Ethan remembered signing it. Not clearly but clearly enough. A small screen. A scrolling wall of text. A blinking cursor at the bottom of the page asking for an online signature. He’d hesitated for maybe three seconds, long enough to feel responsible, then dragged his finger across the glass.
‘SIGNATURE ACCEPTED.’
The service activated immediately. Faster processing. Premium access. No monthly fees. Too good to question.
The first email arrived six months later.
SUBJECT: Compliance Reminder
Thank you for your continued cooperation.
Your eligibility remains valid.
Ethan deleted it.
The second email arrived a week later.
SUBJECT: Scheduling Notice
A representative will visit within the agreed window. No preparation required. He checked the sender. A company name he didn’t recognize. No logo. No contact number. Just a footer:
‘Per Agreement, refusal voids protections.’
That night, he dreamed of paperwork. Stacks of it. Endless pages stamped APPROVED in red ink. Every page had his signature at the bottom, slightly different each time shakier, weaker. The knock came at 2:17 a.m. Three slow knocks. Evenly spaced.
Ethan froze in bed, heart pounding. He didn’t answer. He didn’t move. The knock came again this time from inside the apartment. In the hallway mirror, he saw them. Two people in plain clothes. No uniforms. No medical gear. Just calm faces and clipboards held too neatly to be comforting.
“Mr. Cole,”
One of them said gently.
“This won’t take long.”
Ethan screamed. The taller one glanced at the clipboard.
“Subject exhibits anxiety. Noted.”
They didn’t touch him. They only looked. Listened. One placed a small device against Ethan’s chest, nodding as it beeped softly.
“Still viable,”
She said.
“Excellent,”
The other replied. Before leaving, they handed him a printed document.
VISIT ONE OF THREE COMPLETED.
Ethan didn’t sleep again. He searched his email history until his eyes burned. Eventually, he found it, the original agreement. Buried under spam filters and forgotten logins. The title alone made his stomach drop.
TOTAL WELLNESS DATA CONSENT & CONTRIBUTION AGREEMENT
He scrolled. Clause after clause of harmless language. User benefits. User access. User participation.Then Section 27.
By providing a valid digital signature, the User consents to conditional biological contribution in the event of organizational necessity.
Contribution includes but is not limited to organ access, retrieval, and ownership. Scheduling is at the discretion of the Organization.
Ownership. Not donation. Ownership. Ethan tried to revoke consent. The button was greyed out.
Status: Fulfilled in part.
Opt-out unavailable.
The second visit happened while he was awake. They arrived during dinner. Let themselves in. Sat at his table while his food went cold.
“You’re healthier than expected, that works in your favor.”
One said pleasantly.
“What happens if I say no?”
Ethan asked, barely breathing. They exchanged a look.
“You already did,”
The woman said.
“Six months ago.”
They left behind another document.
VISIT TWO OF THREE SCHEDULED.
With a date circled. Ethan didn’t show up to work anymore. He didn’t answer calls. He slept with the lights on, his apartment littered with printed pages and highlighted clauses, as if understanding the language might save him. The final visit came early. They were kinder this time.
“Think of it as redistribution,”
One of them said, almost apologetically.
“You’ll still be useful.”
“What if I die?”
Ethan asked.
The woman checked her clipboard.
“Then the agreement will be considered complete.”
They smiled. The last thing Ethan noticed was how carefully they avoided calling it surgery. They called it collection. Weeks later, a new user signed the same agreement. The terms hadn’t changed. Why would they? Most people never read past AGREE.
