The door slid shut, leaving Damian alone with the plant. The smell of the purple flowers—Marta had called them lavender—filled the quiet space. It was a real smell, a dirt-and-sky smell, and it clawed at something deep inside him.
That flash of memory, the woman with the amber eyes, felt more true than anything since he'd woken up. The perfect lake memory was like a picture in a magazine. This was different. He could almost feel the grit of soil under his fingernails. Her name was Elara. And someone had tried to wipe her away.
He had to get to that apartment in The Aerie. But he was a bug in a jar, watched by Aegis and the Archivist. He couldn't just go for a walk.
An idea formed, ugly and necessary. He had to use the one person who might help him.
He called Dr. Thorne. Her face appeared on the screen, professional but tired. "Damian? Is everything alright?"
"No," he said, letting his voice sound shaky. He held up the lavender pot. "This… this plant. Marta brought it. And when I smelled it… I remembered something. Not the lake. Something else."
He watched her closely. A flicker of interest in her eyes, mixed with caution. "What did you remember?"
"A room. Smaller. There was soil… repotting a plant. A woman." He didn't say her name. He made a show of straining, of trying to grasp it. "It's gone. But the feeling… it's tied to a place. An older part of the Arcology. The Aerie. The name just popped into my head. Does that mean anything?"
He saw the conflict on her face. Her job was to help him reintegrate. But helping him might mean stepping into a shadow she wanted to avoid.
"Spontaneous memory association is common," she said, her tone careful. "But The Aerie… that's a restricted sector. It's not on the approved integration itinerary."
"Please," he said, putting a crack in his voice. "It's the first thing that's felt real. I need to see if being there… jogs something loose."
She was silent for a long moment. He could almost hear her thinking, weighing the rules against the risk of a patient falling apart. Finally, she sighed. "Alright. But I'm coming with you. This is a therapy session, Damian. Not a field trip. We go, we look, we leave. Understood?"
"Understood." Relief washed over him, cold and guilty.
---
The trip felt like going backwards in time. They left the bright, silent halls for corridors with actual corners and flickering light panels. The air smelled different—less like antiseptic, more like old metal and dust. It felt alive. It felt dangerous.
Aris walked beside him, her data-slate held tight. She was nervous. "This sector was scheduled for renovation years ago. Most of it's empty."
They found Unit 734. The door was heavy metal, not the smooth white stuff he was used to. And there, right in the middle, was a real keyhole. A physical, brass keyhole.
His heart hammered. This was it.
Aris looked at the door, then at him. "How did you know the unit number?"
"I… I don't know," he said, which was almost the truth. "It was just in my head." He pulled the key from his pocket. The tarnished brass felt solid, real.
Her eyes widened. "Where did you get that?"
"I found it. In my apartment." He didn't wait for permission. He slid the key into the lock. It turned with a loud, grinding clunk that echoed in the empty hall. The sound was shockingly loud. A sound that meant something.
The door swung inward on squealing hinges.
The air inside was stale and thick with dust. The place was a time capsule. Real wooden shelves held paper books. An old synth-keyboard sat in a corner, a layer of grey fuzz on its keys. And there, on a small table by a window looking out onto a dark airshaft, were photographs.
He walked toward them, his breath catching. In a cheap plastic frame was a picture of a man and a woman. The man was him, but older, his face softer, his eyes crinkled with a real smile. He had his arm around a woman with dark hair and laughing amber eyes.
Elara.
The memory didn't flood back. It was simpler than that. A deep, quiet knowing. A pain that felt like home. He had loved her. This was real.
"Damian?" Aris said softly. She was watching him, her professional mask gone. She looked sad.
He barely heard her. His eyes scanned the room. V2.0 wouldn't have just led him here to feel sad. There had to be something else. His gaze landed on the wall opposite the photos. A framed schematic of the Arcology' old network layout hung there, crooked. The kind of nerdy thing an old tech would have.
He walked over and took it off the wall. The back was sealed with cheap clips. He pried it open. Taped to the back of the schematic, hidden from view, was a small, black data-chip. No bigger than his thumbnail.
His fingers closed around it. A secret.
Just then, Aris's data-slate buzzed loudly, shattering the silence. She looked down at it, and her face went white as a sheet.
"It's an alert from Aegis," she whispered, her voice tight with fear. She looked from the slate to him, her eyes wide. "They know we're here. Rourke is on his way. He's demanding to know why I brought you to a decommissioned asset."
The chip felt like ice in Damian's hand. He had what he came for. But now they were trapped. The sound of heavy footsteps, moving fast, echoed down the hall outside.