Rex was happy. That was expected of him.

  He loved his job because he had been made to love it. Every morning he rose at the same hour, dressed in white, and walked through the silent corridors of the hospital. The lights were soft, the air smelled of alcohol and metal. The sound of his shoes echoed down the empty hallways. It was the sound of efficiency.

  Rex moved from room to room, checking on patients. His computer was his only companion. It followed him everywhere, a tablet strapped to his forearm, whispering orders in clean code. The mornings were for assessments. The afternoons were for procedures.

  Medicine was no longer a matter of life or death. It was a matter of arithmetic. Repair cost most. Recycling cost less. When the numbers leaned one way, a life continued. When they leaned the other, it ended. The system had no mercy, but it had balance.

  Rex entered Room 23-B. The patient was an Ed. He had been brought in earlier that morning after an “incident” in the city. His face was pale and still, his eyes fixed on nothing. Rex opened his terminal and began typing the report: injuries, vitals, scans, medical history, cause of attack. The nurses had already done most of it. They always did. His job was to confirm the data and approve the recommendation.

  The machine processed the inputs. After a few seconds, the screen flashed a result:

  97.0000% chance of recovery.

  Rex frowned. He did not remember ever frowning before.

  The rule was simple. Below 97%, recycle. Above 97%, repair. The rule said nothing about exactly 97.0000%.

  He hesitated. Then he called his supervisor.

  “Supervisor Rex, I have a case,” he said. “The program has given me a score of 97.0000%. I do not know whether to recycle or save.”

  The supervisor’s voice came through the speaker, slow and confused. “How can you not know? The rules are clear.”

  “They are clear. But the result is exact. Not above. Not below. Exact.”

  There was silence on the line. Then the supervisor said, “That has never happened before.”

  “I have never seen it,” Rex said.

  “Then review the data,” the supervisor replied finally. “Check the scans. Re-enter the information. The system does not make errors, but humans sometimes do.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Rex felt better. Orders always helped. He started over. He checked vitals. Perfect. He checked the injury description. Correct. He checked the medical history. Accurate. Then he opened the head and neck scans.

  That was when he saw it.

  A small metallic shape lodged near the cervical spine. Two inches long, thin as a pencil. The system had marked the scan as clean. But the image clearly showed the object. Rex ran a hand along the patient’s neck. He felt something hard beneath the skin. No scar. No entry wound. It was as if it had grown there.

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  He hesitated again. He did not like to think. Thinking meant choice, and choice meant error. Finally, he entered the observation: Foreign metallic object, two inches by one quarter inch, possibly residual from old wound.

  He resubmitted the data.

  The new number appeared: 97.0002%.

  Rex exhaled. He felt the faint pulse of chemical relief flood his body. The machine recommended removing the object as part of the repair. That made sense. He called his supervisor again.

  “It changed,” Rex said. “A scan error. The system marked it clean, but there was an object. Once corrected, success probability rose to 97.0002%. The program recommends removal.”

  “An object?” the supervisor asked.

  “Yes. I’ve sent the image.”

  He forwarded the scan. A few moments later, the supervisor responded. “It’s obvious. I don’t understand how the system missed it. I’ll forward this to hospital management. Continue as instructed.”

  “Of course,” Rex said. “Always follow the program.”

  He ended the call. The unease in his chest faded. Work resumed.

  By mid-afternoon the procedure was complete. The foreign object had been removed, catalogued, and sent for disposal. The Ed’s new success score was 99.8%. Rex smiled. Order restored. He finished his remaining cases and left the hospital as the sun set behind the glass towers.

  At home, he cooked the same meal as every night. It was a perfect meal, balanced for a Rex: protein cubes, mineral broth, and one capsule of glucose. He loved it, because he was designed to. After eating, he turned on his favorite program, The Doctors.

  The show was not about doctors. It was sound and color, engineered for mental decompression. For one hour, the screen flickered and whispered to the rhythm of his pulse. When it ended, the body and mind were clean again, ready for another day.

  Tonight, he did not finish it.

  There was a knock at the door. A sound he had never heard before in his apartment. He looked toward the door, confused. The knock came again, sharper. He stood, uncertain. The third knock was firm, almost impatient.

  Rex opened the door.

  Three figures stood in the hallway. The man in front wore a gray suit that looked expensive and old-fashioned. His beard was close-cut and streaked with gray. His eyes were intelligent, too intelligent. Rex did not like them.

  Behind him stood two others. They were built like Bobs, but quicker, more alert. Enforcers. Their faces were expressionless, but their stance spoke of violence held in check.

  “Sorry to interrupt your show,” the man in the gray suit said. His voice was calm but carried weight. “May we come in?”

  Rex stepped aside. The enforcers stayed by the door. The man walked in, eyes scanning the room with mild curiosity. He looked like someone used to judging things—and people.

  “My name is Alexander Jones,” he said. “Chief Inspector. These men are with Special Police Services.”

  Rex nodded. “How can I help you?”

  “You treated an Ed today,” Alexander said.

  “Yes.” Rex’s throat felt dry. “I followed the program. I wasn’t critical. I didn’t question anything.”

  “That’s not the issue,” Alexander said. His tone was smooth, but it carried something cold underneath. “You altered the data.”

  “I corrected it,” Rex said quickly. “There was a metallic object in the neck. It wasn’t recorded. The system told me to remove it, and I did.”

  “Yes,” Alexander said, checking his handheld device. “You removed it.”

  He looked up, his eyes sharp now. “You shouldn’t have.”

  Rex’s stomach turned. “The program instructed me. I followed protocol.”

  Alexander sighed. “When does the Ed leave the hospital?”

  “He should have been discharged an hour ago.”

  “What?”

  “It was a simple procedure. No overnight stay required.”

  Alexander pinched the bridge of his nose, exasperated. He looked back at his enforcers, who only shrugged. Then he looked at Rex as though weighing something unseen.

  “Come with us,” he said finally. “You’ll be taken to headquarters for evaluation.”

  “What did I do wrong?” Rex asked, his voice small.

  “Maybe nothing,” Alexander said. “Maybe everything. But following the program isn’t always the same as following the law.”

  The enforcers took Rex by the arms. Their grip was firm but not cruel. They led him toward the door. The apartment lights dimmed automatically as they left.

  Rex looked back once at the television. The colors on The Doctors still pulsed across the empty room, repeating in endless rhythm.

  Outside, the corridor smelled of antiseptic and silence.

  Rex did not know where he was going. Only that it was not back to work.