The silence after Rourke left was heavier than before. It was a listening silence. Damian stood frozen in the middle of his own apartment, feeling like the walls themselves were holding their breath, waiting for him to make a wrong move. His heart was still pounding, a frantic drumbeat against his ribs.
Movement privileges revoked.
The words echoed in his head. He was a prisoner in a gilded cage. A bird with its wings clipped, staring at the sky through a window he couldn't open. He paced the length of the room, the plush carpet swallowing his footsteps. Every instinct screamed at him to run, to do something, but there was nowhere to go. The door was a sealed barrier. The Archivist was always listening.
He slumped back onto the sofa, the fight draining out of him. He'd been so clever, finding the key, tricking Aris. And for what? To get a data-chip he couldn't read and to paint a bigger target on his own back. He felt a sudden, sharp understanding of his predecessor. This was the paranoia. This feeling of being boxed in, watched, controlled. It wasn't a sickness; it was the only sane reaction to this place.
His eyes landed on the lavender plant Marta had brought. It sat on the table, a stubborn little piece of life in the dead room. Things can still grow, even here, she'd said. The memory of Elara's face, clear and smiling in the photograph, flashed in his mind. That was a real thing. A thing worth growing for.
Aris's message was a tiny crack in the wall. The old library. The public access terminals. They're slower. Less monitored.
It wasn't a solution. It was a chance. A stupid, dangerous chance. But it was the only one he had.
First, he had to get the chip back. The idea of going back to The Aerie, with Rourke's warning fresh in his ears, made his stomach clench. But Rourke had just been there. He'd probably assume the threat was enough, that Damian would be too scared to move. The safest time to break a rule is right after you've been caught. Maybe.
He needed a reason to be out. A reason the Archivist would accept.
He stood up and walked to his food dispenser. He pressed the button for a coffee. The machine hummed and produced a steaming mug of brown liquid that smelled like chemicals and nothing else. He took a sip. It was bitter and weak.
This was it. His excuse.
He carried the mug to the door and took a deep breath. "Archivist," he said, trying to keep his voice even.
"Yes, Mr. Grey?" the smooth, calm voice replied from nowhere.
"The coffee from this dispenser is... it's giving me a headache. It tastes wrong. Is there a public cafeteria where I could get a different one? Maybe something with real beans?" He forced a weak smile. "It's a small thing, I know. But with everything..."
He let the sentence hang, playing the fragile, confused patient.
There was a pause. He could almost hear the AI weighing his request against his restricted status.
"Your well-being is a priority," the Archivist said finally. "The Arboretum Level has a public café that uses organic ingredients. Your access is temporarily granted for one hour. Please do not deviate from the direct route."
The door hissed open.
Damian's knees almost buckled with relief. He stepped out into the hallway, the mug shaking in his hand. It had worked. A stupid complaint about coffee had opened the door.
He walked quickly, not too fast, following the glowing path that appeared on the floor, leading him to the Arboretum. His mind was racing. He wouldn't be going to the café. The second he was out of sight of the cameras in his hallway, he'd change course. It was a risk. The Archivist might track his movement. But he was betting that the AI was busy, that one man taking a wrong turn wouldn't set off major alarms.
He reached a junction. The glowing path curved left, toward the lush, artificial greenery of the Arboretum. To the right, the older, dimmer corridors that led back to The Aerie stretched out like a dark mouth.
He hesitated for only a second. He thought of the data-chip, hidden between the keys of a dusty keyboard. He thought of Elara's face.
He turned right.
The air grew cooler, the light dimmer. He moved faster now, his soft-soled shoes making no sound. Every shadow seemed to hold Rourke's shape. Every distant echo of a footstep made his heart stop.
He reached the hallway leading to Unit 734. It was empty and silent. The door was still slightly ajar from their rushed exit. He slipped inside, the smell of dust and memories hitting him like a physical blow.
He went straight to the synth-keyboard. His fingers, clumsy with nerves, fumbled between the large plastic keys. For a terrifying second, he felt nothing. Had it fallen out? Had Rourke already found it?
Then his fingertip brushed against something small and hard. He pinched it and pulled. The black data-chip sat in his palm, a tiny sliver of hope.
He had it.
Now came the hard part. Getting to the library, and seeing what secrets his dead self had died to protect.