The footsteps weren't just echoes anymore. They were sharp, heavy beats coming closer, turning the corner. Inspector Rourke.
Damian's heart tried to climb out of his throat. The data-chip in his hand felt like a hot coal. He couldn't let Rourke find it. There was no time to think, only to move.
He acted on pure instinct. As he turned away from the wall, he pretended to stumble, his hand grabbing the dusty synth-keyboard for support. In the same motion, he shoved the tiny chip deep into the gap between the yellowed keys. It was a desperate, stupid hiding place, but it was all he had.
He righted himself just as Rourke's tall, black-clad form filled the doorway. The Inspector didn't say a word at first. His flat grey eyes scanned the room, taking in the dust, the books, Damian's guilty face, and Aris's pale, frightened one.
"Dr. Thorne," Rourke said, his voice dangerously quiet. "Your patient's integration itinerary lists sensory therapy in the residential gardens. It does not list unauthorized entry into a sealed historical sector." He stepped inside, his boots leaving prints in the dust. "Explain."
Aris found her voice, though it was thin. "It was a sanctioned therapeutic intervention, Inspector. Mr. Grey experienced a powerful memory trigger. We were following a legitimate lead to stabilize his engramatic recall."
Rourke's gaze shifted to Damian. It felt like being scanned by a machine. "A memory trigger. What did you remember, Mr. Grey?"
Damian's mind went blank for a second. He looked at the photo of Elara on the table. "Her," he said, pointing. It wasn't a lie. "I remembered her face. Just for a second. This was our place."
Rourke walked over and picked up the photograph. He studied it with no more emotion than if he were reading a barcode. "Elara Voss. Your former wife. Her passing was… tragic." He set the frame down carefully. "But this apartment has been vacant for five years. Since her death. There are no 'memories' here for you to find. Only dust."
The way he said it, so cold and final, sent a chill down Damian's spine. It was a warning.
"My predecessor thought someone was tampering with his memories," Damian said, the words coming out in a rush. "He filed an audit. Then he died. And now you're telling me I can't even look at a picture of my dead wife?"
For the first time, a crack appeared in Rourke's calm. A tiny muscle twitched in his jaw. "I am telling you that your actions have consequences. Your predecessor's paranoia led him to break protocols. It seems you are determined to follow him." He turned to Aris. "This session is over. Dr. Thorne, your judgment is now in question. Mr. Grey is to be returned to his current residence immediately. His movement privileges are revoked."
There was no arguing. Rourke stood by the door, a silent sentry, as they filed out. Damian risked one last glance at the keyboard. The chip was invisible, but he felt its presence like a scream in the silent room.
The walk back was a silent, humiliating parade. Rourke escorted them all the way to Damian's apartment door.
"Do not test me again, Mr. Grey," Rourke said softly before the door closed. "The next time, a warning will be the least of your concerns."
The door hissed shut. Damian was alone again, but the apartment felt smaller now, the walls closer. He had the key, he'd found the chip, but he'd gained nothing. He was more of a prisoner than before.
He slumped onto the sofa, head in his hands. He'd been so focused on getting to the secret, he hadn't thought about what came next. How was he supposed to get the chip back? And even if he did, how could he read it? His terminal was monitored. Any device he used would be watched.
He was stuck. He had the answer in his hands, but no way to read the question.
A soft chime from his terminal made him jump. It was an incoming message. From Aris.
The screen showed only two lines of text.
He's having my access reviewed. I can't help you again.
The old library. The public access terminals. They're slower. Less monitored.
Damian read the message twice, his pulse quickening. It wasn't help. It was a thread. A tiny, fragile thread of hope. Aris was scared, but she wasn't completely on their side. She'd given him a way.
The public library. It was a risk. But it was the only one he had. He had to get that chip back. And he had to do it before Rourke decided to tear that old apartment apart, brick by brick.