Compliance

Mia’s phone buzzed as she stepped onto the morning train.

ALERT: Compliance Score – 68.0. Status: CRITICAL. Immediate corrective action recommended.

She stopped walking. The crowd behind her grumbled as a man in a pinstripe suit muttered “Some of us have places to be,” and then he brushed past. She boarded in a daze, squeezed between a woman humming an affirmation mantra and a teenage boy grinning into a Twitch livestream.

Her chest tightened. She tapped through the app—nothing useful. No breakdown, no specific violation, just a vague message.

Recent behaviors have impacted your score.

The app offered no explanation. Just a smiling AI avatar with cartoon dimples that she had created for herself some years back.

Hi Mia! It looks like your score needs a little love. Try: Community volunteering, public positivity and charitable donations

Below that, the generic reminder that is plastered everywhere.

Remember: Compliance is Care!

Mia locked her phone screen and looked at her reflection in the train window to make sure she was ready for work. A slight show of bags under the eyes but otherwise her clothes were clean and dark brown hair in a neat bun. She hadn’t done anything wrong. Not that she could remember.

At the office, no one said anything. But they knew.

Liam, her manager, gave her a curt nod and kept walking. Liz from accounting didn’t look up. Her desk monitor blinked red when Mia logged in—limited access. Her inbox was empty with the days meeting invites rescinded.

At 10:13 AM, she tried to get coffee. The machine scanned her wristband and blinked red.

Access Denied – Compliance Below Threshold

She looked around. No one offered help and one guy even glanced sideways to avoid eye contact and then quickly turned back to his screen. The silence around her was deafening.

By lunchtime, her calendar for the month had gone completely blank and her building access reduced to essential zones only. Her shared ride app failed to connect. When she messaged IT, the auto-response said:

Please contact Human Resources via your designated Liaison.

She didn’t have a Liaison. Those were for flagged individuals and she had done nothing wrong.

Mia’s palms were starting to sweat and her heart was beating faster than it should. She forced a smile, told herself it was just a glitch. A false flag. Scores fluctuate. Everyone said that.

But no one had ever dropped below 70 and bounced back. Not really.

That night, she lay awake, watching the glow from her phone cycle between soft blues and motivational slogans.

Only together can we elevate.

Healthy habits = high scores!

Be kind. Be seen. Be safe.

She tried everything.

She reposted the Humanitarians daily gratitude challenge and donated to a verified plastic-free initiative. Tagged her old university in a thank-you tweet for helping her achieve her goals and she even filmed herself picking up trash near a park and uploading it with the caption:

It costs nothing to care #Compliance4Ever

The next morning, her score was 66.

By Wednesday, people began to physically avoid her. Subtle, at first, and then a step to the side in the hallway followed by a door not being held open. Then it became formal.

Her building’s gym access was suspended and even her grocery app showed delivery "unavailable" in her area. Her neighbor Janice, who always smiled in the elevator, looked straight through her as the doors closed.

Even her own mother didn’t reply.

Her calls were met with:

This number is currently outside your trust radius. Please improve your standing and try again.

Mia sat on the edge of her bed, holding the phone long after the message ended. She scrolled back to old photos from birthdays, vacations and graduation—but now they felt like someone else's memories. Someone who still existed in a perfect bubble of the new and happy world.

On Thursday, her neighbor Alex disappeared.

He had lived across the hall for three years. A quiet guy who always wore those wolf graphic t-shirts and always fed the lobby cat. She hadn’t seen him in two days and now she can see his door was left ajar. Not kicked in or damaged in anyway, just slightly open. Inside, his plants were still green. A mug sat half-full on the table and a folded laundry basket in the hallway.

There was no note. No noise. Just the faint scent of peppermint tea.

A building-wide announcement followed:

Maintenance Update: Unit 18B has been vacated and will be repurposed. Please welcome your new neighbor soon.

No one spoke about it. But later that evening, Mia went looking for the lobby cat and couldn't find him anywhere.

Her score fell to 63.

She stopped trying to fix it. The score clearly didn’t respond to good deeds like it should. It moved with something else, other ulterior motives. Social association, maybe her closeness with Alex. Behavior patterns and facial analysis, maybe. She had even heard about it monitoring browser histories and the tone of your voice during calls.

Whatever it was, it was faster than her, smarter and more devious.

At the city "Help Center", she waited four hours to speak to someone. She sat surrounded by quiet desperation. People with blank faces and twitchy hands. Everyone either stared ahead and were glued to the rating page on their phone.

Above the intake desk, a board with a flashing green message read:

We all fall sometimes. But the system is here to help.

When her number was finally called, the clerk—a bored woman with badge number #914, looked up and frowned.

“You’re flagged, tier 3 as well” she said.

“What does that mean?”

“You’ve been deprioritized. You should’ve come in sooner.”

“I didn’t even know I’d done anything wrong.” She began to get flustered.

“You don’t have to. The algorithm detects trends.”

Mia leaned forward. “Can you tell me what triggered it? Was it a post? A friend? Something I bought?”

“I’m not authorized to view the backend,” the woman replied flatly. “You’ll need a Liaison. I would also suggest calming down, otherwise you run risk of affecting your score.”

“Like that is going to make a difference now." She said sarcastically. "Anyway, I don’t have a Liaison officer.”

Her phone notification went off.

ALERT: Compliance Score – 61.0.

“Then you wait. Or,” the clerk paused before smiling, “you accept a reinstatement task.”

Behind her, someone in the line snorted. Another muttered, “Should’ve complied.”

That night, her apartment access was revoked. Her wristband blinked red against the door panel. She pounded on it until her knuckles went raw and then a security drone hovered down the hallway and spoke in a calming, almost childlike tone:

Please refrain from disruptive behavior. Emotional outbursts lower collective trust.

She ended up sleeping in the stairwell.

Her phone had 12% battery. The screen flickered once, then dimmed into power saving mode, showing only a single message:

Special Notice: Your record may be eligible for redemption. Tap to learn more.

She waited until dawn before tapping and got an instant response.

The Liaison met her in a glass-walled room at a cafe. Everything was polished. Green plants, soft jazz and the smell of oat-milk lattes set a relaxing mood. Serenity to reflect the utopian society outside that we have managed to build for ourselves.

A poster near the entrance read:

Work smarter, live cleaner, love louder.

The Liaison wore beige. She had an immaculate posture with her hair, skin and voice carefully neutral.

“I’m so glad you reached out,” she said, sliding a folder across the table. “You’re not alone. Many people face dips. What matters is your commitment to realignment.”

Mia didn’t speak. To afraid to even breathe loudly incase she reduced her score.

“Here’s how it works. We’ve identified individuals showing patterns similar to yours. You can assist the system by contributing actionable data.”

“Spying.” Mia whispered.

“Observing,” the Liaison corrected gently. “Think of it as a civic responsibility. Hygiene for the digital age.”

Mia opened the folder. Instantly recognizing the faces and names of people from her building. The front desk guy, a woman from her old yoga class. Her ex-roommate.

And Alex, who was apparently now living on the street somewhere and needed to be found.

“Just tell us what you know,” the Liaison said. “A unique pattern in someone's mannerism, a weird phrase or tonal shift when you talk with them. Anything unusual, let us know. Your contribution helps them and most importantly, helps us all to stay aligned.”

“And if I help?”

“Your score improves. Your access returns. Stability, safety, normalcy. I am sure your mother would love to speak with you again.”

Mia stared at Alex’s photo. He wasn’t smiling. Mid-blink, he looked dazed and confused as if he hadn't realized that someone was taking the picture of him.

The Liaison stood, smoothed her skirt, and smiled one last time.

“Do good,” she said. “And good things follow.”

By Sunday, Mia had a warm coat again. Her wristband turned green at the corner shop and she sipped black coffee in the plaza, watching families play near the interactive fountains. Behind her, a twenty-story LED screen pulsed with bright neon green letters.

THE COMPLIANCE APP: Together We Are Better.

Across the plaza, a boy sat alone on a bench. Skinny with his hood up. He didn't have any bag on him and what was unusual to Mia the most, was that he didn't seem to have a phone. His eyes were wide and unfocused as he stared off into the distance. His wristband blinked orange.

Mia recognized him as someone who had been in the folder.

She took out the device. It wasn’t her phone, not exactly—something newer. Issued by the department. Slim. No brand. No name.

She aimed it casually and pressed the side button.

A tiny click. No flash or beep. Just a small green ripple across the screen:

Observation Logged. +0.5 Compliance.

The boy didn’t see her so she turned and walked away.

Her wristband buzzed softly:

New reward unlocked: Loyalty Tier 1. Rooftop access reinstated.

Mia walked toward the escalators. Around her, people smiled, clinked glasses, posed for selfies and chased their toddlers.

Above them, the screen changed again:

Compliance: Because You Matter.

Mia didn’t smile. She didn’t speak. She didn’t feel much of anything.

Just a strange kind of calm.

--- The End