Nadia felt hollowed out. The Echo Touch in Hong Kong, the constant drain of using the Whisper, and Aryan's chilling detachment had eroded her carefully constructed facade. The thrill of the con was gone, replaced by a gnawing emptiness. She was a vessel, waiting to be filled by someone else's experiences.
They were holed up in a derelict factory on the outskirts of Jakarta. Vedant's agents were closing in. Rohan stood guard at the door, his skin noticeably greyer. Mei huddled in a corner, sketching feverishly. Aryan stared at a city map, his expression distant, still wrestling with his near-fall.
Nadia watched them. She saw Rohan's quiet strength, Mei's fragile creativity, Aryan's brilliant mind. She saw their connections, their shared history forged in fire and fear. And she felt nothing but the echoing void within herself. I need to be useful, she thought desperately. I need to feel real.
An explosion rocked the far wall. Dust and debris rained down. Vedant's agents poured through the breach, weapons raised. A chaotic battle erupted. Rohan met them head-on, his fists crackling with borrowed energy, stone spreading across his forearms. Mei screamed, and the shadows in the factory writhed, forming confusing, shifting shapes. Aryan wove shadows, creating barriers and illusions.
Nadia saw an agent – a lieutenant, judging by his bearing – directing the attack with tactical precision. He was the key. If she could take him out, disrupt their command… She focused, pushing past the emptiness, reaching out with her mind. Echo Theft. Not just a touch this time. A deep pull. She needed his tactical knowledge, his understanding of Vedant's plans.
She locked eyes with him across the chaos. "YIELD!" she commanded, pouring her will into the Whisper to freeze him. His eyes glazed over for a split second. It was enough. She plunged her mind into his, ripping, tearing, stealing.
Knowledge flooded her – patrol routes, communication frequencies, Vedant's immediate objectives. It was sharp, clear, useful. But it came with something else. A memory, vivid and unexpected, ripped loose with the knowledge: the scent of baking bread, warm sunlight on a worn wooden table, a woman's laugh, kind eyes crinkling at the corners. Grandma's kitchen, the agent's mind whispered involuntarily. Sunday mornings…
Nadia gasped, stumbling back. The tactical knowledge settled into her mind, cold and utilitarian. But the memory… it was warm. It was real. It wasn't hers, yet she felt the love, the safety, the simple, profound joy of it as if it were her own. It was the first genuine emotion she'd felt in years that wasn't fear or desperation. And it wasn't hers.
She looked at her hands, then at the agent, who was shaking his head, dazed and disoriented. The hollow void inside her felt deeper, colder than ever before. She had stolen a piece of his life, a precious, irreplaceable fragment, and it felt like violating something sacred. The usefulness of the knowledge tasted like ash in her mouth.
Tears streamed down her face, hot and uncontrollable. She sank to her knees amidst the dust and chaos, sobbing not from fear or pain, but from the profound, agonizing loss of something she'd never truly had – her own self. The cost of Echo Theft wasn't just losing pieces of herself; it was the unbearable weight of stealing the essence of others. She had the power to take anything, but the price was her own soul.