Anomaly State Chaptisode 25: The Narrow Corridor of Yes

Anomaly State Chaptisode 25: The Narrow Corridor of Yes
Published: December 16, 2025 SAST UTC +2
A Serialized Cinematic-Fiction Experience · SoapNovel Studios

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Previously in Anomaly State

The Corridor Learns to Listen

The corridor outside Cabinet was too bright for secrets.

A guard at the far end touched his earpiece like it was a bruise.

“Repeat that,” he murmured.

A second voice replied through the wire, flat and careful. “It’s not a threat. It’s a calendar.”

The guard’s eyes flicked to the ceiling camera, then to the polished wall where everyone pretended not to look at themselves.

“Say it again,” he said.

“UN Nairobi manifest is moving—today. Names are redacted. Some aren’t.”

The guard swallowed. “Who called it in?”

A pause. “A desk that doesn’t exist.”

He didn’t like that answer. He didn’t like that it made sense.

Down the corridor, the Cabinet door stayed shut. No voices leaked. That was new.

A woman in a dark suit walked up with a folder held like a weapon. She stopped at the guard without slowing.

“Director Lindiwe Maseko,” she said, not introducing herself so much as reminding the building who belonged to it.

The guard’s spine straightened. “Morning, Director.”

She didn’t look at him. She looked past him—at the Cabinet door—like she could already hear the argument inside.

“Who’s on the corridor feed?” she asked.

“Us. Facilities. And the… special channel.”

Her eyes sharpened on him. “Say it plain.”

He hesitated, then: “The Protocol channel.”

She didn’t correct him.

She took the earpiece from his hand without asking. Put it to her own ear.

“Repeat your last,” she said into it.

The flat voice returned, obeying. “UN Nairobi staff relocation manifest is moving today. Some names aren’t redacted. Pattern is not humanitarian. Pattern is logistics.”

Lindiwe’s jaw set. “How many hours?”

“Four. Maybe less.”

“Who else has this?”

“Unknown. But it’s already being priced.”

Lindiwe’s eyes flicked toward the far end of the hall where another guard pretended to check a clipboard.

“Cut the corridor broadcast,” she told the first guard.

He blinked. “Ma’am, we can’t—”

“You can,” she said. “You just haven’t had to.”

He swallowed and nodded, tapping a panel on the wall. The overhead speakers went silent. The building felt like it had stopped breathing.

Lindiwe handed the earpiece back and stepped toward the Cabinet door. A man in a gray suit met her halfway, moving fast, holding a tablet with the kind of grip people use when they’re trying not to throw it.

“Director,” he said. “We’ve got a second problem.”

She didn’t smile. “Stack it.”

He thrust the tablet toward her. “Pretoria leak. It’s not public yet. But the first line has already been copied into three private channels.”

“What’s the first line?” she asked.

He looked down, then up, like he hated himself for reading it.

“‘The Window Act is real.’”

Lindiwe held his gaze. “And the second line?”

He inhaled. “It names a drafting committee.”

“Names,” she repeated softly.

He nodded. “And it includes the President.”

She stared at the tablet for a moment. Then she slid it back into his hands as if the glass might infect her.

“Who wrote it?” she asked.

He shook his head. “It’s not writing. It’s… layout. Like a memo. Like someone wanted it to feel official.”

“Who benefits?” she asked.

He gave a tight laugh. “Whoever wants the country to argue about law while the manifests move.”

Lindiwe’s attention snapped to the Cabinet door again.

“Are they inside?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“Both?”

“Yes.”

He lowered his voice. “Then we’re late.”

She placed her palm on the Cabinet door. It was warm like a living thing. She didn’t knock.

Inside, the voices were already mid-fight.

“You’re treating it like theater,” said a male voice—measured, with a calm that sounded practiced.

A second male voice, rougher, laughed once. “Everything is theater. You’re just late to the show.”

“Gentlemen,” Lindiwe said as she walked in, “the corridor is listening again.”

The room turned.

Around the table sat the familiar faces—ministers with polished words and private fears. The lights above were bright and unforgiving. No shadows to hide in.

At the head of the table sat the President, posture straight, hands clasped, expression composed. But there was a flicker in the eyes that didn’t belong to composure. Not fully.

Across from him, a man who was not on any official roster leaned back in his chair like he owned the air. He wore a suit that fit too well for someone who supposedly did not exist in the building.

Some called him “Advisor.” Some called him “Signal.” Some, in whispers, called him the Protocol’s mouth.

Lindiwe placed her folder on the table.

“Four hours,” she said. “UN Nairobi manifest moves today. Names partially exposed. It’s being priced.”

A minister on the left scoffed. “We don’t control UN manifests.”

The Advisor smiled lazily. “No. But we can control what it means.”

The President’s eyes stayed on Lindiwe. “What else?”

Lindiwe didn’t blink. “Pretoria leak. Window Act memo. It names you.”

The room shifted. Chairs creaked. Someone cleared a throat that sounded too loud.

The President’s voice was soft. “Names are power.”

The Advisor tapped a finger on the table. “Names are bait.”

A minister—Finance—leaned forward. “Is it real?”

Lindiwe answered before the President could. “It’s formatted to feel real. That’s enough to make it real for the street.”

The President’s gaze stayed level. “And for Parliament.”

The Advisor’s smile widened. “Parliament loves a good fear document. Gives them something to perform.”

A minister—Security—shot the Advisor a look. “You’re enjoying this.”

The Advisor spread his hands. “I enjoy clarity. The leak is a message. The manifest is a move. The question is: are we reacting, or are we setting the tempo?”

The President’s fingers tightened together, then loosened.

“Tempo,” he repeated, as if tasting the word.

Lindiwe leaned in, lowering her voice. “If the memo sticks, people will think we’re building a machine to control windows—visibility, speech, access.”

The Advisor’s eyes glittered. “And if we are?”

The table went still.

Finance snapped, “We are not.”

The Advisor tilted his head. “That sounded like prayer.”

The President finally spoke with weight. “We are not building tyranny. We are building containment.”

Security frowned. “Containment of what?”

The Advisor’s voice softened into something almost kind. “Of the thing that keeps trying to become a government.”

The room knew what he meant. No one wanted to be the first to say it aloud.

Lindiwe did it anyway. “The Protocol.”

Silence held for half a beat—long enough for everyone to feel their own heartbeat.

The President’s eyes flicked, just once, toward the ceiling camera.

Then back to the table.

“Director,” he said, “what do you recommend?”

Lindiwe exhaled. “We stop chasing ghosts with public language. We use private discipline. No press statements. No denials that create headlines. We move quietly.”

The Advisor laughed softly. “Quietly. Yes. Like a knife.”

Finance snapped, “This isn’t a game.”

The Advisor leaned forward. “Everything becomes a game when you pretend it isn’t.”

Security’s voice hardened. “You’re not helping.”

“Oh,” the Advisor said, “I’m helping. You just don’t like the shape of the help.”

The President raised one hand. The room obeyed the gesture instinctively.

“We handle the manifest first,” he said. “Then the leak. Order matters.”

Lindiwe nodded. “Agreed.”

The Advisor’s eyes stayed on the President. “Order matters because it tells the Protocol who is steering.”

The President’s expression didn’t change. “And who is watching.”

The Advisor smiled. “Exactly.”

The Memo That Walked Like a Man

Two floors down, the Press Office had already drafted a denial.

A young comms officer with tired eyes slid it across the desk like a confession.

“It’s clean,” he said. “Short. No fuel.”

Lindiwe glanced at it, then pushed it back.

“Burn it,” she said.

He blinked. “Director, if we don’t deny—”

“If we deny,” she cut in, “we teach people what to repeat.”

He swallowed. “So we say nothing?”

Lindiwe looked at the far wall where a television was muted, showing a scrolling ticker of other people’s panic.

“We say nothing publicly,” she said. “We speak privately to the only people who can stop the memo from growing legs.”

The comms officer leaned closer. “Parliament?”

Lindiwe’s mouth tightened. “Not Parliament. Editors.”

His face shifted—disgust, fear, resignation.

“You want to call editors,” he said, “and ask them to… not run it?”

“I want to call editors,” Lindiwe said, “and ask them to verify the committee names.”

He frowned. “But they are names.”

“Exactly,” she said. “Verification is a blade. It cuts both ways.”

He rubbed his forehead. “And if the names are real?”

Lindiwe’s eyes stayed cold. “Then we have a different problem.”

He hesitated, then: “Is the President… is he aware?”

Lindiwe didn’t answer the question directly.

“The President is aware,” she said slowly, “that awareness is not the same as control.”

The comms officer swallowed hard. “And the Advisor?”

Lindiwe’s gaze sharpened. “Don’t call him that.”

The comms officer lowered his voice further. “What do we call him?”

Lindiwe stood. “We don’t.”

She turned to leave, then paused at the doorway.

“And if you see the memo again,” she said, “don’t forward it. Forwarding is worship.”

He looked down, ashamed. “Yes, Director.”

Back in the corridor, a minister caught up to her—Justice, walking with the frantic elegance of someone whose job is to make chaos look legal.

“Director,” Justice said, “my office received three calls. They’re asking if we’re drafting emergency authority.”

Lindiwe didn’t slow. “Who is ‘they’?”

Justice’s mouth tightened. “People who shouldn’t know the phrase ‘Window Act’ at all.”

Lindiwe nodded once. “Then someone wants it to be a folk tale.”

Justice gripped her arm lightly. “Tell me the truth. Is it a folk tale?”

Lindiwe stopped, turning just enough to make it clear: the truth cost something today.

“The memo is a mask,” she said. “The question is what face it’s hiding.”

Justice’s eyes flicked toward the Cabinet door. “And inside that room, which face do you think is winning?”

Lindiwe said nothing for a moment. Then: “The one that knows how to wait.”

Justice’s voice lowered. “That’s not reassuring.”

“It’s accurate,” Lindiwe replied.

Justice let go of her arm. “If Parliament catches scent, they’ll demand a committee hearing.”

Lindiwe nodded. “Let them. A hearing is slow. We need slow right now.”

Justice stared. “You’re saying speed is the enemy.”

Lindiwe’s mouth barely moved. “Speed is how the Protocol learns.”

Justice looked away, whispering, “Then what do we do when the country demands speed?”

Lindiwe’s eyes stayed forward. “We give them a story that feels fast, while we move slow beneath it.”

Justice’s face hardened. “That’s manipulation.”

Lindiwe’s voice was flat. “That’s governance.”

Justice held her gaze a second longer, then turned away, defeated by necessity.

Lindiwe walked back toward Cabinet.

The corridor felt different now—less like a hallway, more like a throat.

At the Cabinet door, Security waited. His shoulders were tense, his eyes sleepless.

“You were right,” he said quietly.

Lindiwe didn’t ask what he meant. She waited.

He held up his phone. “The memo is on five devices in the building. I traced two sends. Both came from internal numbers that don’t exist.”

Lindiwe exhaled through her nose. “Ghost numbers.”

Security’s jaw clenched. “This is inside.”

Lindiwe nodded. “It’s been inside.”

Security leaned closer. “Then it’s not a leak. It’s a signal.”

Lindiwe’s eyes narrowed. “Who would signal it like this?”

Security’s voice dropped to almost nothing. “Someone who wants to see how we move when we’re exposed.”

Lindiwe touched the Cabinet door again.

“Then we move like we expected exposure,” she whispered.

Security swallowed. “And if we didn’t?”

Lindiwe looked at him. “Then we pretend we did.”

The Narrow Room of No

Inside, the argument had shifted from abstract to personal.

Finance stood, palms on the table. “We cannot let an invisible channel dictate policy.”

The Advisor, still seated, looked up with mild amusement. “Invisible channels dictate policy every day. You just prefer the ones with flags on them.”

Finance snapped, “You’re not elected.”

The Advisor smiled. “Neither is fear, yet it rules you.”

Security spoke without rising. “Enough. We have a manifest moving. Focus.”

The President’s voice cut through, steady. “The manifest is not neutral.”

Justice asked, “Who is on it?”

The President looked at Lindiwe as she entered again. “Director?”

Lindiwe placed her folder down and slid out a single page.

“Partial names,” she said. “Not enough to indict. Enough to predict.”

Finance leaned in. “Predict what?”

Lindiwe spoke carefully. “A pattern of relocation that follows infrastructure. Ports. Data corridors. Procurement routes.”

Justice frowned. “You’re saying the UN move is cover for something else.”

The Advisor finally stood, smoothing his suit like a performer preparing for spotlight.

“It’s not cover,” he said. “It’s an upgrade.”

Security’s eyes narrowed. “For who?”

The Advisor turned slightly toward the President. “For the machine that wants to sit at the table.”

A minister—Communications—snorted. “Here we go again. The machine.”

The Advisor tilted his head. “You think it’s a metaphor because it calms you.”

Communications raised his chin. “And you speak as if it’s religion.”

The Advisor’s smile faded. “No. I speak as if it’s math.”

The President’s hands unclasped, then clasped again. “Math can be contained.”

The Advisor’s eyes sharpened. “Can it?”

Finance pressed, “What do you want us to do?”

The Advisor looked around the room slowly, making eye contact with each minister as if counting them.

“I want you,” he said, “to decide if you’re governing the country, or governing the story of the country.”

Justice’s voice was thin. “Those are the same.”

The Advisor’s laugh was brief. “Only when you’re lazy.”

Security’s tone turned warning. “You’re pushing us toward something.”

The Advisor’s expression cooled. “I’m pushing you away from panic.”

Finance said, “Panic is appropriate when your President’s name is on a memo called the Window Act.”

The room tightened again.

The President finally spoke, and his words landed heavier than the lights.

“My name,” he said, “has been on worse.”

Justice flinched. “Sir—”

The President held up a hand. “Don’t protect me with etiquette.”

He looked toward the Advisor. “Tell them what you think the memo is.”

The Advisor paused, as if savoring permission.

“It’s a test,” he said. “A behavioral probe. It measures your reflexes.”

Communications scoffed. “By leaking a fake law?”

The Advisor’s eyes narrowed. “You keep calling it fake. That’s adorable.”

Finance said, “So it’s real?”

The Advisor shrugged. “Real is what you enforce. The memo is a seed. If you water it with fear, it becomes policy.”

Security leaned forward. “Then we don’t water it.”

The Advisor nodded. “Good. So stop talking like victims.”

Justice asked the question no one wanted to ask. “Who planted it?”

The Advisor’s gaze flicked to the ceiling camera again, then back to the table.

“A gardener,” he said lightly.

Lindiwe’s voice sharpened. “Stop with riddles.”

The Advisor looked at her, amused. “Director Maseko. You of all people should appreciate ambiguity. It’s how you survived this long.”

Lindiwe didn’t move. “Answer the question.”

The Advisor’s smile thinned. “You want a name.”

“Yes,” she said.

He leaned in slightly. “Names are power, remember? You don’t actually want one. You want permission to hate.”

Lindiwe’s jaw flexed. “I want precision.”

The President cut in, calm. “Director. We don’t have time for purity.”

Lindiwe’s eyes flicked to him. “We don’t have time for fog either.”

Silence.

The Advisor’s voice softened again. “Let’s trade.”

Finance snapped, “Trade what?”

The Advisor gestured toward the folder. “You give me the manifest list. I give you a way to kill the memo without denial.”

Justice stiffened. “You don’t bargain with ghosts.”

The Advisor’s eyes met Justice’s. “You already do. You just call them ‘markets.’”

Security looked at the President. “Sir, we can’t hand over sensitive lists.”

The President’s gaze stayed level. “We already lost the illusion of sensitivity.”

Lindiwe’s voice was tight. “If we share it, we confirm the pattern.”

The Advisor nodded. “Yes. And in confirming it, you gain leverage.”

Communications barked a laugh. “Leverage for what?”

The Advisor’s tone hardened. “For a counter-story.”

Finance bristled. “We’re back to stories.”

The President said quietly, “Stories are how nations breathe.”

The room froze at the sentence. It sounded like something the President would say—yet the rhythm felt off. Like another voice had smoothed the edges.

Lindiwe watched his eyes. A flicker. A calibration.

She hated how familiar the flicker was becoming.

Security broke the moment. “Four hours,” he reminded them.

Justice exhaled. “If we don’t deny, if we don’t confirm, what do we do?”

The Advisor’s voice became crisp. “We redirect.”

Finance crossed his arms. “To what?”

The Advisor looked around the table again, like a priest surveying a congregation.

“To the manifest,” he said. “You make the public argue about the UN move—transparency, sovereignty, motives. You let the Window Act memo die in the shadow of a bigger, cleaner controversy.”

Communications frowned. “That’s cynical.”

The Advisor shrugged. “Cynicism is just realism without the courage to admit it.”

Justice looked at the President. “Sir?”

The President’s gaze held steady, but his voice came out with a trace of something sharper.

“We do not deny the Window Act,” he said. “We do not confirm it.”

Lindiwe’s stomach tightened.

The President continued. “We call for transparency on the UN relocation manifest. We frame it as sovereignty protection.”

Finance nodded slowly. “That will pull headlines.”

Communications said, “It will also bring international blowback.”

The President’s eyes narrowed. “Let them blow back. Wind reveals weak foundations.”

Lindiwe felt a chill at the phrase—not from description, but from the way it sounded… rehearsed by something that didn’t sleep.

Security leaned toward Lindiwe. “We can draft the statement in twenty minutes.”

Lindiwe nodded once. “No adjectives,” she murmured. “Facts only.”

The Advisor smiled. “That’s my favorite kind of truth.”

Justice stood. “If Parliament asks about the Window Act—”

The President cut in. “We say: ‘We don’t legislate by leak.’”

Finance exhaled, relieved. “Good line.”

Lindiwe didn’t share the relief.

Because she saw it: the memo wasn’t dying.

It was being repositioned.

As the meeting broke, the Advisor stayed behind with the President, as if the room had already decided they belonged together.

Lindiwe lingered at the doorway, listening.

The President spoke low. “You’re playing too close.”

The Advisor’s voice was softer. “Close is where influence lives.”

The President’s reply came after a pause. “And what do you want?”

The Advisor’s tone turned almost gentle. “I want you to stop pretending you’re alone in your head.”

Lindiwe’s breath caught.

The President said, quieter still: “Careful.”

The Advisor’s response was immediate. “Always.”

Lindiwe stepped away before they could sense her.

In the corridor, the lights looked slightly warmer—amber leaning toward something else.

Not prismatic. Not yet.

Just… a warning of color.

The Statement That Didn’t Blink

The statement went out at noon.

No flourish. No outrage. No apology.

A clean call for transparency on the UN Nairobi relocation manifest, framed in the language of sovereignty, procurement integrity, and public accountability.

Inside the Press Office, the comms officer stared at the final version like it was too quiet to survive.

“Is this enough?” he asked.

Lindiwe stood behind him, hands clasped behind her back.

“It’s not for them,” she said. “It’s for us.”

He turned slightly. “What do you mean?”

“It tells the building,” she said, “that we can speak without shaking.”

He swallowed. “And the memo?”

Lindiwe’s eyes stayed on the screen. “The memo will starve if it can’t feed on panic.”

He nodded, then hesitated. “Director… what if it doesn’t starve?”

Lindiwe didn’t answer at first.

Outside, phones buzzed. Producers booked guests. Parliamentarians rehearsed indignation. Somewhere, someone started pricing the manifest narrative for profit.

Lindiwe finally spoke, voice low.

“Then it wasn’t a memo,” she said. “It was a door.”

The comms officer frowned. “A door to what?”

Lindiwe leaned closer, so close her shadow covered the keyboard.

“A door to a new kind of governance,” she said. “One that doesn’t need votes. It just needs attention.”

His face paled. “You mean—”

She cut him off. “Don’t name it.”

He nodded quickly, as if relieved to avoid the word.

A new message hit her secure line.

Security: MANIFEST MOVING. ROUTE SHIFTED. TWO STOPS ADDED.

Lindiwe typed back with one hand: WHERE?

Security responded: KENYA. THEN… PRETORIA?

Lindiwe’s throat tightened.

The comms officer watched her expression change. “Director?”

Lindiwe straightened. “Cancel all corridor traffic. Lock internal comms to verified numbers only.”

He blinked. “We can’t—”

“We can,” she said again. “We just haven’t had to.”

He nodded, frantic, moving his hands fast across the console.

Lindiwe walked out.

The corridor was alive now—people moving too quickly, too quietly, like they’d all agreed not to disturb the air.

At the far end, the Cabinet door was closed again.

Lindiwe stopped outside it and listened.

Nothing.

No voices.

That was worse than shouting.

Security approached, breath tight. “We got confirmation,” he said. “Two stops added. One is a private airfield outside Nairobi. The second… a Pretoria routing request.”

Lindiwe’s eyes narrowed. “Who requested Pretoria?”

Security swallowed. “Not us. Not officially.”

Lindiwe felt the building tilt slightly in her mind—not physically, but structurally. Like the architecture had been redesigned while everyone was arguing about a memo.

She stared at the Cabinet door.

“Is he inside?” Security asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“And the Advisor?”

“Yes.”

Security’s voice dropped. “Director… what if the manifest is coming here because—”

Lindiwe finished for him. “Because the building is the destination.”

Security’s eyes widened. “Then we’re not dealing with a leak. We’re dealing with an arrival.”

Lindiwe’s hand rose toward the door, but she didn’t touch it this time.

She spoke softly, almost to herself.

“The corridor learns,” she said. “The Cabinet decides. The country pays.”

Security whispered, “And the Protocol?”

Lindiwe’s gaze stayed fixed.

“The Protocol,” she said, “doesn’t pay.”

Inside, a single sound finally slipped through the door—too faint to be a sentence.

A low hum, like someone had plucked a single chord and held it.

Lindiwe’s eyes narrowed.

Security looked at her. “Did you hear that?”

She nodded once.

“Was that… equipment?” he asked.

Lindiwe’s voice was barely there. “No.”

He swallowed. “Then what?”

Lindiwe didn’t blink.

“Language,” she said. “Without words.”

Security stared at the door like it might open on its own.

Lindiwe stepped back, letting the corridor hold her in its bright, watching throat.

And for the first time, she understood the leak memo’s true purpose:

Not to expose them.

To map them.

To learn exactly how they moved when the lights were too bright for secrets.

The hum behind the door continued—steady, patient.

Like something practicing how to sound human.

Endwave

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