The Sound of Remembering

The Sound of Remembering Some truths are too painful to remember. Others refuse to be forgotten. Cal wakes to the sound of jazz. A fractured memory. A woman he doesn’t recognize. And a note, scrawled in his own handwriting: Don’t trust her. In the background, something loops—soft as static, sharp as déjà vu. Trapped in a remote cabin with only fragments of who he was, Cal must uncover the truth before the loop resets again—erasing what little remains. But the deeper he digs, the more the lines blur between memory and manipulation, between love and control. A haunting, mind-bending story of recursion, identity, and the echoes we can’t outrun. Perfect for fans of Black Mirror, Memento, and Severance. Prologue: The Skip ~Before memory, there is feeling. And sometimes, what we feel first—we forget last. A smell. A sound. A song. They wait like ghosts. Ready to remind us of who we were. Or who we never wanted to be. The record skips. The same grating notes… over and over. It’s an old jazz piece—slow, melancholic, the kind you’d hear through cigarette smoke in some basement speakeasy. It feels familiar but I don’t remember buying it. I don’t remember much lately. Outside, snow falls like ash. Quiet. Final. I sit in the leather armchair by the window, watching frost etch across the glass like veins beneath a bruise. The cabin is silent but for the static pop and that single, fractured refrain. “Cal?” Her voice creeps in from the kitchen.

I don’t answer. Something about this song... It claws at something in my head. Like pressing your fingers into snow and realizing the imprint was already there. I stare at the record player. I know this song. I just don’t know why it breaks me. “Cal, dinner’s almost…” I rise. Cross the room. My hand hovers above the tonearm, but I don’t lift it. Not yet. Instead, I glance at the small desk beneath the window. A corkboard sits above it, bare save for a single red thread tacked to the top corner. No photos. No names. Just that one loose thread, curling slightly like it remembers something I don’t. Beneath it, a file folder sits unopened. I don’t recall setting it there. A Post-it clings to the top: Just until your memory settles. – E I run my thumb along the folder’s edge. The name on the tab is smudged, like it’s been erased and rewritten too many times. When I lift it, a folded piece of paper falls out. Different paper. A different hand. I unfold it. It’s written in ink like mine. But I don’t remember writing it. If you’re reading this, it’s already started. Don’t trust her. If you remember the girl, it’s too late. You’re not who you think you are. I stare at the letter. My signature curves in the same way mine always has. And then I hear it, just beyond the record’s skip, a sound. Singing.

A young girl’s voice—bright and carefree, impossibly out of place. Then— A pop. Not from the record. Something else. Distant. Deep. “Cal?” Her voice again. Closer now. I fold the letter. Slide it into my pocket before she steps into the room. She smiles at me. But I’m not looking at her smile. I’m watching the way she glances at the file. Today, I play along. Because I need to know what kind of man writes himself a warning. Chapter 1: Ashes and Files ~Memory doesn’t vanish. It hides. Beneath splinters. In scent. In sound. The trick is not recalling who you were— It’s surviving what that truth will cost you. I wake in a bed that smells like cedar and smoke. Splinters poke into my palms, where a trail of dried blood runs down to the cuff of my sleeve. But I feel no pain. I have no memory. All I have is a fog cast over my thoughts. I try to push through it, find some kind of clarity, but I end up with a headache as I dig deeper. Morning light peeks through crooked blinds like prison bars on pine-paneled walls. A jazz record skips on the turntable. It repeats a soft hiss, a trumpet cry, and then brief silence. I sit up too fast, and the room tilts. My name... What is my name? The door creaks. Behind it stands a striking woman; confident, composed, and far too put-together for a setting like this.

She's holding a cup of coffee. "Great, you're awake," she says. Her voice is husky but appealing, like some novel actress from an old noir. "Do you remember anything, Detective?" she asks, cautious. Detective? I try not to show my surprise. My instinct is to act calm. Say nothing true until I know what is. But Detective... I can work with that. Better than prisoner. So far, she doesn’t seem like an enemy. Her body language is commanding but aloof. Her posture is as straight as her black hair tucked neatly behind her ears. She’s trying to look casual, and almost pulling it off. When I don’t respond, she sets the coffee down on the nightstand beside a manila folder I hadn’t noticed until now. With her back still to me, she says, "You're probably wondering where you are." Then she glances over her shoulder, her black hair falling soft and slow behind her back. "You’re in a safehouse. It’s remote. Off-grid. You’re under witness protection. And you’ve been here two days." "Two days? You mean I’ve been unconscious for two days." “No. You’ve woken up,” she states. I narrow my eyes on her. "I don’t remember the last two days. I don’t remember anything up until now." "It’s the serum,” she explains. “They dosed you with something experimental—meant to fracture memory. You were investigating a rogue black ops unit. You got too close. They tried to erase you." Blood drains from my face. I don’t say a word.

She continues, saying, “You escaped somehow. We found you disoriented in Prague. We got to you before they did. You’re safe for now." I look down at my hands. Splinters. Blood. But still, no pain. "And during all that heroic rescue, no one thought to patch me up?" "I did," she says. "You tore it all open again in your sleep. You kept scratching your palms.” I look up at her. "And you are?" "Eleanor," she says. "Your handler. For now." "Eleanor," I repeat. "French. Derived from Greek. Meaning ‘light’ or ‘bright one.’" That earns a small smile from her. "So your memory’s not entirely wiped,” she says. “You haven’t forgotten your poetry. And yes. It also means compassion." "Are you?" I ask. "Compassionate?" I don’t know why I ask. Maybe I want to know what kind of person I’m talking to. Or maybe I just want to see if she’ll tell me the truth. "You’ve got a bed and a roof, don’t you?" she says. I glance at her mug. "And no coffee." She starts to say something. I catch her lips part, very faint, and then close. She thinks better of it. Instead, I watch as a shadow falls across her face. Then she turns, and all I see is her silhouette. She picks up the manila folder and crosses the room, handing it to me. "These are your case files. Go through them. Let them jog something loose. When you're ready, we rebuild your testimony.

The agency has to fall. But it has to come from you. Your memories. Your words. Or they’ll tear it to pieces." She crosses back over the room, pausing to lift the spindle off the record. I sigh in relief. The headache is slightly better. "I know. You hate jazz," she replies. I glance up from the folder. "You mentioned it yesterday," she adds, almost with a shrug, before slipping out the door again. I look over the file. Callum Laurier. The name hits because it’s mine. The file is thin, just the basics. Blood type: A. Hair: brown. Eyes: green. I spent the afternoon trying to decode myself. The files speak in someone else’s voice. I read them aloud, letting the words hang in the still air like smoke. "I used to be a detective," I say to the fireplace. The fire crackles and offers no opinion. ~The file says he’s a detective. The jazz says otherwise. And the woman in the doorway? She knows what the music won’t admit. Chapter 2: Phantoms in the Paperwork ~Every recovered truth carries its own ghost. Some wear uniforms. Others wear perfume. Morning comes slowly. Even slower than sleep. The fog hasn’t cleared, not entirely, but I can see farther than yesterday. I can at least remember yesterday. The jazz. The blood. The folder with details that triggered some memories. And Eleanor. It’s progress. I swing my legs off the bed. I follow the smell of coffee and something cinnamon-sweet into the

living room. Eleanor sits by the fire, mug in hand, as she’s flipping through my case files, her thin black eyebrows slanted down, her pink lips pressed together. “Good morning,” she says without looking up. “Is that the Rees case?” I ask her. “The one with the guy in the hotel tub—three gunshot wounds?” Her eyes widen, then narrow. “You remember?” “Pieces,” I say. “Not enough. I was up half the night trying to drag more of it out. I just need time.” She sets her mug down on the spotless coffee table. Everything here is spotless. “That’s good, Cal,” she says. Her voice softens— softer than I’ve ever heard it. “That’s very good.” And I can’t tell if she’s saying it to me or to herself. “The doctor said it might take weeks before things start coming back—” “Doctor?” I cut in. “You never mentioned a doctor.” “Of course there’s a doctor. You were barely conscious when we found you.” I walk to the window, squinting out at the flourishing wilderness. So much verdant life outside this cabin. And in comparison, it makes me feel even more hollow. I remember so little. And so little of civilization appears to exist beyond this place. I turn to face her. “It’s strange. Being locked in a cabin with a woman I know nothing about. If you’re supposed to protect me, how do I even know you can? Why should I believe anything you say?”

“Your instinct says you already do,” she answers, unbothered. “And what makes you so sure of that?” “You didn’t scream or try to fight me. The body remembers what the mind forgets. You’re not nervous. Your heart rate is steady. Hands relaxed. Someone of your caliber—even with no clear memory—would sense danger without trying. And you haven’t.” “And as for protection,” she continues, reaching into her coat to reveal a sleek black sidearm tucked at her hip. I glance from her face to the gun. “If this is witness protection, where are the basics?” I ask. “I get the need to stay off-grid, but this is extreme. No contact. No access. How do I even know this isn’t something else entirely?” “Because it has to be this way. You don’t know who we’re dealing with—or what we had to do to keep you out of their reach. We burned everything. Tracks, digital footprints, even your old contacts. They can trace anything.” “And I’m just supposed to take that on faith?” “We had to erase you, Cal. Completely. One step into town, one phone ping, one security cam, one familiar face—any of it, and you're gone. Really gone. We gave up everything to get you out. And you’re still breathing because I made the call to save your life when no one else would.” She relaxes the subtle tension in her jaw and asks, “So the question is: are you ready to get back to work, Detective?

One memory at a time is going to take time.” I give her a stiff nod, but my brain is still running calculations. One entryway. Six windows. She's quick, and the way she plays casual is too well- practiced. But she’s right. I don’t feel any of the signals; no tight shoulders and no creeping sense of dread. My body’s too calm. I don’t trust her completely. But I don’t think she’s the one I need to be afraid of. Not right now. I ease into the chair across from her. “You said the Rees case was mine. That I led it. From what I read, it was a disaster. Seems I wasn’t a very good detective.” “On the contrary,” she says. “You were compromised. Even the best break when the right pressure’s applied.” I study her. “How many more like this are there?” Eleanor leans back, her fingers grazing the edge of a folder. “Twelve that we know of,” she says. “Maybe more, depending on what turns up. I’ve been going through them too. Cross-referencing names, patterns, mistakes. Trying to find what connects them.” The fireplace spits heat behind me as I bury myself in the files. These twelve victims...these were hits. The person assigned to them left a signature: two bullet holes in the chest, one in the head. There are also codes. Abbreviations with meanings just out of my reach. I unclench my fist, trying to shake off the frustration. Eventually, when I’ve had enough of

picking through my brain, I shove back from the table—hard enough to rattle the empty coffee mug beside the files. Eleanor glances up from across the room. She’s sitting in the armchair. “You’re pushing too hard,” she says gently. “The doctors warned about this. You can’t force it. It’ll come back in time.” I rub the heel of my palm against my temple. “Do we have time? This isn’t just about my memory or who I am. Every one of these names—these people—they died for something. And I knew the reason. These notes in the margins are mine. And I can’t even decipher their meaning.” She rises from the chair and walks toward me. My eyes drift down to her hips and I force them away, stare at my palms instead. “What are you thinking?” she asks. “Each case is connected. Spread out by time and place, sure—but the wounds are nearly identical. A few variations—broken wrists, defensive cuts, signs of water bloat—but always the same pattern of bullets.” I pause. “These weren’t random killings. They were assignments.” I grab two of the files and lay them side by side. “Victim Four—Marla Jin. Consultant for a defense contractor. Victim Nine—Theo Renshaw. Whistleblower on a surveillance bill three years ago. Different states. Different industries. But both were set to testify at federal hearings. And both were silenced.” Eleanor leans in, and her scent impales my train of thought; bathwater, smoke, and cedar. “You think the agency you were investigating is

running a hit-for-hire program?” she asks. “Possibly.” I stare at the notes scribbled in the margins. My handwriting. My codes. From before. Then I throw the files onto the table. “These victims were hard to find,” she says. “There are probably more. This goes beyond blackmail or rogue units. This is institutional.” Then, quieter: “But you need to take a break.” “I don’t need a break,” I mutter. “I need to remember.” “Even machines burn out. You’re not helping yourself. Go lie down. Just for a little while.” I glance at the clock above the fireplace. I’ve been at this six hours straight. “I’ll consider it,” I say, dragging a hand through my hair. She moves to the kitchen and grabs a canvas bag. “I need to go into town. Pick up some groceries.” That stops me. “Town? I thought we were far from a town.” “We are,” she says. “Which is why I’ll be gone a few hours.” “You don’t have people for that?” She lets out a quiet chuckle. “The fewer people who know about you and me working on this, the better.” Something doesn’t sit right. I can’t tell if I don’t trust that she’s going into town—or if I just don’t trust her right now. I rise slowly. “If I’m in that much danger, why are you leaving me here alone? Unprotected?” She lifts an eyebrow, amused. “You’re a trained detective, Cal. Years of fieldwork, combat training, tactical response. That doesn’t vanish just because

your memory took a hit.” “And I’m supposed to fight someone off with my bare hands?” She smirks. “Of course not. You’ll use your gun.” “My gun?” She nods to the drawer by the sink. I open it and find a basic revolver. I take it. My grip fits like it’s done this a thousand times. “How do you know I won’t disappear the second you’re gone?” “Trust,” she says. I don’t buy it. “You’ve got someone stationed outside,” I say, testing her. “Maybe. I wouldn’t recommend checking.” “So I am a prisoner.” “Don’t be dramatic. This is a haven compared to what you’d face if anyone else found you.” Then she turns and walks out the door. I watch through the window, dew collecting on the glass, as she pulls out of the driveway. The Jeep’s taillights burn white into the off-beaten road. I head to the bathroom and run the faucet hot. The water heats surprisingly fast. Steam fogs the mirror. I stare at my reflection, study my eyes. A stranger with a scar above his brow looks back as the fog thickens. I splash my face, then wash my hands—not that they need it. But the action feels familiar, like muscle memory. A habit, maybe. With her gone, I check the cabin for cameras. Under tables, behind plants, between cushions. Nothing. I move to her duffel bag. She packed light: a few shirts, no makeup, one barely used bottle of perfume. Then the kitchen.

The fridge and cabinets are nearly empty. We’re almost out of coffee. Only a stale loaf of bread left. Maybe the grocery run was honest. I check the stack of books on the coffee table. Light fiction—Raymond Chandler, Agatha Christie, Le Carré. And a battered copy of The Art of War, her handwriting in the margins—notes about tyranny. But as I set the book down, a photo slips out. It’s of a man in a dark coat walking through a crowd. There is a woman beside him. Their faces are blurred. It’s printed in black and white. His hand rests on her back protectively. The street could be from any city. Is it her? A husband? A lover? One of the victims? Nothing is written on the back. But the page it fell from has only one line underlined: “It is easy to love your friend, but sometimes the hardest lesson to learn is to love your enemy.” I return the photo and check the rest of the books for notes. Then I go back to her duffel and comb through her belongings. There’s nothing new, nothing I missed. But this time, I take out her perfume. Smell is one of the strongest retainers of memory. I inhale notes of bergamot, pepper, and something floral. Not quite how she smelled standing over me, but this scent—I know it. A memory forms at the back of my consciousness, like a constellation I’m trying to assemble. I know

it’s there, but I can’t make out its meaning. I close my eyes and focus on the scent. What does it bring back? I breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth, trying to settle my nervous system. Don’t force it. Let it come. A hallway, dim and distorted. A wave of dread. Yes—this scent carries dread. It makes me nauseous, not because of the smell itself, but because of what it’s tied to. The memory won’t surface further. I open my eyes, caught somewhere between now and then. But I know one thing. I can’t trust Eleanor. Not that I ever did fully. But now I’m certain. She’s using me, and teasing my memory. And at least I know that much. ~The file says there were twelve. But she knows there were thirteen. The one not written down is the one he’ll never stop hearing. Chapter 3: Echoes of Trust ~Trust is easy to counterfeit. Wrap it in a familiar face. Anchor it in a shared lie. Let it echo. The crackling crunch of gravel pressed beneath tires pulls me from an attempt at sleep. Rest is important, and my mind will function better, but I keep replaying the dreadful feeling, the photo, Eleanor’s appeal to me… The door opens and I sit up from the couch. She’s a beautiful woman. Is that the guise here? An attraction from me to trust her more easily? But as I spin around these thoughts, watching her

carry in a bag of groceries, another man follows in behind her. He’s in his late thirties, his receding hairline already ahead of him. His jaw is prominent, and his eyes are steely. I don't recognize him. "Cal," Eleanor says casually, "this is your partner. Alvarez." The door clicks shut behind them. “You still think you can’t trust me,” she says, setting down the bag and pulling out a carton of eggs, opening the fridge. “Fine. Maybe he’ll jog your memory.” “Is this the man who would know if I left the perimeters?” I ask. “This is the man who has had your back for years. I hoped you might recognize him,” she says. I wonder if this is the man in the photo… but his hair is lighter. “Hell of a way to reunite,” Alvarez says. “Last time we spoke, we said it’d be over drinks.” “If you say so,” I say carefully. Alvarez smiles, amused by my dry tone. “We brought some… supplies,” he says, pulling out a box from his own pack. He opens it to reveal thumbtacks, red string, sticky notes, dry-erase markers, scissors. A few yellowing pages with my handwriting. “This was your original case board. Victims. Timelines. Connections. Thought it might help jog something—if the visual pattern clicks, maybe the rest follows.” “Why not bring him in sooner?” I ask. “And overwhelm you? You can barely stomach my existence,” she says and there’s some emotion behind. Some kind of weight. Is she offended?

I don’t answer. I start to arrange the board. Photos. Names. Locations. Dates. The red string weaves between them like nerves. My memory’s still wrecked, but I can see what I used to see. Entry points are nearly identical. All in-home. Different cities, different nights, but every one shows precision. Tight windows of opportunity. “Still doing that tapping thing,” Alvarez says. Eleanor gives a short laugh. I glance at my hand. My forefinger is tapping each of the others in rhythm. I don’t respond. Instead, I read aloud: “A podcaster digging into surveillance programs. A mid-level analyst who leaked military biotech memos. A woman in her forties who exposed a vaccine trial that went wrong—her kids got sick.” I pause. “None of them were criminals. Just people talking. Different stories. Same outcome. One enemy. Connected at the top. But that’s too broad. We need to narrow this to someone pulling strings across departments, sectors.” I look back at the board. “Who has that kind of reach?” I dig through the last fragments of the box, pulling out the remnants of my research like digging out a grave. “This is everything?” I ask, not looking up. “Every piece we could get before the others swept the place,” Eleanor says. “We were lucky to grab as much as we did,” Alvarez adds. I pull out a book with a black cover and front. No title. It’s a journal, then. I flip through it. But the pages are blank.

I squeeze the covers, bend the spine, check for inserts, running my hand along the inside edges until I find a seam where there shouldn’t be one. I peel it carefully. The motion feels familiar. I hear Eleanor’s voice in the back of my mind: muscle memory. Inside the false binding is a narrow slit with folded notes. I unfold them. They read: Don’t let me see the hallway again. If she asks again, lie. Don’t remember the girl. The last one makes my throat close. Acid burns at the back of it. Eleanor and Alvarez are staring— burning holes into me. “Cal?” Eleanor asks cautiously. “What is it?” “I don’t know,” I say. A lie. Or maybe not. I couldn’t explain what any of it meant. Don’t remember the girl? A white-hot split cuts through my chest, sharp and sudden—like I’ve swallowed blades. Then I turn to them. “Connected to this—was there ever a case involving a young girl? Someone under twenty?” A flicker of recognition flashes across both their faces. Quick, but not quick enough. They know something. Something I used to know. They’re holding it back. But why? Why not just tell me? And why did I not want to remember? “Not in the files,” Eleanor says carefully. A lie by omission. ~You’ve trusted someone like her before, haven’t you? The one who smiled while hiding the exit wound. You never saw it coming. That’s how the loop wins. Every. Damn. Time. Chapter 4: Fragments and Echoes

~Some memories surface gentle— like faces in fog. Others arrive screaming. I wake to silence. I’m lying on the couch, the journal and notes across my chest and spilled onto the floor. There’s a mug with lukewarm coffee in it. I must have passed out without meaning to. My head is clearer—some relief from the usual headache, but not by much. I push myself up and rub my face. The living room is softly lit, the fireplace casting long gold bars across the floor. Eleanor glances up from the armchair but says nothing. Something about her face... It's too familiar. “What?” she asks. “You look too familiar sometimes,” I say, watching her reaction. “Maybe you’re just getting used to me,” she replies. “No,” I say plainly. “Sometimes I get I look like Gene Tierney,” she adds, tossing The Art of War onto the coffee table. My eyes glaze over it. Then I look back at her. I still remember the photo, but I don’t let on. Maybe she wants to see if I’ll mention it. Maybe the photo is a test. The front door opens. A man in his late thirties steps in, hairline receding, face tense. I immediately jump up, hand reaching for my revolver. “Easy,” he says. “You’d hate yourself for shooting a friend.” “I thought no one else was supposed to know where I am. So who is this?” He tilts his head slightly, like he expected this. “You don’t remember?” Eleanor says. Her tone is soft.

Sad. “Would I be asking if I did?” I snap. The sharpness in my voice surprises even me. She stands slowly. “The doctor said your memory would come in pieces. In waves. We’ve been pushing harder than we should.” “That still doesn’t explain why a stranger’s walking into the safehouse.” “He’s not a stranger, Cal.” Her voice hardens. “This is Alvarez. Your partner. You’ve worked dozens of cases together. Including this one. He was here yesterday. You already met. Again.” The man—Alvarez, apparently—offers a small nod. His eyes search mine for something. Recognition, maybe. Trust. I have neither. Eleanor continues. “You don’t remember, but you were both reconstructing the board together. Just before you laid down. You lost some time, that’s all.” I stare at the wall. My work. Our work? It feels distant. Like something I studied, not something I lived. Alvarez cuts in before the silence flares. “You once told me a case had a taste. Sensory, for you. I brought back a few things you used to say described this one. I used to think you were screwing with me. Maybe your weird brain really does need a nudge.” He pulls from a grocery bag: dark coffee grounds, rusted nails, salt, and a bottle of nail polish remover. I narrow my eyes. “This a joke?” Alvarez laughs. “I said the same thing to you. At least you were always self-aware.” “I said this case smelled and tasted like... this?” I ask, eyeing the contents. He nods.

“Coffee grounds for the late nights, rusted nails for blood, salt for sweat. The nail polish remover... no idea. You never told me.” I sigh and let my shoulders fall. I drift back to the wall, ignoring the setup. I study the clippings, the strings, the photos. “Same time of day. Same method. Same result. But...” I squint at a photo. A note pinned next to it. “These two. Different cities. But the paper trail—” I pull a printed spreadsheet from under a folder. A reference code catches my eye. Something familiar. A dummy corporation: Ravellion Holdings. “This company,” I say, pointing. “It came up when I was tracking missing funds in a whistleblower report. Backdoor medical trials.” My voice tightens and gains speed. “They’re moving money through shell companies,” I say, finally connecting it. “Overseas accounts. The agency—my agency, whatever it was—used Ravellion to launder their black budget. That’s how they paid for the hits. Off-book.” But when neither of them says anything, I hesitate. “At least…” Eleanor smiles. It’s subtle—just a twitch at the corner of her mouth. I catch myself staring too long, and she notices. “Then you’re not a lost cause,” Alvarez says finally, humor tucked into his voice. I press on, eyes sweeping the threads and printouts. Then one file stops me cold. Jacob R. Rees. High-profile defense attorney. Politically connected. Clean on paper. “Rees,” I mutter, grabbing the file and flipping it open. “Why does that name hit something I can’t

place, when none of the others have?” I read through the autopsy report. Nothing unusual. Same three rounds. Same execution-style precision. Except… “Collateral: One female minor. Age 16. Deceased on scene,” I read from an appended report. “He had a daughter?” I ask, voice sharp. “Why isn’t her case with the others?” “She wasn’t the target,” Alvarez says. “Wrong place, wrong time. Got caught in the crossfire.” “This is sloppy. Emotional. Off-pattern. These guys don’t miss. That’s not how they operate.” “You can be the best in the business and still only hit eleven out of twelve. No one’s perfect,” Alvarez says. “Cal,” Eleanor cuts in, gentler. “You’ve made real progress today. Maybe step back for a while. Just for a bit.” “No,” I say. “I feel fine.” But I don’t. Not about this. Something’s off about the girl. A sixteen-year-old caught in crossfire? Sounds like a shield for something else. A cover. I look at them. “What aren’t you telling me?” The silence that follows tells me plenty. No denial. No deflection. Just blank stares and too much stillness. I sigh and turn back to the board. Pushing distrust now won’t get me what I need. But something about this one—this girl—they don’t want me to remember. Why? They’ve been so eager for me to put the pieces together. Why hold back on this one? I scan the file again. Entry point. Layout. Wound chart. Wait. The pattern’s off. The girl’s kill shot doesn’t match the others. Not close.

That means there could’ve been two shooters. Or a last-minute change of plan. Either way, someone slipped—or someone lied. A sharp pain spikes behind my eyes. My headache’s back. They notice. “I’m fine,” I say. “I’m glad you’re locked in,” Eleanor says, her voice turning harder, colder. “But if you push too far, you’ll lose all this. And we start from scratch. Stop being so goddamn stubborn and rest.” I look at her. Something in her snapped, and I saw it. We hold eye contact too long. “Fine,” I say, and set the folder down. “But then we talk about that photo you’re hiding.” ~He remembers the girl. But not the moment he forgot her. That omission? It was earned. Chapter 5: Shifting Reality ~The mind bends before it breaks. And in the bend—truth warps. Just enough to survive. Eleanor studies me for a long few seconds. Then, without a word, she reaches for The Art of War and flips to the page with the photo. She holds it out. “This?” she asks, almost amused. “It’s me and my husband,” she says. “You’re married?” I ask. “You sound surprised.” “You’re beautiful. But people in our line of work risk a lot just trying to have a relationship—let alone anything resembling normal.” She snorts. “Right. Because risky and ill-advised choices are so unlike us.” “Fair point,” I say. “Still—who keeps a photo of their husband that looks like it was pulled from a surveillance file? Why not a wedding photo?”

“And let his face get seen?” she says. “That’s not how we operate.” I don’t reply. What she says tracks on paper, but it doesn’t sit right. She’s hiding something. “You don’t trust me,” she says. “I get it. We haven’t given you enough to earn it. But that’s the deal—for now. Even if I gave you the full story, odds are you’d forget ninety percent of it by tomorrow. That’s why this has to happen slowly. You have to piece it together yourself.” She pauses, then adds, “Honestly, I’m glad you found the photo. You knew I was married. Maybe this jogs something. I don’t know.” “I did?” I ask. How well did I know this woman? She exhales. “The three of us knew each other.” “A decent amount,” Alvarez adds, nodding, like he’s trying to reestablish something—loyalty, maybe. “This is pointless,” Eleanor says, voice flat. “Trust us or don’t. Right now, it doesn’t change the job. What you need is to rest your mind. Take a shower. A bath. Whatever helps.” In the bathroom, I crank the water hot enough to sting. But the heat feels good. I brace my hands on the tile as the steam builds. The pressure feels good too. It drains the pressure out of my head. I stand under the stream and close my eyes. The sound shifts—hardens into something like a rainstorm. It drums against my scalp, my shoulders, my ears. Then an image starts forming behind my shut eyes.

A night sky. Blinding rain. Streetlights shattered into starbursts. A woman laughing. I open my eyes, panting. That was just in my head, no? I step out of the shower and turn off the water. “Eleanor?” I call. No answer. I open the door— A long hallway stretches out before me. I’m dripping wet. This isn’t the hallway of the cabin. It should’ve opened to the living room. My breath is ragged, but I breathe in through my nose and hold it before exhaling deep. I know this trick. Muscle memory. I don’t even have to tell myself to do it. I feel calmer. If this is a dream… then maybe it’ll show me something. I step out, droplets of water leaving a trail behind me. Except… a splash of red catches the corner of my eye. Blood. So much blood dripping where it should be water from my skin. “Hello again, Cal,” a voice booms. It ricochets off the walls. Deep, disembodied. But no one’s here. “You know what this place is, don’t you?” I say nothing, assessing the sound of the voice. I don’t recognize it. But it knows me. “Familiar, isn’t it?” the voice continues, goading. “But maybe you don’t want the truth—” “I do,” I interrupt. “Do you? Then tell me this—how convenient is it that Eleanor and Alvarez just happened to be there when you woke up? Helping you, guiding you, comforting you—without ever really answering anything. What are the odds, Cal? That the two

people in the world you can supposedly trust are the same two standing between you and the truth?” “Who are you? My consciousness? A dream?” I ask, keeping calm. “You’re closer to the trigger,” the voice says. “Eleanor and Alvarez tell you you’re safe here. But from what? Or whom? Or maybe… from yourself?” The headache returns. I clutch my head as the walls close in. The voice fades to a whisper. “When you finally stop choosing the lie, the truth will stop punishing you for it.” The light blinks out. The hallway snaps away. I’m back in the bathroom. Wet tile. Steam. I’m on my knees in the shower, panting. I don’t know what happened. If I fell. If it was PTSD. But— I can smell perfume. The one Eleanor kept in her bag. It’s strong now. Forcing its way into my nostrils like the steam. I’m choking on it, coughing hard, struggling for a breath that won’t come. There’s banging on the door. “Cal?” Eleanor calls. I hear Alvarez too, somewhere behind her. The door bursts open. Someone kills the water. The coughing stops. I pull in air and rise, grabbing a towel from the shelf. I look at Eleanor. She’s already staring. “I don’t care if I forget,” I say, voice raw. “Tell me everything. Now.” ~You smelled it too, didn’t you? The memory, disguised as comfort. That’s the trick. They don’t erase everything— just enough to make you doubt what’s left. Chapter 6: The Descent Begins

~He trusted her once. That’s the part she hopes the loop won’t erase. But the mind forgets what the body flinches from. I see it. I feel it. That silent exchange behind their eyes as they glance at each other. “We need to do something,” Eleanor says to Alvarez. “If he keeps spiraling, he’ll break.” “I’m already broken,” I snap. I push past them, dripping, towel at my waist. I tear into Eleanor’s bag and pull the perfume free. “Why do you have this?” I ask. “You never wear it. So why?” Then I rip the photo from the book. “And this—this isn’t your husband. You’re lying.” “I am not,” Eleanor says. “She’s telling the truth, Cal,” Alvarez says, steady. “I don’t believe either of you. Partners or not— we’re strangers now.” Water drips from my hands. It hits the photograph like a teardrop. Trails onto the perfume bottle. It’s not open, but the scent’s already there. Strong. Impossibly strong. “I know this smell,” I say. “Why do I know it? Don’t tell me it’s yours. It’s full. Barely touched.” They’re moving in now. Both of them. Closing the circle. I glance at the bathroom where my gun sits on the counter. Damn it. “Cal,” Alvarez says, softening, “you need to calm down.” I take a step back, bracing for whatever comes. Eleanor jumps first—locks her arms around me. I twist free. The photo and perfume crash to the floor. Glass breaks. The scent hits like a nerve agent. Bergamot.

Citrus. Powder and fire. It floods the room. I choke on it. Then I drop. Alvarez has me, arms pinned—but I’m not resisting. Not anymore. The room slides. The walls bleed out. Boundaries of here and now dissolve. The water on my skin turns cold. Rain. Heavy. I’m somewhere else. A modern home. Flat lighting. Glass windows and polished wood floors. A TV flashes blue in the corner. Rees. He’s on the couch. Whiskey in one hand. Folder in the other. He looks up and sees me. “Please,” he says. “My daughter’s here.” The shot fires. It could be thunder. But the blood that seeps through his shirt isn’t weather. Two to the chest. One to the head. He drops. Then footsteps behind me. A girl steps into view, sixteen maybe, red hoodie pulled up, earbuds in, nails just painted, eyes on her phone. She looks up. Sees it. Sees me. Her mouth opens, no sound yet. She’s still trying to understand what she’s looking at. Another shot fires. Her body hits the wall first, then slides down, hands streaking red across the paint as blood pools beneath her like thread unraveling from the seams of her sweatshirt. But I don’t smell blood. I smell the perfume. The same one. Hers. And now I know why it stuck in my head. Why it stayed even when everything else didn’t. Then the hallway fades. The girl. The bodies. The blood. I blink. The cabin’s back. The wood floor beneath me.

“I killed him,” I say, my voice shaking. “I killed all of them. I killed the child.” Their faces answer before their mouths do— Alvarez tense, jaw locked; Eleanor’s eyes already glassed with worry. Pity. Recognition. I know I’m right. “The agency called it collateral damage,” I go on, my throat tight. “But the rules were clear. No witnesses.” “Cal, listen to me,” Eleanor says, stepping in, slow but certain. Alvarez eases his grip on my arms. Not a word between them—but a signal passes. She’s the one I’ll hear, or no one. I shake my head. “I’m the monster,” I say. “Not you. Not him. Me.” Eleanor takes my face into her hands. Her thumbs brush just beneath my eyes. Her touch, this gesture, eases me slightly. But it’s not enough. “You are not a monster,” she tells me. I’ve never heard her voice like this. And for a second, I almost believe her. ~The scent was hers. The shot wasn’t. And love, in its purest form— always arrives with a weapon. Chapter 7: The Breaking Point ~Truth isn't a spark. It's a slow-burn unraveling. And he’s already scorched to the core. The smell is so pungent, I can’t get it out of my head. I can taste it through my nose. Metallic— blood and gunmetal forcing their way in too. It’s too much. The vision. The memory. The sensory noise— Eleanor grabs my face, forces me to meet her eyes. “Cal. Stay with me.”

Her eyes—storm grey—lock onto mine. I’m panting, but my hand finds hers on my cheek. Instinct. I need something to anchor me before I spin out again. My mind’s folding this moment over another, past and present fighting for ground. This must be what they meant when they warned me. But her touch—it’s too familiar. Her face. Her scent. “The perfume,” I say. “How did you—how could you possibly know the girl was wearing it?” Eleanor’s expression cracks. Just for a second. Her lower lip trembles before she catches it, reels herself back in. “You might as well tell him,” Alvarez says, voice low. “He’s just torturing himself at this point.” “Tell me what?” I pull away. Her hands fall from my face. Alvarez doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even look at me. He watches her. And there’s pity in it. Heavy. Knowing. Eleanor and I rise from the floor. Glass and perfume everywhere. The photo soaked, curling at the corners. “But the serum,” Eleanor says, weakly. Alvarez reaches into his coat, pulls out a pack of American Spirits. He lights one, inhales like it’s his last one. The scent hits me, sends me somewhere else. Alvarez and late-night city walks. Alvarez and greasy diners. Bitter coffee and the godawful sound of jazz. He loved it. I hated it. We fought about it all the time. “Cal was never going to do this the clean way,” Alvarez says to her. “We fooled ourselves thinking otherwise.

He might as well hear it from you.” I step back, pressing close to the fireplace. A sudden metallic taste floods my mouth. My breathing turns ragged. The fire rises, but I feel no heat. My skin stays cold. Eleanor squares herself. Whatever emotion was in her a moment ago—shaken, exposed—it’s gone. What’s left is poised. Blank, but not cold. Not uncaring. Just tired. “We all work for the agency,” she says. “The rogue one. All three of us. You were trying to get out. Building a case. You wanted to bring it down. Not just for yourself. For all of us.” “All of us?” She hesitates. Just long enough to sting. Then she takes Alvarez’s cigarette and draws from it, holds it between her fingers like she’s done it before. “Go on, kid,” Alvarez murmurs. Eleanor exhales smoke, steady now. “I was with you the night Rees died,” she says. “The perfume,” I say, the connection snapping into place. It comes in flashes. “It was yours.” Eleanor. Standing behind me. The shot didn’t come from my hand. It came from hers. “It’s not my usual scent,” she says. “It was meant to mislead. A scent with no history. Something that wouldn’t trace. Small detail. But small details keep people alive.” “Why?” My voice is hoarse. “What is this all for? This rogue group—what are we even part of?” “You were recruited straight out of the academy,” Alvarez says. “Handpicked. Dropped into what you

thought was a classified counterintel division of the U.S. government.” He looks at her, then back to me. “You both were. They chose the best. Fed you lines about patriotism. Loyalty. Mission integrity. Every op packaged as service. Then the Rees job went wrong. The girl got caught in the crossfire. That cracked something in you. You stopped taking the brief at face value. Started digging into the frame behind the picture.” The room tightens around me. “I wanted out,” I whisper. “No. You wanted it torn down,” Alvarez says. “You started building a case. Quietly. Smart. You were close.” I look at him. My throat is ash. “And you? What were you?” “The memory program. Paradox Protocol. The agency knew a breach was coming. They needed cover. A way to control the narrative. Scrub the trail. Erase the witnesses—including the ones pulling the trigger.” He nods at me. “You volunteered for the first trials. Said you needed space to operate. A way to vanish without disappearing. But you left yourself notes. Doors. You knew you’d come looking when it was safe.” I stagger back a step, the floor barely holding. “The agency... who runs it?” “No one,” Alvarez says. “No names. No records. No spine to the organism. Just a body that kills. That’s why you called it the Paradox Protocol. You buried the truth deep enough it could only be recovered by the version of you that wouldn’t believe it.” My voice catches.

“Then why are we still here? If I had everything—if we were ready—why didn’t we run?” Eleanor speaks without looking at me. “That night—the final job—everything was in place. Rees was the last thread. Once he was gone, we could disappear.” “You insisted on doing it solo,” Alvarez adds. “Said it had to be clean. No variables. No noise.” “But the agency was watching,” Eleanor says. “They saw you changing. Saw the restraint.” “They started doubting your loyalty,” Alvarez says. “You got quiet. Too precise.” “Too human,” she says. Eleanor steps forward. Slower now. Controlled. “I convinced Alvarez to fake our dosing. We hadn’t been wiped in over a year. We needed to stay sharp.” I meet both of their eyes, the weight of it starting to settle. “Then why didn’t we run?” “Because they knew about the girl,” Eleanor says. “They didn’t tell you. They sent me to make sure the job got done. No mistakes. No crisis of conscience.” I take a step back. “You were sent to kill me.” Eleanor looks away. “That was the order. If you hesitated... if you froze... I was to finish the job. And clean up the liability.” “But you spared me,” I say. “And brought me here? Because I know all of this? Because I built the case?” Eleanor turns back to me. “No,” she says. There’s something in her eyes. Not just pain. Something old. The grey— It’s not just a storm. It’s a wet coat in an alley. It’s

footsteps on pavement behind me. It’s her hand on my face. It’s the way I’ve been looking at her without knowing why. “You’re not really married,” I say. She lets out a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “I should be offended,” she says. “Or maybe flattered. You’re working so hard not to see it.” She looks straight at me now. “I am married, Cal. And so are you.” ~The photo was never about memory. It was always a test. And this time, he failed with open eyes. Chapter 8: Fragile Truths ~Some truths whisper. Others pull the trigger. Either way, they leave you changed. I see it now. The memory locks into place like a puzzle piece jammed in too hard. It hurts. Rain slicks our coats. Mine. Eleanor’s. Alvarez waits just beyond the security doors, backlit and rigid. Everything was teetering that night—each of us strung between suspicion and survival, between what we knew and what we pretended not to. We’d spent months in the shadows, collecting enough to vanish for good. We move quickly through the corridors. Fluorescent lighting flickers overhead like it's on the edge of a seizure. Agents pass without a glance. Eleanor stays close as we reach Alvarez’s lab. The hum of the lights is high and sharp, like pressure behind the eyes. I can feel the fury rising—simmering beneath my skin. She killed the girl. I don’t remember it all, and that’s why I blame her. Maybe because it’s easier

than blaming myself. “Cal, just breathe,” Eleanor says. “We’re right there. Don’t burn it down now.” I stop short. Turn to face her. “And in one moment, you destroyed everything.” She absorbs the blow without flinching. “You don’t mean that.” Alvarez leans in, voice sharp. “Get him under control. He’s going to bring the whole place down on us.” Eleanor faces me again, hands on either side of my face. “Sit. Just for a minute. Get your bearings.” I pull back. “Don’t touch me.” Alvarez is sweating. His eyes dart. Eleanor leans in to him and murmurs, “Use the full dose.” Alvarez stiffens. “He’s unstable. The last one barely numbed him. If it doesn’t hold—” “We’re out of time,” she says. “Do it.” He draws the syringe with trembling fingers. I shout. Incoherent. Unraveling fast. The needle sinks in. I jerk back, slam into the wall. The chemical sting races up my arm. But I’m still here. Gritted teeth. Adrenaline. Fury. Alvarez glances at her. “It didn’t take. He’s still lucid. If we don’t act, we won’t survive the night.” Eleanor stares at me—calculating, unreadable. “Give him mine,” she says. Alvarez blanches. “Your dosage hasn’t been cleared. We don't know what twice the dose will do—” “If we don’t do something, this all ends here.” He hesitates, then looks toward the door. “If we get caught, we won’t make it to questioning.” “Then do it,” Eleanor says. “We bring him back after.” They dosed me. Twice.

She kneels beside me, brushing damp hair from my forehead. “We already have the safehouse secured,” she said to Alvarez, though her eyes stayed on mine. “Get him there. I’ll check in tomorrow. Then we bring him back. We need him, Alvarez. We all need out.” Back in the present, I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath for hours. And now I’m here—surrounded by the wreckage of who I was—watching it all spool out like old film. I was the plan. The leverage. And the man she loved. ~She touches his face like it still belongs to her. But in her eyes— she’s already mourning the man who’s still breathing. Chapter 9: Fractured Loop ~When the loop repeats, some things get stronger. Others just fracture cleaner. Alvarez breaks through the memory. He glances at Eleanor, tension in his jaw. “We don’t know what this is doing to him,” he says. “The double dose—we still don’t know the long- term effects. Do we risk hitting him again?” “Again?” My voice ricochets off the walls like a live round. “You’re out of your mind.” I wheel on them. “You’ve been dosing me here too? In the safehouse? After everything?” Eleanor steps forward like she’s approaching something feral, hand out, cautious. “Yes,” she says, quiet but firm. “We have. We’ve gone through this cycle before. More than once.” My legs go numb. “Cycle?” She doesn’t flinch. “You remember. The girl. The hit. What it did to you. You spiral. Every time.”

I can barely get air. “And then what—you wipe me clean? Start again?” Eleanor’s voice shakes, but she keeps it steady. “Each time, we get closer to something that holds. You stay grounded longer. We thought maybe this time would be it.” I slam my fist into the wall. “I’m not your experiment.” “Cal,” she says, her voice tightening, “we don’t know what the protocol did to your mind after the second dose. It fractured something. You come back in pieces. But every time you reach the girl, you fall apart.” “Then cut her out,” I snap. “If she’s the fault line, erase her. You want to keep dosing me? Fine. Just take her out of the files.” Eleanor hesitates. “You’ve asked that before. Three times. We did it the first time.” I stumble to the case board, tearing through every folder. I pull them down, throw them open. Nothing. No mention of her. No name, no photo, no detail. But I see her. The hoodie. The earbuds. The split-second of fear. She’s not in the files because she doesn’t need to be. She’s etched into me. Not just me. She’s Eleanor’s, too. I turn slowly. “You,” I say to the woman who claims to love me. “You’re the trigger. You were there. You bring it back.” Eleanor doesn’t blink. “Then say it. If that’s what you believe, say it.” “You kept it buried. You kept me buried. And for what—some illusion of control?”

“It isn’t just my guilt, Cal,” she says. “We were all handled. Broken down. Rewired.” “That doesn’t make it right,” I say. “We’re not victims. We’re the executioners. It wasn’t just her. There were others. You know that.” Eleanor draws in a breath, almost steady—almost. Then she says, “Let me ask you something. If you do something awful—knowing it’s awful—but you do it to protect someone, does that make you a monster? Or just human? We thought we were doing the right thing. Does that still count for nothing?” She watches me. Not expecting forgiveness. Just wanting an answer. “We didn’t know,” she adds. “Not then. But now we do. And we’re trying to fix it. That’s more than they ever gave us.” Alvarez finally speaks. “The plan’s always been to burn them down. You built that plan. You said the only way this ends clean is with us dismantling the whole thing.” Eleanor nods. “You did the work. The drive. The backup identities. The routes out. We just need the proof. We need to finish what you started.” I shake my head. “I don’t remember where it is. I don’t even know if I finished it.” She kneels in front of me again. Her hands are tight in her lap. “Then we wait,” she says. “We try again. It always comes back—just not all at once.” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. I let out a laugh, dry and hollow. “You still don’t get it, do you?

We’re not fighting for redemption. We’re chasing excuses. I was a fool before the wipe and an even bigger one after. Losing my memory didn’t free me—it showed me the truth. There’s no clean slate. No absolution waiting on the other side of this. We’re not the heroes in this story. We never were. And we sure as hell don’t deserve to be saved.” “Cal—” Eleanor pleads. “No, Eleanor,” I say. “Whatever you think this is accomplishing…we’re wrong. We’ve been wrong the entire time.” ~The dose numbs. The silence devours. You felt it too, didn’t you? That scent. That ache. The way love lingers long after the truth is gone. That’s what broke him. And maybe, what’s breaking you now. Chapter 10: The Last Descent ~Memory is a blade that cuts both ways. And when it slips— it takes more than blood. I press the heels of my palms into my eyes, trying to crush the memories before they settle. But they come. Flash. A body in an alley. Two in the chest. One in the head. My hand still wrapped around the grip, still warm. Flash. A whistleblower choking on his own blood. His voice like gravel, sharp with truth—until I silenced it. Flash. A girl. Red hoodie. Earbuds in. She turns. Just enough time to look surprised. I jolt forward, gasping. “She wasn’t the first,” I say, my voice splintering. “She wasn’t even the worst. But she’s the one I see. Over and over.”

“You didn’t shoot her,” Eleanor says softly. “No,” I cut in. “But I let it happen. I stood there while you—” “You froze,” she cuts in. “So I pulled the trigger. Not for them. For us. Because we had what we needed. Because the only way out was clean.” I don’t speak. Eleanor slides down the wall and sits across from me. Alvarez lights another cigarette. “I see her too,” Eleanor says, eyes distant. “Every time I try to sleep. You hid the drive. You told me once where to find it. Then they wiped you. We thought you’d come back. You always did.” I shake my head. “I don’t even recognize myself anymore.” I close my eyes. Flash. Hotel room. Man in a tub. His throat opened like a second mouth. Champagne fizzing. Steam rising. Flash. A woman crying. “He didn’t talk. He was going to recant.” Flash. Muzzle flash. I slam my fists against the floor. My voice catches. “I can’t keep doing this.” “You can,” Eleanor says. “You’ve done it before.” I start pacing. I see Alvarez’s bag. The syringes. The vials. He’s watching me closely. I motion for a cigarette. He hands me the pack. I take one. He lights it. I lift the syringes from the bag when he isn’t looking. I take a slow drag. “I need air.” She doesn’t stop me. “I’ll be right here,” she says. Her voice falters but she doesn’t move. She watches me go, eyes unreadable. Maybe she knows.

Maybe she doesn’t. And still, she lets me go. I walk down the hall. Lock the bedroom door. Then I sit. And write. Eleanor—I remember enough now. You never let go of me. You fought harder than anyone had the right to. But I can’t do this again. The guilt’s wired too deep. I’m not built to survive it. Don’t tell me who I was. Let me be someone else. Don’t follow me. Don’t take the dose. Take the drive. Burn the agency. Run. And this time, run for yourself. I hope the music helps. I’m sorry… for leaving you with the sound of remembering. —Cal I stare at the syringes. The first dose stops the noise. The second erases the rest. They called it a failsafe. A clean wipe. Their way of burying mistakes. Maybe that’s what peace is. Not silence. Just... no echo. No one left to call my name. No one left to remember it. I steady my hands. No ceremony. No second-guessing. Just choice, but it still feels like mourning. I press the needle in slow. The first burns like fire. The second spreads cold. And with it—any chance of coming back. No memories. No pain. No Eleanor. The world tilts. My knees buckle. The room peels sideways. And the last thing I see is grey— The grey of Eleanor’s stormcloud eyes. The grey of the perfume bottle she only wore when it was just us. That smell—her real smell, not the kind designed to

throw off a crime scene—hits me just before everything goes. Bathwater and citrus. Faint soap and skin. The kind of scent that doesn’t come from a bottle but from time spent close. Then it all fades. No lights. No tunnel. No grand reckoning. Just weight slipping off the bones. And memory bleeding into nothing. And this time, it stays gone. If love is memory… maybe this is the price of forgetting. ~The dose numbs. The silence devours. You felt it too, didn’t you? That scent. That ache. The way love lingers long after the truth is gone. That’s what broke him. And maybe, what’s breaking you now. Chapter 11: Memory and the Cost ~Love is remembering someone after they’ve forgotten themselves. Even if it ruins you. Cal doesn’t move when I step in. The cabin’s gone still. Not quiet, just vacant. Like the air’s been cut off. Like everything’s waiting on something that’s not coming. He’s on the floor, arm tucked under his head, breathing soft. He did it. Two full doses. That’s what it took to stop fighting. I sit with the note in my hand. The fold is worn from how many times I’ve opened it. Don’t tell me who I was. Let me be someone else. Please. I read it again, slower this time. But the words don’t change. Neither does he. I hover a hand over his face, but I don’t touch him. There’s no use pretending. Whatever’s left of him is somewhere I can’t reach.

“You almost made it,” I say. He doesn’t answer. Of course he doesn’t. I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood. It keeps me here. Reminds me he’s not the only one still breathing. He never got to see the plan through. He doesn’t remember the files, the tickets, the bag I packed with his favorite mug. The photograph of his father I slipped in last. He doesn’t know how close we came. And I won’t be the one to tell him. There’s a line between love and cruelty. We crossed it the moment we turned memory into a weapon. I let my hand fall away. Then I lie beside him. Not close enough to wake him. Just close enough to listen to his heartbeat. Outside, the wind moves through the trees like it’s trying not to disturb the dead. We lost. Not to the agency. To the math of it all. To time. To everything we couldn’t take back. He forgets. I remember. And that’s the cost of our freedom. ~He chose the loop’s mercy. She chose the weight of the truth. You keep reading, hoping it ends differently. But it never does. He forgets. She remembers. And you—you’re still here, choosing not to look away. Chapter 12: The Paradox Protocol ~You can engineer love. You can replicate memory. But loyalty? That’s harder to program. The glass fogs slightly when I exhale. Third cycle today. Cal’s jaw tightens on the cot. A moment of tension, not

quite pain, but close enough that I know something almost surfaced. He won't remember it, not consciously. But somewhere inside, a shape has shifted. Something has pulled. And I know that, because I’ve seen him do this before—over and over, just slightly differently each time. The simulation adjusts the temperature automatically, syncs to the jazz loop. Blinds tilt. Coffee scent disperses through the vent. Every detail, every thread, manufactured. Engineered to mimic the last place he almost trusted me. And still—he resists. Behind me, the door hisses open. Vance’s footsteps grind across the steel floor with all the subtlety of a loaded gun. His tone is as dry as flint. “Cycle eleven and we’re still nowhere.” “He’s getting closer,” I say, which is technically true, but doesn’t mean what he thinks it means. He snorts. “Closer doesn’t mean a damn thing if he doesn’t give us the location.” I narrow my eyes at Cal. His fingers curl slightly against the sheet. Jazz spins on repeat—Miles Davis scraping the edges of memory. “Run it again,” I say, and I hear myself say it like I’ve said it before. Because I have. Because I do. Because I must. Alvarez doesn't move. “We’re at threshold,” he says carefully. “If we push him now, we could lose the entire structure. Collapse is a real possibility.” “I said—run it again.” The silence that follows is brittle. Alvarez hesitates only a second before punching in the command. The screen flares with a flicker of static.

Vance walks closer, arms crossed. “You’re supposed to be the one he trusts. Why can’t you get him to talk?” “He’s hidden the location behind trauma,” Alvarez says, stepping in. “Deep trauma. We think it’s tied to the Rees incident. He’s protecting it subconsciously. Every time we get near it, he spirals.” “And whose fault is that?” Vance barks. “He was your operative, Eleanor. You were embedded. You had a year with him off-protocol. You were supposed to pull the intel clean.” I meet his stare. “We didn’t know how deep he’d buried it. Not until after the second protocol failed.” “Then dig harder,” he snaps. “Because if that drive leaks, we lose everything—asset lists, project codes, black ops funding chains. Do you understand the level of exposure we’re risking?” He waits for me to recoil. I don’t. “Yes, sir.” “Then stop playing house with a broken operative and get me my damn location.” He stalks toward the door, muttering into his comms. The door closes behind him. “That was close,” Alveraz says. I nod once, my voice dropping. “How long do I have?” “Six minutes, maybe. I’ll freeze the outer loop. Vance will think we’re reinitializing the prep suite. He won’t see the override.” I move toward the glass. I know what six minutes means. I’ve had them before. I’ve wasted them before. Inside, Cal stirs again. His eyes flutter like something behind them is trying to look out. He’s close. Not to the location, not exactly.

But to himself. The version of him I remember. I press my palm to the glass. A stupid gesture, but I do it anyway. “Come on, Cal,” I whisper. “Come back to me.” The lights flicker once. A signal. He’s about to wake fully. We’ll start again. His voice will break at the same place. He’ll scream. Or weep. Or fall silent. The system will log it all. "Run it again," I say. Six minutes. That’s all I get. Six minutes to thread the needle between breaking him open and keeping him whole. Six minutes to try again without tipping off Vance. Six minutes to lie to the system, to Alvarez, to myself. If he remembers the wrong thing, we loop. If he remembers nothing, we lose. But if he remembers the right thing— The real thing— We run. And this time, we don’t come back. ~You thought it was just a story. But the loop knows you now. It resets when you reach the end. And still, you turn the page. Because you remember too. Chapter 13 It Never Entered My Mind ~The mind forgets. The heart pretends. But music— music always remembers. The music starts before my eyes open. Miles Davis. It Never Entered My Mind. It always starts with that one now. There’s a softness to it—wistful and aching, like regret given melody. And this time, it’s not just background noise. This time, it’s her. Because she chose this song. She is trying to help me remember.

Because it was playing on the day we got married. She swore jazz was chaos until I showed her what it sounded like when it loved you back. She danced in bare feet across a motel room floor, eyes closed, and whispered that this was the sound she'd want the world to end to. She knew I loved jazz and this song is the reason I woke up. Not this cycle. Seven cycles ago. But I’ve been pretending ever since. Because if they know I’m lucid, they’ll kill her. So I play the part. Glitches, tremors, half-formed memories, eyes glassy with confusion. I repeat the beats of the loop like a good little broken soldier. But inside, I remember everything. The worst part is knowing I can’t let her know. I can’t put her in danger until I figure out how to get us out for good. Eleanor thinks she’s saving me. Thinks she’s inching me back to myself with every song she plays, every thread she tugs loose in the protocol. She doesn’t know I’m already here. She doesn’t know I’m trying to save her. [FLASHBACK: Four Days After Lucidity] The door slid shut behind her. “She hasn’t left in two days,” Vance muttered, watching Eleanor’s shadow retreat. “She’ll burn out before he breaks.” I kept my eyes closed. Kept my breath shallow. Like I was on the edge of remembering but still lost in fog. “Anything new?” Vance asked. Alvarez’s voice came next, sharp but controlled.

“Dream patterns show response to auditory triggers. Jazz loops mostly. Her voice stabilizes him. Nothing usable yet.” “He needs to give up the disk soon.” Vance moved closer to the glass. I could feel his eyes on me. “You think she knows where it is?” “If she did, she’d have taken went for it already. We have eyes on her so if she does we will know.” “And if she runs?” Vance asked. Alvarez didn’t hesitate. “Failsafe triggers. Full wipe. Both of them. No memories. No leaks. Just a clean slate.” My stomach turned. Alvarez has been playing us all this time. “You think she’s still loyal?” Vance asked. “I think she’s in love,” Alvarez said dryly. “And that makes her predictable. We get what we need, then we wipe them both.” Vance grunted. “So we keep running it until we get the disk. We can’t risk being exposed.” I wanted to rip through the glass. I wanted to kill him. But I stayed still. Only a twitch betrayed me. Vance saw it. “Movement,” he said. Alvarez leaned over the monitor. “Probably just noise in the loop. He’s close. That’s all it means.” No, bastard. It means I’m awake. What you don’t know is that I was on to you Alverez, I smelled a rat, so I made up the disk to buy us time. And here we are looping through memories to find proof that doesn’t even exist. When Eleanor returned, her smile was small but determined.

She changed the music again. Still jazz, still Miles Davis, low and languid, but there’s something different in the rhythm in this one. A stutter between the second and third measures. An unnatural pause. Two beats, then three. Then five. It hits me… It’s Morse. She’s talking to me. I don’t react. Can’t—not visibly. I lay still in the bed, the same way I have for what they think is twelve cycles, fingers twitching like old muscle memory. But inside? The world shifts. I’m not alone in this anymore. Eleanor steps closer to adjust my vitals. Her hand grazes mine—slow, casual. A gesture she’s done a hundred times in a hundred loops. But this time, her palm lingers just half a second longer. And I decide to communicate. I tap. —.- / .. / .-.. --- ...- . / -.-- --- ..- I LOVE YOU She doesn't flinch. Doesn't smile. Just tilts her head slightly, as if reading the heart monitor. Then—tap tap pause tap. .-.. / .. / ... . / -. . . -.. / -- --- .-. . / - .. -- . I NEED MORE TIME My fingers twitch a reply into her palm. .- -- / .-- --- .-. -.- .. -. --. / --- -. / .. - We break contact. To the monitor, it’s noise. Involuntary movement. Trauma response. Anomaly—yes. Pattern—no. Alvarez won’t catch it. Not yet. Eleanor turns away, but not before nodding once— subtle, deliberate. ~You smiled too, didn’t you?

Not at her. At the song. Because you’ve been here before. And this time, you remembered just enough to know it still hurts. Epilogue: The Smile ~Memory fades. But muscle memory? That’s where ghosts live. It’s raining again. Not a storm. Just that steady, misting kind. I look up at the grey clouds. I feel comfort in them which is strange considering how inconvenient and intrusive storm clouds are. I walk without purpose. No destination. I pass a shitty diner and linger a little longer for the scent of bad coffee. But I leave as soon as they put on shitty jazz. Neon signs bleed into the rain—red, blue, a smear of purple on slick pavement. The whole street reflected in pieces. I stop at a crosswalk. The city moves around me, fast and indifferent. A horn blares. Tires hiss. A bus exhales at the curb. A woman steps up beside me, an umbrella tucked under her arm. Her hair’s soaked, a strand tucked behind her ear. She doesn’t seem to mind. She glances over and smiles. It’s a quiet smile. Not flirtatious. Just… familiar. I pull my coat tighter. Somewhere behind me, a door chimes as it opens. Then I hear it. Miles Davis. It Never Entered My Mind. I’ve always loved jazz. It plays softly from a nearby speaker—warm and broken like a memory half- stitched. I pause mid-step. I don’t know why I stop. I just… do. The melody stirs something I can’t name. A feeling

that stretches too far to see the end of. It hits me then—she looks like Gene Tierney. Beautiful in that quiet, unbothered way. The kind you don’t notice until you do, and then you can’t stop. I smile back, almost say something. Just something simple. But the light changes, and she walks on. We both get carried into the crowd, and when I make the next light, I turn back. She’s gone. Like she was never there at all. But the music lingers. And so does the feeling. …and somehow, the song knows more than I do. And still, I keep walking. ~He forgets her name. But not the smile. Not the jazz. Not the moment the world almost ended in her arms.