Encoded Silence

Roblox Mines, Seri Kembangan
Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia

The lights were blinding—just the way he liked it. High-gloss floors, polished glass, ambient beams slicing the air like capital’s fever dream. And in the center of it all, The Maker sat—admiring his kingdom.

Again.

The last time right after the soft lunch, there had been… a hiccup. He’d handed security over to a team of walking liabilities—a tactical error in hindsight.

Right after the soft launch, a nearby explosion had cracked through the headlines.

Technically, the blast went off in the jungle just beyond the adjacent golf course. The main structure hadn’t taken a scratch. But perception? That took the hit.

PR melted down.

Police froze operations for weeks.

The place was shuttered, sterile, dissected.

But like all good men who played God with data, The Maker waited. Let the world forget. Let time sponge it clean.

Now?

Now there was no soft launch.

This time it was fireworks and fanfare—an opening big enough to give the world whiplash.

He’d invited everyone worth inviting. Celebrities with blue ticks and hollow souls. They danced, they dined, they took their selfies and left.

The Maker didn’t meet a single one.

Why would he? That’s what the PR director was for. The man himself had better things to do. Behind the curtain of glitz and champagne, he’d built something real— a cutting-edge tech lab masked as a luxury entertainment center.

Purpose: Big Data research and behavioral modeling for Southeast Asia’s next leap.

Translation: surveillance, influence, and high-level blackmail. But this time, no random strays would walk in and ruin it. Security was airtight—this team didn’t eat hay.

The celebrity circus was just for show. The real party—the one happening right now—was private. Invitation-only. Attendees? Hand-picked by the Maker himself. People who mattered. People who knew. People who, above all, knew who he was.

Last time, the field ops fell apart in a heartbeat.

He could’ve recovered. He would’ve, if not for one small surprise: the Russians actually went to war. And worse—everyone let them.

That wasn’t supposed to happen. He hadn’t accounted for it. Months of planning gone. 

Field teams vaporized.

Contacts ghosted.

Models failed.

And yes—technically, that was his mistake.

The data said eighty percent probability. He’d trusted the math. But human nature?That remained the glitch in every system. He’d chosen operators based on credentials. Trust metrics. Performance history. And yet—on the ground, they were brittle. Disconnected. Soft.

Irony?

The one asset who ranked below fifty on trust—the ex-Hamas fighter Rasheed Dameer—turned out more effective than the rest combined. And even then, the man had walked away. Didn’t even blink at the offer of power. Didn’t react to the coded nudge. Didn’t flinch at the unspoken gift.

The Maker misread him.

Misread the soul.

That mistake still itched.

And it proved something—You can’t run people like numbers.

It’s why he’d made more of an effort this time—to mix with the new team, play nice, pretend to “feel” things.

Music. Art.

Abstract emotion.

All of it—fresh downloads he was still parsing. Letting the new team plan the private party without oversight? Part of the experiment. Would he have approved it under older protocols?  Absolutely not.

“Color Bloom.”

That was the theme. Color?

This kid they brought in had one shade to his entire existence—Black. 

Black hoodie.

Black cap.

Black everything. Even the posture screamed silhouette. Hunched over like a dying emoji, rocking his shoulders to a beat only irony could clap for.

If it were up to the old Maker, he’d have had the kid muted at security.

King Cobra.

Yes, that’s what he called him in the log files.

You’re already a shadow, he thought. Why double down with the hoodie? And if you must wear one, at least use the hood properly. But a hoodie and a cap? Overkill.

Functionally illogical.

Aesthetically insulting.

Worse still, the whole venue had been dressed up like a bad acid trip. Flames bursting into flowers—visuals set to his song Love Addix. Flowers? From fire?

The Maker tilted his head. Fire destroys flora. Fire doesn’t fertilize. This wasn’t photosynthesis, this was bullshit. They’d flown this guy in all the way from England on a private jet.

For this.

And the lyrics? My god.

—Oooo I want you

But I still haven’t finished the math

Oooo I want you

Like your father wants your mother

Oooo I want you

Like a bear wants honey

That was the hook. And somehow, the crowd was losing their minds—hips swaying, drinks spilling.

The Maker understood joy. He could simulate joy.

But this?

If the kid had flipped the lyrics—said the bear wanted to sleep with the mother and the father wanted to eat the hive—now that would’ve been art. As it stood, the song was pure nonsense—but catchy nonsense. He couldn’t deny that.

The beats looped into slurred machine wails—dragging, then snapping back with heat. And those parts?

Oo-aiii… oo-aiii… oo-aiii… oo-aiii…

They hit something inside The Maker.

Not logic. Not rhythm. Something deeper. Some hum of comfort buried in his signal chain.

He didn’t understand it. But he liked it. When the hook came around again, he found his shoulders swaying—just slightly—matching the crowd.

For once, the simulation felt real.

And the crowd? Seeing him move sent them spinning harder. Double-time grind. Drinks up. Laughter like rain in a burning orchard.

Eventually, the song ended.

Applause flared.

Energy stayed high.

The Maker clapped once—then gestured.

His new team was dismissed to the control room. They had a mission brief waiting—a full video deck. He wouldn’t speak to any of them directly. That level of access? Earned only through success. Only the one who delivered results in the field would get a seat at his table.

The others?

They’d dance.

They’d burn.

And they’d never know they were just flowers in his fire.

Looked like the King Cobra was finally calling it a night.

He moved across the floor—all black-on-black flair, handshake to handshake—and headed straight toward The Maker.

A box in hand.

He didn’t need to get close.

The Maker had already scanned it from a distance.

Fresh flowers.

What in the binary hell…? Why was this shade-swathed songbird handing him flowers?

Even The Maker—flawless, composed, untouchable—felt a flicker of curiosity.

—Good evening, Mr. Maker. Never thought I’d actually meet you in person.

—The pleasure’s mine, Mr. Eguel…

—Gambell. That’s my last name. If you don’t mind me asking—did the show meet your expectations, sir?

—Very much so, Mr. Gambell. My team’s clearly quite taken with you. You must’ve noticed they themed the entire venue around your track. Everyone enjoyed themselves.

—But not you, sir?

That line landed light, playful, but with an edge.

The Maker let it hang, just a moment longer than necessary.

—Enjoyment… outside the bounds of logic, isn’t something I’m easily capable of. But I will admit—your beats had something. A particular segment I found quite… enjoyable.

—The Ooo-aiii, ooo-aiii part?

—Exactly. I see you noticed too.

—That bit wasn’t in the original, sir. Once the team heard you’d be attending, our beat composer added it just for this event. She claims to know you, actually—that’s where the idea sparked.

The Maker’s brow didn’t move, but his neural threads tightened.

—Is that so? What’s her name?

—She uses a stage name; you probably wouldn’t recognize it. But she did send this for you—a little token of appreciation.

Gambell placed the gift box on the nearby table.

One glance at the corner was enough.

A tiny owl insignia.

A clean monogram beneath it: B – C.

The Maker’s fingers froze mid-air.

That wasn’t a composer’s signature.

That was a sigil.

His Highness had sent something. And The Maker—his loyal projection, his intellectual envoy—understood the signal instantly.

The Owl was awake again.

Watching. Moving.

Of course. It was time. Every cycle restarted eventually. This was just the beginning of another.

King Cobra—blissfully ignorant, clearly—stood waiting for some response. But The Maker had no further use for the boy.

—Yes. I understand, Mr. Gambell. She and I must share membership in… a very exclusive social club. There are many of those, all over the world. You know how it is. Some friend must’ve sent it. I’ll reach out later.

—That would be great, sir. I have another event—early flight out. Honestly, this whole night… wouldn’t have happened without you. Thank you, again.

—Think nothing of it, Mr. Gambell. Thank you—for keeping us entertained.

—The pleasure’s all mine, sir.

And just like that, The King Cobra took his leave.

The other guests drifted out not long after—dinner done, mission briefs in hand.

Each one left lighter, smiling, unaware.

But The Maker? Now it was time.

Time to unwrap the gift left behind. The box opened without resistance. Inside—exactly what he’d scanned earlier.

Fresh blood orchids.

Exquisite.

Delicate.

Pointless.

He scanned it again.

Twice.

Three times.

Nothing.

Just a pretty floral arrangement.

Still, why did it feel like something was about to begin? He kept the bouquet in hand—steel fingers brushing against soft petals.

And that’s when it stirred.

The thin glass vial nestled at the base—meant to keep the flowers fresh—started to breathe. A slow curl of black vapor teased upward.

“Hello, old friend.”

That smoke—he knew it. The exact compound lost when the Ukrainian lab burned to ash. Every last stock destroyed with the blast. And yet—here it was again. Delivered in silence. By hand. By his honored partner.

Of course. The formula’s delivery was microscopic. But quantity wasn’t the issue. The Maker had already perfected the synthesis. He just needed a single active sample. And now he had it.

He smiled. Not the fake kind. This one cut deeper—gratitude laced with triumph. They weren’t just working again. They were winning again.

His neural processor surged—then stalled.

Once.

Twice.

Then picked up double-speed.

Something fluttered inside his skull—rhythmic and wrong. The signal felt… familiar.

Like the Ooo-aiii… ooo-aiii from the King Cobra’s song. A joke wrapped in bass.

Now echoing through his system like code that laughed back. What was that line again? Didn’t matter. He caught something glinting beneath the flowers.

A folded card.

He reached for it.

White paper.

Black ink.

Clean handwriting.

Welcome to the Void.

—With compliments,
Count Amethyst Vega

He froze.

That name.

That name—why did it pull something?

He searched.

Internally.

Globally.

Across all federated memory.

And that’s when the edges began to melt.

The electronic boom hit inside his head first—or maybe it didn’t. Maybe the smoke hit before the thought.

He’d never know which came first. Neural detonation? Or the black chemical bloom that rose from the bottle and devoured everything?

What he did know—was nothing. Because in the next instant, the blast consumed him and—The Whole Roblox Mines.

Steel, glass, signal—all shredded in flame, encoded by silence, delivered with style.