Compliance Check

“They’ll just give me a slap on the wrist,” he thought, clicking “accept all cookies” on a government website. It was just a background-check form. You might think it’s Jamie’s first day on earth because he never learns that it always gets worse. Always.

Just about two days later, a drone dropped a letter through his window: “Report to Department of Digital Misconduct”. It’s not like he didn’t see this coming, but again, he didn’t know what to expect.

The letter read:

“Your recent activity on the National Digital Portal has triggered a Level-3 flag. Report to the Department of Digital Misconduct within 48 hours. Noncompliance has consequences.” — Bureau of Digital Conduct Enforcement

At the Department, everyone clutched their devices like talismans of shame. 

“Jamie Lark,” the clerk called. Jamie stepped forward, hands slightly raised, like one approaching a deer caught in headlights.

“Your devices, please,” the clerk said, sliding a scanner across the counter. Jamie handed over his phone, smartwatch, and even his old MP3 player. 

“Level-3 flags aren’t common,” the clerk added casually, tapping the screen. “Most people just get a warning. You, though… we’ll see.”

Jamie swallowed. “We’ll… see?” The clerk smiled—not kindly. “Yes. We’ll see.”

Jamie’s heart thudded as he watched the clerk type. Numbers and codes flashed across the screen, incomprehensible to anyone but the machine. 

“Um,” he whispered, “what did I do?” She looked at him as if he’d confessed a crime. 

“Oh, the audacity to ask,” she said, amused. “You did plenty.” She reached into a drawer and snapped a red wristband onto his arm.

Ah, yes, the wristband. He knew it was coming, but he couldn’t tell whether it was a proclamation or a punishment.

Jamie left the Department with the wristband glowing faintly at times, as if it had opinions on his stride or which street he chose to walk on his way to work. Passersby noticed – some stared, some crossed over to the other side of the road.

The City had rules for everything, but no one ever explained which ones mattered until you broke them. Feeling perplexed and weirdly ashamed to the point of blushing and tucking his chin into his collar he stood at the crosswalk waiting for the green light to grant him permission to pass. He certainly couldn’t afford any more deviations today.

His pocket felt unnervingly empty without his phone, his wrist not his own with the wristband instead of the smartwatch. When he turned it over, there was no clasp, no seam—as if it had always been a part of him.

He tried tugging at it. 

“User privileges disabled,” it announced, in a voice that sounded disturbingly like his high school principal.

Then it buzzed. “Compliance check: please smile.” 

Jamie raised his brow but smiled anyway. The wristband beeped once in approval. The crosswalk turned green with a cheerful chime, and Jamie crossed, obediently.

His office building loomed at the next corner—mirrored glass and polite slogans scrolling across its facade. Efficiency is Happiness, said the banner above the tall doors. He’d never believed it, but the wristband seemed to. It warmed faintly as Jamie stepped inside.

“Welcome, Citizen Lark,” greeted the security terminal in its usual robotic tone. “New compliance band detected. Please proceed to verification.” 

Jamie held his wrist out. 

“Verified,” it said. 

“Performance tracking activated.” 

“Sure,” he exhaled and moved toward the elevators, too aware of the red band warming his wrist.

Work. What was Jamie supposed to work on again? He’d been fading ever since that red wristband. It distracted him. Right now, all he could remember was his boss’s face, not his words. A problem—because the words mattered more.

“Jamie, you got the presentation ready?” his colleague interrupted. 

“Hmm?” he responded, startled. Presentation? Right, yes, presentation. Whatever it was.

He was barely presentable himself. Navy blue button-up, rumpled; hair disheveled; jeans instead of gray slacks. How was he supposed to get it together for this so-called presentation? The wristband blinked in the corner of his eye. Once again, his attention shifted to that ring around his wrist.

“Presentation on Quarterly Sales Report.” Jamie froze. That wasn’t in any app. That wasn’t in his emails. That was in his head. Unless… it was extracting information from his mind.

No. Absolutely not. He was already being watched by someone unknown, and now it was reading his thoughts. He was going back to the Department. He’d fight the devil if he had to. This contraption wasn’t staying on his wrist.

Jamie snatched his coat and stormed out. Someone called after him, but who cared? His privacy mattered more than his livelihood. 

“Lady,” he said, cutting the line at the Department. “This thing”—he pointed at his wrist—“get it off me. I’ve had enough.”

The clerk looked unfazed. “Who are you to decide when to take it off?” 

“Who are you to put it on me?” 

She sighed. “Rip it off if you want. See how that goes.”

Both knew it wouldn’t go well, but Jamie didn’t care. Years of being exceptional, only for his privacy to be invaded. He wasn’t letting it slide. So, naturally, he ripped the wristband off. The question is: will it be worth the price he’s about to pay?

The moment the wristband tore free, it dissolved into thin air. A red shimmer, then nothing left but a ringing in Jamie’s ears. The clerk froze mid-blink while the Department around him flickered. The whole room pixelated into blocks of static, as if reality itself were buffering.

Jamie opened his mouth to shout or apologize, but the world folded inward like a collapsing sheet of glass, and he dropped straight through.

He landed on carpet. Real carpet—bleak and dusty. A small apartment hummed quietly around him: refrigerator, traffic, sounds of someone’s TV leaking through drywall. No drones. No scanners. No Department.

On the kitchen counter (whose kitchen counter was it?), a phone buzzed. Not a government-issued device—just a regular smartphone plastered with fingerprints. Its screen lit up with a notification about “cookies,” the digital kind, and another ad for running shoes tailored suspiciously similar to his taste.

Jamie hurried outside. People walked past, glancing occasionally at their smartwatches and phones—dozens of them—glowing with heart rates, step counts, and reminders.

He stepped into a coffee shop and bumped into a man on his way out. The man tapped his wristwatch and spoke softly into it, hurrying into the busy street. This world wasn’t as loud as the City, but Jamie knew the hum of surveillance was the same frequency. Just quieter. Easier to miss.

A barista handed him a coffee he didn’t remember ordering. Her smartwatch flashed green as she smiled at him. “Here’s your order. Have a great day!” 

It took him a minute to realize he was the only one with a bare wrist. It felt oddly light, almost tender. Empty. Jamie hadn’t realized he missed the weight of the band’s control. Not until it was gone.