Kahn woke to light that smelled like bleach.
For a moment, he wasn't sure he had opened his eyes at all — only a blank, hot brightness behind his lids. When he forced them open, the room resolved into clinical whiteness: white walls, a narrow bed, a single pillow. There was no furniture, no window, no sound except the small, insistent rat-tat of his own pulse.
Muscle memory jerked him upright. The first thing he needed was a mirror. He had to know if the reflection that had flashed in the man's sunglasses had been real — or another trick.
There was no mirror on the wall. Panic flared like a match. Then his eyes found it: a polished strip of glass inset low in the far wall, deliberate and watchful. He crossed the room on unsteady legs and crouched, staring.
The face that looked back was his and not his. Tangled hair. Dark crescents under his eyes. Cheekbones sharp from weight lost and fear. No flawless symmetry. No correcting hands adjusting posture. The reflection blinked when he blinked. Messy. Human.
He let out a sound that might have been a laugh, more relief than sanity. The vision in the man's glasses had been an illusion — not the whole truth.
Footsteps outside made the ceiling lights flick. The door opened. A man entered in a long coat, broad-shouldered, expression tempered into efficiency. He carried only a small tablet that hummed faintly.
"Mr. Kahn." The voice was even and low. "I'm Commander Elias Voss. Field Containment Operations."
Kahn's mouth worked. "You… the parking lot—"
"You were recovered from an active Aberrant encounter," Voss said. He set the tablet on the bedside table and folded his hands. "You're alive. That is fortunate, and also a liability."
Kahn swallowed hard. "What happened to me?"
Voss's eyes were flat and practiced, but they didn't lie. "You encountered an Aberrant. That is our designation. Not a species, not a category — each one is unique. They are born from obsession, a single mind twisted until it no longer resembles anything human. Their form, their abilities, their influence — all of it grows out of that obsession. In your case, the thing you saw was consumed by symmetry."
Kahn's breath came faster. "Obsession gives them… power?"
"More than power," Voss said. "When an Aberrant consumes a memory, it doesn't just know what you know — it becomes more than it was. It gains wisdom, self-awareness, the capacity to act with intent rather than instinct. Each memory digested sharpens it, deepens it, gives it tools to reshape the world according to its obsession. That's why no two encounters are ever the same. Every Aberrant is singular, unpredictable — a nightmare written by its own fixation."
"And the danger doesn't end with me?" Kahn asked.
"Once you've seen an Aberrant's form — once you've felt its obsession — you're marked," Voss said. "If you dwell on it, recall it too sharply, or let your thoughts fall into the same rhythm… it can feel you. That resonance is enough for it to brush against your mind again. Every Aberrant is different, and its obsession dictates how that connection works. With the one you saw — symmetry — the danger lies in patterns, reflections, balance. If you're not careful, the very act of noticing symmetry could allow it to reach back, touch your mind, even twist your perception."
Kahn shivered. "So I'm never safe?"
Before Voss could answer, the door opened again. Light spilled into the room as a woman entered, tall, composed, and sharp-eyed. Her hair was deep, blood-red, cascading straight down her back, and her eyes were a piercing, obsidian black — beautiful, unnerving, impossible to look away from. Her uniform bore the insignia of the Federation Directorate, her posture that of someone accustomed to absolute authority.
"You're lucky," she said softly, a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Memory erasure isn't common. Most who survive an encounter like yours… they don't get a choice. You do."
Kahn's mouth went dry.
"I am Director Selene Veyra," she continued. "You have two options. The first, as Commander Voss mentioned, is erasure. We remove the memory vectors connected to the Aberrant encounter — the details that could allow it to resonate with you. You will wake without key sequences, sensory impressions, the patterns that established the connection. You will be reintegrated into civilian life, under watch. Safe. Protected. But unaware."
Kahn swallowed. "And the other choice?"
"Join us," Veyra said, her tone even but firm. "Enlist in containment and research. You will train to resist, recognize, and exploit the cognitive patterns of Aberrants. You'll participate in controlled exposures and field retrievals. You'll learn to keep a memory as a tool rather than a liability. Survival will demand discipline, vigilance, and courage. But you will retain agency."
"And if I refuse?" Kahn asked, voice low.
"Then," Veyra said, eyes narrowing slightly, "we proceed with erasure anyway. The Aberrant you encountered can feel you — sense your thoughts, patterns, even when you think you are safe. Without excision or training, you remain a target. Memory removal is the only humane option left."
Kahn imagined waking to blank places in himself like stolen rooms. He imagined the Aberrant, patient, tracing, reaching, bending his mind if he wasn't careful.
He stared at the polished glass on the far wall, his imperfect reflection watching.
For a breath, he let the mirror hold him. He searched for the part of himself that could choose — the part that would survive.
Finally, he closed his fingers around the card Voss had placed on the bedside table until the pads of his thumb went white.
"Tell me everything," he said finally. "Start with the worst."
Veyra nodded once, curt and decisive. "You will want to know. That will affect your choice." She tapped the tablet, and the room's white light shifted, focusing like a stage as information began to flow — names, incidents, diagrams of obsession vectors and psychic tethers.
Kahn's pulse hammered in his ears as the data streamed across the tablet. Images of twisted forms—some grotesque, some deceptively human—flickered in stark relief. Lines and grids overlaid faces and objects, patterns that made his skin crawl. He saw the Aberrants' reach: a thought here, a memory there, corrupted by obsession, forming a network that could ensnare anyone who lingered too long. Each example was more horrifying than the last, the tendrils of fixation insidious and invisible. Kahn swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the card. The weight of choice pressed down: forget and live safely, or face the nightmare again, armed but aware.