The apartment was silent—too silent. Morgan stepped inside and instinctively locked the door behind him, then checked it twice. The click of the bolt echoed louder than it should have. He leaned against the wall, exhaling the kind of breath that sounded more like surrender than relief.
The session with Dr. Aris had left him raw again. He rubbed his temples, trying to shake the dissonance still rattling inside. The memories were getting louder, more vivid, and less his. As if someone was slowly stitching someone else's story into his own.
He barely made it to the kitchen when the knock came.
Three short, two long. Familiar.
Morgan hesitated, instinct twitching. No one ever visited unannounced. He checked the peephole and groaned.
"Jay."
Jay Devlin barged in the second the door opened, wearing a leather jacket two seasons too loud and a grin that never quite reached his eyes. Behind him, a battered duffel bag thudded to the floor like a dropped body.
"Still got the same paranoid lock obsession, I see," Jay said, clapping Morgan on the shoulder. "What, you think the boogeyman's gonna stroll through the door?"
"I think he's already here," Morgan muttered.
Jay ignored the comment and walked in like he owned the place. He dumped himself on the couch, kicked his boots up on the coffee table, and pulled out a flask.
"Agent Jay Devlin," he announced, "still the best goddamn intelligence officer this side of the hemisphere."
Morgan raised an eyebrow. "You left intel five years ago."
"Details, man. Once an agent, always an agent. Besides, I still have connections. You wouldn't believe the crap I hear."
Morgan didn't respond. He stared at the duffel bag.
"You staying?"
"Just a few nights. Things got a little... complicated on my end."
Jay's eyes flicked over Morgan's apartment. His grin faltered for a split second. "You've let the place go. Bit grim, man."
"Matches the inside of my head."
Jay chuckled, but it was awkward—too forced. Morgan moved to the window and glanced out. Same street. Same dead-eyed neighbors. But his skin itched.
"They're watching, you know," Morgan said quietly.
Jay looked up. "Who?"
Morgan turned slowly. "Don't play dumb, Jay. You see them too. The red car parked two houses down. Hasn't moved in a week. The flickering streetlight that always clicks when I pass it. I know someone's listening."
Jay frowned, sitting up straighter. "Hey, come on, buddy. You're spiraling again."
Morgan walked closer, his voice tight. "No. I'm seeing clearly. It's all patterns. Repeats. I hear people whispering my name when the TV's off. Sometimes… sometimes I hear things in the white noise."
Jay's grin vanished entirely now. He stood. "Look. You need sleep. And maybe—just maybe—less late-night war documentaries."
But Morgan shook his head, stepping even closer.
"Tell me the truth. You said you have connections. What do you really know? Are they messing with my memories? Was there something in the mission files I wasn't supposed to see?"
Jay's eyes flicked toward the duffel bag—just for a second.
Morgan noticed.
And everything went very, very still.