They had everything. Every breath we took catalogued. Every glance, every deviation from routine stored in the vaults of their watching. We were equations to them, predictable and hollow. But then came the breach. Word slipped through. Icarus walks among us. And now their silence hums with dread. You can see it in the way their drones linger too long, in the static that rides the wind. They know what we are beginning to remember. Hope is not harmless. It is insurgent. It infects. And once ignited, it does not ask permission. It consumes.