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It’s mine.
Sleep never lasts. Not here, not ever. My body still aches from the pit, the new bruises layering old ones like the skin of a dying onion, but I manage three hours of dreamless void before the noise comes.
It’s not the usual morning bell or the rude boot at the door. This is sharper, more urgent—a stutter of the magnetic lock, then the slam of bodies against metal, hinges groaning in protest. I’m yanked upright before my eyes even open. Two shapes—Authority black, faces hidden behind mirrored shields—pull me half off the bunk, one on each side, so hard my shoulder cracks.
I get a single inhalation before something cold and reeking of disinfectant is jammed over my head. Cloth, but stiff, lined with rubber at the collar. I open my mouth to scream, but a hand clamps my jaw shut, fingers squeezing until I taste blood at the back of my throat.
“Don’t struggle,” the left one says, voice filtered through an old smoker’s vocal cords. “You’ll just hurt yourself.”
I struggle anyway. Instinct trumps reason. My arms are wrenched behind me, wrists zip-tied in a way that turns my hands to meat hooks. My knees catch the edge of the bunk and scrape raw, then the floor is under me, cold and alive with the tremor of a thousand feet above.
They drag me. Not walk, not march—drag. The bag blocks everything but my own pulse, roaring in my ears. The fabric is so tight my hair snags and pulls with every jerk of my head. Breathing is suddenly work, each gulp of air scented like industrial bleach and something else, something almost sweet underneath.
We turn left, then right, then down—stairs, my feet banging every riser. The Authority doesn’t believe in ADA compliance. I lose count at four flights. Every time I try to gauge direction, the bag muffles the geometry of space, turning everything into a shifting pressure map.
I try to catalog the trip: the length, the number of turns, the subtle changes in air pressure. But the panic eats at my memory as fast as I can store it.
At some point, we stop. My knees hit concrete, then I’m up again, rough hands hoisting me under the armpits. I can hear metal, lots of it—doors hissing, hydraulic pumps, maybe even a faint hum of generators deeper in. The floor here vibrates in a different key. We’re not in the block anymore.
There’s a pause. I smell ozone, sharp and false, and something underneath it that sets every hair on my arms upright: the faint tang of burnt plastic, or maybe just the memory of it.
The bag is ripped off. The world goes white.
It takes me a full three seconds to adjust. The light is clinical, cold, not the blue buzz of cellblock LEDs but something worse. Everything is glass and metal, scrubbed so hard I can see the smear of cleaning fluid at the edges. The room is not big, maybe five by five, but the ceiling stretches twice as high as standard. At the center is a chair—not the kind you sit in, but the kind you never get out of. Built into the base are metal clamps, foot and wrist and waist, like a dentist chair married a medieval torture rack.
They manhandle me into the chair, one on each limb, and as soon as I’m seated, the machine comes alive. Restraints hiss and close, cold metal ringing my ankles, my wrists, my chest. The foot clamps bite hard enough to bruise.
On my right, a white-coated Authority doctor steps closer, badge half-turned. He doesn’t speak. The guards work silently, inserting an IV, taping it down, fluid beginning to creep into my veins.
I turn my head just enough to snarl, “You want to explain what the fuck is happening?”
No answer.
The doctor adjusts a panel — scrolling data, progress bars. In the corner: Subject 132 — Preparation for Amnestic Protocol.
A memory wipe.
All the faces I’ve memorized, the patterns, the files, the names…him… gone.
The air grows thick with the scent of vanilla laced with ozone. My pulse spikes.
I dont want to forget…not again.
The heavy door suddenly hisses open
Kang steps in, his boots hitting the floor like a gavel. He looks composed—completely in control—but the way his chest rises a fraction too fast gives him away. He’s catching his breath, like he ran here.
His eyes sweep the room once, sharp as a blade.
“Why the fuck wasn’t I informed about this?” His voice doesn’t echo; it cuts.
One of the guards stiffens. “Petrov’s orders, Captain. Said she’s becoming more trouble than she’s worth.”
The doctor doesn’t even look up as he adds, “The original plan didn’t work. We’re moving to a… final adjustment.”
The words prick at me like glass under the skin. Original plan? My gaze snaps to Kang, searching his face for answers. He doesn’t look at me.
“Where’s Petrov?” Kang asks, clipped.
