The first body appeared before he could name the day.

In Dis there are no days. Only cycles of darkness that lightens and darkness that thickens. And between them, work: the bodies no one wants to touch, the pit no one wants to look at, the rhythm no one wants to hear.

Scrrrr — pause — scrrrr — pause — scrrrr.

The same rhythm as the Tic Tac.

Chapter 14 is the chapter of the nameless transformation. While dragging the dead through Dis's bone corridors, three encounters dismantle him from different angles. The thirty-seven Recordantes who gather in the hollow and scream in silence — mouths open, throats tensed, no sound coming out — until he opens his mouth too and lets out the weight he carried from above. The crayon drawing. PAPÁ with the P backwards. The guard left on the floor. The silence of that word leaving like weight being lifted, not like sound.

Then Qadim — a man older than time itself, seller of stories from those who can no longer tell them. Who reveals what Urzal never said: the First also had the fracture. The same porousness. The same border too thin between himself and everything else. He had to choose between saving someone he loved or saving himself. He chose to use the fracture to save the other. And in doing so, the fracture devoured him. He became Dis. Urzal was human. And he might be the last.

Then Gula — one of the Seven Pillars, the one who controls information, the one who knows what you need before you know it yourself. Who confirms what Qadim didn't finish: soon he will have to make the same choice the First made. And she will be there. Selling tickets.

But the most decisive moment has no witnesses. Sitting on bone that was once a person, in the silence between one body and the next, he hears something that doesn't come from the Zero, that doesn't come from Urzal. It comes from inside. From the place that was always there.

. (here) . . . (I was always here) . . . (waiting for you to listen).

The Tic Tac spoke. His own. For the first time in his life, from within.

And when Urzal says from the depths — you are mine — he answers from that new place: I am not yours. We are the same. And Urzal smiles. Because that was exactly what he wanted him to understand. Or what he feared he would understand. In Dis, always both.

The chapter closes with nine leitmotifs planted in Urzal's garden. And a tenth seed — the smallest, the most dangerous: the word «thank you» said to a body that could no longer hear. Proof that he is still human. Still.

🎬 Watch the Ch. 1 cinematography on YouTube: youtube.com/@MinusHuman.Universe search "MINUS HUMAN El Umbral"

🔹 MINUS HUMAN — The Anomal Saga Jesús Bernal Allende | Escuela del Deber-Optimizar y la Soberanía de la Evidencia https://a.co/d/0aqn7Oja 🌐 https://minushuman.io 🔗 https://www.linkedin.com/in/jesus-bernal-allende-030b2795

The Tic Tac was the first thing to die.

It didn't distort. It didn't accelerate. It simply stopped being a Tic Tac. And became something else.

. . . (listen) . . . (can you hear me?) . . . (I always heard you).

Dis is not a place beneath another place. Dis is what remains when you remove everything else. The negative of a photograph no one took. The echo of a word no one spoke. The ship doesn't descend because the pilot steers it downward — it descends because down is all that remains. Because Dis permits no other direction. Because something is swallowing them and the only option is to let it.

The structures waiting below are not buildings. They are ribs. Dis is built inside the skeleton of something that died so long ago that the word «death» lost its meaning. And the bones keep growing — millimeter by millimeter, century by century. A corpse that still dreams.

Between the ribs, children. Dozens. Sitting in absolute silence — not the silence of absence but the silence of something extracted from them along with everything else. Beneath their tongues: implants pulsing with the same rhythm as the Zero. The Attuned. What grows in the empty space when you take a child's future away.

At the center of everything: the Zero. Not a hole — a wound. A tear in the fabric of what exists, thirty meters across, darkness that is not the absence of light but the presence of something else. Something that has been waiting for eternities. Something that was waiting for him specifically. Because when he leans over the edge and what is below looks back up — not as enemy, not as god — something inside him responds. Recognizes it. As kin.

. . . (because you are what they are trying to manufacture) . . . (the children are copies) . . . (you are the original) . . . (you are what existed before they decided it should not exist).

He was not chosen. Not special. He was an heir.

And when he finally understands what the Tic Tac has been his entire life — not gift, not curse, but echo of something the system buried — he performs the only act of resistance possible before Urzal, before the oldest cage of all: a nod. A declaration of war so small that only he and Urzal can see it.

Because Urzal is also a system. Only older. More patient. Freedom is not above or below. It is somewhere that does not yet exist. That he will have to build.

I'll stay — he said. For now — he added.

In the «for now» there is a seed. And seeds, even in Dis, even in the breathing tomb — grow.

🎬 Watch the Ch. 1 cinematography on YouTube: youtube.com/@MinusHuman.Universe search "MINUS HUMAN El Umbral"

🔹 MINUS HUMAN — The Anomal Saga Jesús Bernal Allende | Escuela del Deber-Optimizar y la Soberanía de la Evidencia https://a.co/d/0aqn7Oja 🌐 https://minushuman.io 🔗 https://www.linkedin.com/in/jesus-bernal-allende-030b2795

The alarm didn't sound. It detonated.

Seven minutes, Liora had said. Seven minutes where the surveillance system would enter its update cycle. Where the cameras would record but not transmit in real time. Four seconds in, and the world is already ending.

Chapter 12 is the escape. Not the heroic escape — the real one. The kind where no plan survives first contact. The kind that turns the building into a living organism: corridors that seal like jaws, drones born from steel chrysalises, a system that learns from every step he takes. ARGOS recalculates. The Tic Tac commands. The body acts before the mind arrives.

But there is something ARGOS cannot calculate. Behind the glass, while he runs, the faces pass: an old man with his hands pressed against the crystal. A woman singing with her eyes closed while chaos erupts outside her cell. A child of ten who watches him — not asking for help, but saying goodbye. With a smile too old for his face. The smile of someone who already knows how this ends and chooses to wave him off anyway. The Tic Tac gives him no time for horror. Only direction. Forward. Always forward.

Then comes the death. A young guard. A weapon. A second where there is no time for anything except what he is — the frequency that makes him different, the frequency the system wants to extract and sell. The golden fracture that leaves his chest and touches the guard. The guard who goes out like a light. On the floor, rolling from the guard's pocket: a drawing in crayon. "PAPÁ" with the P backwards. A red heart. Two figures holding hands.

(the first one)

At the end of the corridor: the man with empty eyes. The one who makes the Tic Tac disappear for the first time in his life. He does not run. He walks. Each step covers exactly the same distance. The echo of his footsteps arrives before the step itself. And when the red light pulses over him, there is no shadow.

There is no exit. Only a gap where Cronos never finished growing. Darkness below that promises nothing. The hunter five meters away. And the Tic Tac returning — trembling, as if it too is afraid — to deliver a single blow to the sternum.

JUMP.

In the fall: threads. Threads of something without a name, crossing the void like veins in an infinite body. One of them golden, pulsing with the same rhythm as the Tic Tac. And at the bottom, in darkness that has never seen sunlight — a voice. Hoarse. Worn. And beneath the voice, barely audible: another Tic Tac. Slower. Older. But beating.

Two frequencies. Two cracks in the system.

Above, at the edge of the void, the hunter tilts his head for the first time. The gesture he makes when he finds something that was not in the models.

🎬 Watch the Ch. 1 cinematography on YouTube: youtube.com/@MinusHuman.Universe search "MINUS HUMAN El Umbral"

🔹 MINUS HUMAN — The Anomal Saga Jesús Bernal Allende | Escuela del Deber-Optimizar y la Soberanía de la Evidencia https://a.co/d/0aqn7Oja 🌐 https://minushuman.io 🔗 https://www.linkedin.com/in/jesus-bernal-allende-030b2795

Some silences announce pain. Others think.

Subject 72-T has spent enough time inside Cronos to know the difference. The system failed to silence him — and he left a mark on the equipment that tried to process him. Residual echo, the technicians call it. A frequency that keeps resonating after the music has stopped. But that same morning, something new appears at the window of his cell: a man with empty eyes, no judgment, no emotion, nothing that could be mistaken for humanity. A silence wearing a human shape. And the Tic Tac — the frequency that has always beaten with him — stops for the first time in his life.

He is not killed. He is studied. And that is more terrifying than any suppression field.

That night, Liora arrives. Nursing uniform, soft voice, a device that measures frequencies the official reports do not record. She offers him what she can: seven minutes, 3:47 in the morning, east sector. An open door. But the Tic Tac — which detected the hunter from down the hallway — registers nothing when she enters. Total silence. And that empty silence is more disturbing than any alarm. Ally? Trap? Or something the Tic Tac simply cannot read?

At 2:47 in the morning, his hand finds Tael's paper beneath the fabric. Words he cannot see in the darkness but can feel with his fingers. The anchor. And his body decides before his mind does: staying is dying in a different way. A slower way. The kind the system calls integration. He calls it by its true name: disappearance.

At 3:47, the lock clicks.

On the other side of the door there is darkness. And in the darkness waits something that could be light. Or could be a train. Subject 72-T crosses the threshold. The system recalculates. Somewhere in the building, someone writes: Subject 72-T. Status: Fugitive. And somewhere else, the man with empty eyes opens his. He was not sleeping. He never sleeps. He only waits. And now he has something worth waiting for.

🎬 Watch the Ch. 1 cinematography on YouTube: youtube.com/@MinusHuman.Universe search "MINUS HUMAN El Umbral"

🔹 MINUS HUMAN — The Anomal Saga Jesús Bernal Allende | Escuela del Deber-Optimizar y la Soberanía de la Evidencia https://a.co/d/0aqn7Oja 🌐 https://minushuman.io 🔗 https://www.linkedin.com/in/jesus-bernal-allende-030b2795

What happens when the system stops screaming and starts whispering?

Inside the Adaptive Sensory Harmonization Room, 72-T faces the system's most sophisticated assault yet. No needles. No restraints. Just modulated light, pink noise calibrated to 1/f, and a room held at exactly 21 degrees — conditions he himself once specified to lower a subject's psychological resistance. Three brute-force attempts had failed. Now the system tries something else. It tries to seduce.

The chapter unfolds across five escalating assaults. The Projections reconstruct Eliana, Tael, a faceless mother, an eight-year-old boy without a Tic Tac — each image is surgically wrong: one misplaced word, one subtle inversion of what the paper says. The Tic Tac, which had only ever resisted, now faces its strangest test: The Imitation. The system attempts to synchronize its own artificial frequency with the Tic Tac's, hoping to replace it from within. The Tic Tac responds with something no design contract ever specified: it becomes unpredictable, erratic, alive — and it strikes back. The Reflections confront the architect with every version of himself he might have been, including the most dangerous: a happy man, without a Tic Tac, with children and peace — who signs the exact same documents, without knowing what he's doing. The Number closes the sequence: the system erases his designation letter by letter; the Tic Tac restores it beat by beat.

Victory does not arrive as survival. It arrives as choice. The system contaminates its own circuits — the «frequency contamination in primary system» alarm sounds faintly as he's returned to his cell. Something changed in the machine. And for the first time, that does not frighten him.

"What makes you 'less' is exactly what makes you whole."

🜂 MINUS HUMAN Vol. I — The Threshold

Jesús Bernal Allende | Escuela del Deber-Optimizar y la Soberanía de la Evidencia

🌐 https://minushuman.io 🔗 https://www.linkedin.com/in/jesus-bernal-allende-030b2795

What happens when the architecture you designed to process others is activated on you?

At 06:00 they took him out of the cell. The corridor curved fifteen degrees to the left —the exact angle he had calculated six years earlier, from his office on the 34th floor, justifying the curvature in the technical document as "optimization of processing flow." What he never wrote down was what it actually meant: so they won't know where they're being taken. So they lose hope before they arrive.

Now he walks through his own architecture. He feels the angle in his legs. He feels the forty meters without visual reference —another of his specifications. It works. It works perfectly.

This chapter is the entry point into the Protocol: three consecutive sessions in the SR-7 chair he signed off on, with the straps he specified, with the crystal needles he approved. And between extraction attempts, recognition:

— The pianist playing an instrument that no longer exists.

— The old woman staring at her hands like objects stuck to the end of her arms.

— The young man sitting perfectly still, reduced to a statue of flesh.

— Mira, by the window, repeating the syllabic pattern of the five words he never answered: "You feel it too, don't you?"

Four lives turned to residue. One of them because of his signature.

In CPE-7 the containers glow on the shelves —blue, green, gold—. Packaged experiences, priced, shelved for sale. And among them, one labeled 72-T with a projection of 152,707,000 credits: his own life converted into a figure, still "in process" because the Tic Tac refuses to be torn out.

Three sessions. Three failures. And at the close, a soft almost musical voice —grey eyes that have forgotten how to hold color— speaks two sentences that were in no document he had ever seen:

"Interesting anomaly. Prepare Protocol Omega."

—

🜂 MINUS HUMAN Vol. I — The Threshold

Jesús Bernal Allende | Escuela del Deber-Optimizar y la Soberanía de la Evidencia

🌐 https://minushuman.io 🔗 https://www.linkedin.com/in/jesus-bernal-allende-030b2795

Chapter 8. The building has no name. Only a number: 8.

Black glass. No windows. No signs. The door opens before he arrives. The sensors know him. The system was waiting.

Inside: ozone. The smell of scanners warming up. The smell of processing.

Tomás walks through a corridor he designed himself. Eighteen and a half degrees Celsius —cold enough to keep the subject alert. This exact corridor width. This light intensity. Every variable optimized by his own hand, eight years ago, in a meeting room with lukewarm coffee and efficiency charts.

Now he is the subject.

They confiscate Dren's note. Marek's message. Eliana's rug —scanned, catalogued, sealed in plastic as evidence. The technician doesn't look at him when he pronounces the shortest sentence in the world:

Was.

Past tense. What he had, he no longer has.

Only Tael's paper survives. Folded until it is almost nothing. Pressed against his skin, under his arm, where the scanners don't look. The only act of resistance he has left.

Twelve capsules arranged like numbers on a clock. Eighteen liquid crystal needles. And his own frequency —the one he has carried encoded in his chest since birth— projected across twelve screens like a confession he could never hide.

He built the perfect system to classify what he himself was.

Now the system classifies him.

MINUS HUMAN Vol. I — El Umbral Ontopunk saga by Jesús Bernal Allende Escuela del Deber-Optimizar y la Soberanía de la Evidencia 📖 Available on Amazon KDP — search "MINUS HUMAN El Umbral" 🎬 Chapter 1 cinematography on YouTube: youtube.com/@MinusHuman.Universe

Chapter 7. The doors of NeuroSalud close with a soft, final sound. Like the click of a trap that has finally been sprung.

Dr. Voss knows what Tomás is. She has known since his file arrived on her desk with that impossible classification: Type 2 stable, no anomalies, perfect for the Quantum Coherence department. Too perfect.

Eleven years building CRONOS-7. Eleven years hunting frequency anomalies. And his own frequency —11.7 kilohertz— is encoded in the very system he designed to destroy those like him.

But Voss didn't come to arrest him.

She came to ask him to trust her.

The Tic Tac doesn't know if that is salvation or a sentence.

Months later, Tomás marries Eliana. Fifteen guests. Synthetic flowers. A dress the color of an old moon. And a small rug —woven in spirals and straight lines— that belonged to her grandmother and that, at his touch, makes the Tic Tac shift its rhythm for the first time.

As if the patterns in the weave contain a frequency that recognizes him.

For the first time in years, that night he dreams of nothing. Only darkness. Only peace. Only the rhythm of two breaths finding each other in the night.

But the truce has cracks.

MINUS HUMAN Vol. I — El Umbral Ontopunk saga by Jesús Bernal Allende Escuela del Deber-Optimizar y la Soberanía de la Evidencia 📖 Available on Amazon KDP — search "MINUS HUMAN El Umbral" 🎬 Chapter 1 cinematography on YouTube: youtube.com/@MinusHuman.Universe