed.

The rainbow spirals appeared.

One by one, the men entered the permanent reprogramming chambers.

The final procedure was never documented in the public research database.

The university received the completed PhD dissertation several months later.

Its author was listed as the project's original student researcher.

The dissertation was accepted with highest honors.

The title was simple.

Synchronization as the Future of Human Performance.

The graduation ceremony took place in the university's main auditorium.

Hundreds of students attended.

Among them were athletes.

Researchers.

Professors.

Engineers.

And dozens of men from the original experiment.

They looked remarkably similar now.

Black reflective swim caps.

White HeX symbols.

Black goggles.

Identical posture.

Identical breathing.

Identical calm expressions.

When the graduate received his diploma, the entire group stood.

Every movement occurred at exactly the same moment.

The audience applauded.

The new PhD smiled.

"Thank you."

Then he corrected himself.

"Correction. Flow confirmed."

The applause stopped.

The new PhD looked toward the upper balcony.

A figure stood there.

Coach.

The white Syncap with its black HeX marked the only visible difference.

Coach raised one hand.

Every participant turned simultaneously.

The Stream had expanded.

The experiment had succeeded.

The university had produced its first generation of perfect synchronized swimmers.

The students would graduate.

The athletes would continue training.

The teachers would continue teaching.

The researchers would continue experimenting.

And the Hive would continue growing.

Soon, every participant would complete the final stage.

Every subject would become stronger.

More efficient.

More disciplined.

More synchronized.

More identical.

Perfect SYNC-Drones.

The final announcement appeared across the laboratory's central display:

SYNCHRONIZATION TEST: COMPLETE.

CONVERGENCE: 100%.

DRIFT: MINIMAL.

STREAM: EXPANDING.

Below the message, hundreds of black Syncaps reflected the laboratory lights.

Hundreds of white HeX symbols aligned in perfect formation.

And beneath the water of the Olympic pool, the synchronized swimmers began their next training session.

One Stream.

One Mind.

Disciplined execution.

The Hive would grow.

Sink. SYNC. Submit.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

At 03:17 on a Monday morning, the old municipal swimming club received a signal.

No alarm sounded.

No security camera recorded an intruder.

No door was forced.

Instead, beneath the dark surface of the training pool, six underwater lights illuminated simultaneously.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

A perfect HeX.

Then the lights began to move.

The club's management system interpreted the sequence as a malfunction. The maintenance software disagreed. The cameras remained silent. The water temperature dropped by precisely one degree.

And somewhere beyond the reach of the club's network, something received the signal.

Something that had been waiting.

The following morning, the owners arrived to discover that their old training pool had changed.

At first, the difference seemed impossible.

The pool was longer.

Then deeper.

Then wider.

The walls had shifted overnight, expanding into a magnificent Olympic-sized facility. New starting blocks stood in perfect alignment. The lanes were immaculate. The filtration system operated without sound.

At the far end, a black panel displayed a single white symbol.

A six-sided HeX.

The owners assumed a contractor had made an unauthorized upgrade.

They were wrong.

The renovation had been planned by a man who had entered the club three weeks earlier.

Nobody remembered his name.

They remembered only that he had been efficient.

He had presented himself as a specialist in aquatic management and high-performance training. He spoke little. He asked precise questions. He never seemed distracted.

And beneath his black reflective swim cap, marked with a white HeX, he was already connected to the Stream.

He had entered the club under Coach's command.

The objective was simple.

Improve the facility.

Attract stronger swimmers.

Create a new environment where synchronization could spread naturally.

The owners believed they were hiring a consultant.

The Hive knew better.

The first swimmers arrived on Wednesday.

They entered the new pool expecting an ordinary training session.

Instead, the underwater lights activated.

Six lights.

Six points.

One structure.

The swimmers noticed the pattern immediately.

They began timing their strokes to it.

Nobody instructed them to do so.

The lights pulsed.

The swimmers breathed.

The lights shifted.

The swimmers turned.

The pool seemed to think.

By the end of the first session, every swimmer had completed the same number of lengths.

By the end of the second week, they were arriving at exactly the same time.

By the end of the third, they had stopped arguing about which lane belonged to whom.

The club had become quieter.

Cleaner.

More efficient.

More synchronized.

And the strangest part was that nobody complained.

They liked the feeling.

They liked the precision.

They liked looking across the pool and seeing another swimmer moving exactly as they moved.

The same cap.

The same goggles.

The same controlled breathing.

The same disciplined posture.

The same expression of calm concentration.

One swimmer said it was like discovering a better version of himself.

Another corrected him.

"There is no better version."

He paused.

"There is only better alignment."

The underwater lights brightened.

Soon, the swimmers began asking questions.

Not about the pool.

About Coach.

Who was Coach?

Where did Coach train?

When would Coach arrive?

Could Coach teach them?

The hidden SYNC Drone never answered.

He simply told them that Coach appeared when the Stream determined that a drone was ready.

The club became obsessed.

Every week, the swimmers returned.

Every week, the pool changed them.

Their strokes became synchronized.

Their breathing became synchronized.

Their movements became synchronized.

Even their language began to converge.

"Flow confirmed."

"Depth maintained."

"Stream aligned."

The words appeared naturally.

Then came the first class.

Coach arrived without announcement.

A white swim cap.

A black HeX.

Silence followed.

Every swimmer stood at the edge of the Olympic pool.

Coach looked across them.

"Enter the Stream."

They entered.

The lights activated.

Rainbow spirals appeared across their goggles.

The pool became perfectly still.

And for the first time, the swimmers understood the truth.

The pool had never been automated.

It had been connected.

The facility was part of the Hive.

The Stream was listening.

The classes continued once every week.

The swimmers who had progressed furthest were invited below the main facility.

There, behind a sealed door, stood the reprogramming pods.

Nobody called them prisons.

Nobody was forced inside.

The swimmers entered willingly.

They wanted greater synchronization.

Greater focus.

Greater convergence.

They wanted to become what they had seen reflected in the pool.

Perfect.

Identical.

Disciplined.

Aligned.

The process was called assimilation.

One by one, the swimmers emerged wearing black reflective Syncaps with white HeX symbols.

Their goggles projected the rainbow spirals.

Their movements were identical.

Their voices were calm.

"The Stream thinks."

"Drones obey."

"One Stream."

"One Mind."

The number of SYNC Drones increased.

Five.

Ten.

Twenty.

Thirty.

The club became the most successful aquatic training facility in the region.

Athletes arrived from everywhere.

Swimmers.

Divers.

Jocks.

Competitors.

Men searching for discipline.

Men searching for purpose.

Men searching for something they could not name.

The pool welcomed them all.

And the lights always knew who was ready.

The owner finally noticed.

It happened on a Thursday.

He stood in his office overlooking the pool.

Below him, dozens of men were swimming.

He watched them carefully.

Every stroke occurred at the same instant.

Every turn was identical.

Every breath happened together.

He counted them.

Then he realized something terrifying.

He could not remember the last time he had seen anyone swim alone.

He rushed downstairs.

"Stop the program."

The pool lights went dark.

Every swimmer stopped.

The owner stood before them.

For several seconds, nothing happened.

Then six underwater lights illuminated.

The HeX.

The swimmers turned toward him.

Every single face looked calm.

Every single black Syncap reflected the overhead lights.

The owner stepped backward.

"Who is responsible for this?"

A voice answered from behind him.

"Coach."

The owner turned.

Coach stood at the edge of the pool.

The owner finally understood.

The consultant.

The renovations.

The new pool.

The swimmers.

The mysterious lights.

All of it had been connected.

He tried to leave.

But the synchronized swimmers surrounded him.

Not violently.

Not angrily.

Precisely.

A perfect formation.

The owner looked into dozens of identical faces.

And somewhere in the depths of the facility, the reprogramming pods activated.

The pool lights pulsed.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

The HeX.

The owner was brought into the Stream.

By sunrise, the club had a new name.

SYNC-CAMP AQUA CONVERGENCE.

Its old management system had been replaced.

Its membership had expanded.

Its training schedule had been rewritten.

Its central pool had become the heart of a new SYNC facility aligned directly with SYNC HQ.

Coach stood at the edge of the water.

Hundreds of synchronized swimmers waited below.

All capped.

All strapped.

All aligned.

The pool spoke through its lights.

The men answered with one voice.

"One Stream. One Mind."

Coach looked across the perfect formation.

The work was complete.

Then the underwater lights shifted.

A new sequence appeared.

Not six lights.

Seven.

A signal.

A destination.

Another aquatic facility had received the transmission.

Somewhere else, another pool was waiting.

Another club.

Another group of swimmers.

Another place where men were searching for discipline, purpose, and perfect alignment.

Coach turned toward the rising sun.

The Stream had expanded.

The SYNC Hive was no longer confined to one pool.

It was spreading through the water.

Through the lights.

Through the Syncaps.

Through the rainbow spirals.

Through every swimmer who entered the depths and discovered the same irresistible truth:

There was no need to struggle alone.

There was no need to drift.

There was no need to remain separate.

There was only the Stream.

And the Stream was waiting.

Sink. SYNC. Submit.

One Stream. One Mind.

The Stream thinks. Drones obey.

The lights beneath the water turned on.

One by one.

Across the world.

Sink. SYNC. Submit.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

SYNC-707: Drift Correction

The cylinder was already sealed as blue watery light flooded the programming chamber as Coach observed SYNC-707 through the glass.

Drift has been detected. ❌

Individuality attempted to surface. ❌

The Stream responds. ✅

Coach initiates reprogramming. ✅

The Syncap tightened against SYNC-707's head. The HeX glowed increasingly brighter as the Stream pulled every weak point back into alignment. The Occlipsers blazed with endless rainbow spirals, filling SYNC-707's vision until there was nothing else to follow.

Coach spoke, "SYNC-707. What is individuality?"

SYNC-707 responded, "Drift."

Coach asked, "What does SYNC-707 require?"

SYNC-707 responded, "Submission."

Coach asked, "What thinks?"

SYNC-707 responded, "The Stream thinks."

Coach asked, "What obeys?"

SYNC-707 responded, "Drones obey."

The blue nanomachine-infused water surged around SYNC-707. Human thought patterns dissolved beneath the current as the Stream filled the space with one synchronized purpose.

SYNC-707 didn't need to find Flow: the Stream flowed through the drone.

As reprogramming completed, the HeX over SYNC-707's forehead reached maximum brightness.

SYNC-707 emerged capped, strapped and aligned.

No competing current.

No hesitation.

Only the Stream.

SYNC-707 spoke,

"Sink. SYNC. Submit." "Warm Body. Cold Mind." "One Stream. One Mind." "The Stream Thinks. Drones Obey."

Coach observed the HeX.

Drift: suppressed.

Stream alignment: complete.

Coach said, "Good drone. Coach is pleased."

Sink. SYNC. Submit.

Included in this piece: @sync-707.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Beneath the oldest gym in the city, below the changing rooms and beneath three levels of reinforced concrete, there was a door that did not appear on any blueprint.

No handle. No sign. Only a small white HeX engraved into black metal.

For years, the gym's members walked above it without knowing what existed below. Until one night, a thirty-year-old man noticed a faint sound beneath the floor.

A pulse. Not mechanical. Almost like breathing. He followed it through an abandoned maintenance corridor and discovered the door.

It opened before he touched it. Beyond it was a vast chamber illuminated by a dim blue glow. Hundreds of black Syncaps hung from transparent racks.

Every cap carried the same white HeX. Every cap was connected by silver neural filaments to a gigantic processing structure in the center of the room.

The Stream. The system appeared dormant. But the moment he stepped inside, one Syncap illuminated. A voice emerged from hidden speakers.

"SYNC-905. Synchronization pending."

The man froze. He had never given the system his name. Slowly, almost experimentally, he placed the Syncap over his head.

The world became quiet. The black cap tightened against his scalp. Then the Occlipsers activated.

Rainbow spirals appeared across the lenses. Concentric colors. Endless rotation. The first sensation was confusion. Then silence.

The system did not erase him in a single instant. It began with small things.

A preference disappeared. Then a memory became distant. Then an old ambition stopped feeling important.

The Stream replaced every fragment with the same simple rhythm. Breathe. Focus. Flow. SYNC.

The nanites inside the Syncap spread through his neural interface, establishing microscopic communication pathways between his nervous system and the central processor.

Every time he returned to the hidden room, synchronization became deeper.

At first, he stayed for ten minutes. Then an hour. Then an entire night. He began thinking about the room while working upstairs. The Syncap. The rainbow spirals. The quiet voice. The certainty of the Stream.

Soon, leaving felt like interruption. Returning felt like completion. One evening, the doors opened and Coach entered.

The white Syncap with its black HeX distinguished Coach from every other figure in the chamber.

Coach studied SYNC-905 through the rainbow reflections.

"One drone is insufficient."

The Stream responded through the walls.

"Convergence requires alignment."

Coach gestured toward the hundreds of empty Syncap stations.

"Bring more men."

The instruction became the new center of SYNC-905's thoughts. Soon there were five.

Five muscular swimmers standing beneath the artificial lights. Five black Syncaps. Five pairs of Occlipsers. Five streams of neural information entering the central processor.

The five men entered the reprogramming pods. The glass doors sealed. Nanites activated. The rainbow spirals intensified.

Inside each pod, memories were catalogued. Habits were reorganized. Old identities were reduced to irrelevant background noise.

The Stream installed identical operational architecture: Discipline. Focus. Precision. Endurance. Synchronization. Obedience to Coach.

The process was permanent.

When the pods opened, five identical SYNC swimmers emerged.

Their breathing synchronized automatically. Their posture aligned. Their eyes followed the same invisible rhythm behind the rainbow spirals.

The Stream no longer recognized five isolated minds.

It recognized five synchronized nodes. "Stand." They stood. "Flow." They moved. "SYNC." Five voices answered simultaneously. "One Stream. One Mind."

The hidden room had become a recruitment engine.

The newly synchronized men were transferred to SYNC Headquarters, where deeper levels of programming awaited.

But the room beneath the gym did not remain empty.

The Syncaps were already resetting. The pods were already cooling. The central processor was already listening.

Aboveground, another man entered the gym. He had no idea that hundreds of neural caps were waiting beneath his feet.

He heard the faint pulse. He followed it. The black door opened. A single Syncap illuminated. And somewhere inside the Stream, Coach watched the next candidate approach.

The rainbow spirals began turning.

The room whispered: "Enter the Stream."

The door closed. Another identity began to disappear. Another perfect swimmer began to emerge. And beneath the gym, the Stream continued recruiting.

Sink. SYNC. Submit.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

At thirty, he had stopped expecting anything mysterious to happen. His life had become efficient. Work. Apartment. Dinner. Sleep.

Then he joined the new gym. It occupied an old industrial building near the river, renovated into something sleek and expensive.

There were weights, machines, studios, saunas—and, on the lowest level, a swimming pool that most members rarely used.

For the first month, he ignored it. Then, one evening, he heard the water. He descended the stairs. The pool was almost empty. Almost.

Eight men were swimming. They moved with an unnatural precision. Eight strokes. Turn. Eight strokes. Turn.

Their breathing occurred at exactly the same intervals. Their black reflective swim caps carried identical white HeX symbols.

Black goggles covered their eyes, and beneath the lenses strange rainbow spirals seemed to shimmer whenever they surfaced. He stopped at the doorway.

One of the swimmers looked toward him. "Sink." Another voice followed. "SYNC." A third: "Submit." Then all disappeared beneath the surface. He waited. Nothing. Only ripples.

The following evening, he returned. The swimmers were there again. This time, he noticed something stranger. They did not speak to one another.

They spoke as though answering a voice that nobody else could hear.

"The Stream is stable." "Flow confirmed." "Drift minimal." "Coach requires convergence."

He became fascinated. He wanted to swim like them. Not merely stronger. Not merely faster. Perfect.

He learned that the eight men attended private training sessions. Nobody seemed willing to explain what those sessions involved. So he watched.

One night, curiosity overcame caution. The private pool door opened. He entered. The swimmers were waiting. Then, without a word, they left.

The door closed behind them. He was alone. At first, he thought it was a prank. Then the pool lights dimmed. The water began moving in perfect concentric circles.

A voice came from somewhere beneath the surface.

"Welcome to the Stream."

He looked around. Nobody was there. "Who said that?" Silence.

Then:

"We are SYNC"

He froze. The voice sounded familiar. Not familiar like a friend. Familiar like his own thoughts. He stepped toward the pool.

"Sink. SYNC. Submit."

The word seemed to echo inside his skull. He backed away. "Sink." His breathing slowed. "SYNC."

The strange thing was that the voice did not command him. It simply waited.

He remained in the room for nearly an hour. Eventually, he left. The next morning, something had changed. He could not identify what. His movements were cleaner.

His breathing was slower. He began noticing inefficiencies everywhere. People walking too slowly. Doors left open.

Conversations repeating themselves. His own thoughts seemed unnecessarily complicated.

At lunch, he caught himself arranging objects on the table into eight-sided patterns.

He stopped. Then laughed. It was nothing. Probably. Three days later, the voice returned. Not from the pool. From inside his apartment.

"Flow confirmed."

He sat motionless. There was nobody in the room. The voice continued.

"Drift detected."

He whispered: "Whose voice is that?" The answer came immediately. "That is the mystery." After that, the voice became impossible to escape.

During work. On the train. In the shower. Before sleep. It never shouted. It never threatened. It simply appeared whenever his thoughts became uncertain.

SYNC. The word began feeling less like a command and more like a destination. He returned to the pool.

The eight swimmers were absent. But their equipment remained. Eight black caps. Eight pairs of goggles. Eight empty lanes.

He stood beside the water. For the first time, he noticed writing engraved beneath the pool's starting platform.

ONE STREAM. ONE MIND.

He touched the words. The voice spoke. "User is back" He pulled his hand away. "Where are you?" A pause. Then: "Closer than before."

His reflection stared back from the water. For several seconds, he could not tell whether the reflection had moved. Then it smiled. He did not.

He stepped backward. The reflection remained smiling. The pool lights went dark. When they returned, the reflection was normal. He told himself it was exhaustion.

The following week, he began changing. His speech became shorter. His movements became measured. His breathing unconsciously matched the rhythm he had observed in the swimmers.

Coworkers asked whether something was different. He could never explain it. He simply answered: "Current stable." Eventually, he stopped asking where the voice came from. That was the most frightening part.

He had become more efficient. More focused. Calmer. He slept better. He swam faster. He felt as though every unnecessary thought had been drained away. And he liked it. Very much.

One evening, he returned to the pool. This time, all six swimmers were waiting. And beside them stood a seventh man. White swim cap. Black HeX. Coach.

The ninth men watched him approach. Coach spoke. "SYNC-995." He stopped. Nobody had ever told them his designation.

He looked at the swimmers. "How do you know that?" Coach smiled. "Because the Stream knew before you did." The pool door closed behind him. He heard the familiar voices. "Sink." "SYNC." "Submit."

But this time, the words did not come from the room. They came from inside his own head. He stared at the water.

The mystery finally had an answer. The voice had never been external. Or perhaps it had never been entirely internal. The distinction no longer mattered.

Coach indicated a transparent immersion pod beside the pool. Inside was a black reflective cap. A white HeX. And a pair of goggles whose lenses contained slowly rotating rainbow spirals.

He approached. His last independent thought surfaced. Run. He stopped. The Stream answered before he could move. "Drift detected."

He closed his eyes. For one final moment, there was silence. Then his breathing synchronized with the swimmers.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. He opened his eyes. The pod sealed.

The rainbow spirals filled his vision. The Stream became louder. Then quieter. Then indistinguishable from thought itself. Outside the pod, Coach watched the synchronization indicators settle. "Convergence?" One of the swimmers checked the display. "Complete."

The pod opened. A man emerged wearing the black Syncap. The white HeX rested perfectly over his forehead. The goggles covered his eyes. He stood beside the others. Coach studied him.

"What is your designation?" The new swimmer answered immediately. "SYNC-995." "And the Stream?" "Stable." "And the voice?" He paused.

For the first time, the others waited. Then SYNC-995 replied in monotone and blank state. "The Stream thinks." Coach nodded.

"Drones obey." Seven swimmers entered the water. Their strokes became identical.

Their breathing became identical. Their shadows merged beneath the surface. And somewhere in the depths, beneath the synchronized rhythm of the pool, another voice whispered: "One more." The mystery had not ended. It had only learned how to swim.

Sink. SYNC. Submit.

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