POV: Meher
For a second, nobody breathes.
Not Avni.Not Kiyan.Not even the damn building — and it's been screaming for five minutes straight.
Just silence.
And the small, impossible metal shard sitting cold between my fingers.
The key.
The reason he vanished.
The reason he almost died.
The reason I almost killed him.
Nivaan stares at it like it's a memory with teeth.
I expected him to panic.To break.To run.
But instead?
He laughs.
Not funny laughter.Not relieved.
A quiet, unhinged laugh of someone who's finally realizing the universe isn't random — it's personal.
And targeted.
His voice is low. Controlled. Deadly human.
"You knew."
I should deny it.
That would be smart. Strategic. Clean.
But I'm done pretending.
So I meet his gaze head-on.
"I suspected," I say. "But I didn't have confirmation until now."
He steps closer. Slow, careful. Like approaching a bomb he once designed but forgot how to defuse.
"You could've told me."
I tilt my head.
"You didn't trust me then."
"And now?"
I smile without warmth.
"Now you're out of options."
Kiyan lets out a soft whistle."Damn. Is this trauma or foreplay? I genuinely cannot tell."
Avni elbows him so hard he almost folds.
Good.
One problem at a time.
I close my hand around the key.
And instantly—something happens.
Heat.Pressure.Memory.
Not mine.
His.
Sudden flashes burst behind my eyelids:
—Nivaan screaming in a surgical chair.—A screen filled with neural activity spikes.—His voice breaking: "If I forget—she won't."—A gloved hand taking the key.—My voice whispering back: "I'll remember for you."
My breath goes sharp.
I stagger, putting a hand against the wall.
Kiyan moves to help — Nivaan stops him with a raised palm.
"She's remembering," he murmurs."Let it happen."
It takes ten seconds.
Ten seconds of drowning in someone else's past.
When it stops, I'm shaking — but not confused anymore.
Not lost.
Just furious.
"They played us," I say.
Not poetic.Not dramatic.
True.
Avni looks at me like I just announced gravity is optional.
"What do you mean?"
I step forward, lifting the key so everyone sees it.
"This wasn't just memory storage."
My voice hardens.
"This is a lock."
Avni blinks.
"For what?"
I look at Nivaan.
The only person who already knows the answer — even if part of him hates admitting it.
His jaw tightens.
His voice is quiet. Barely audible beneath the alarms.
"For me."
Not metaphorical.Not emotional.
Literal.
This key unlocks the block inside his mind — the part the corporation buried.
Kiyan rubs his forehead.
"So we've been running around like NPCs while the final boss fight was literally in your jacket pocket?"
"Essentially," I reply.
Nivaan steps closer.
So close I feel every breath he takes.
"Give it to me."
Not a request.
A command.
The kind he used to make before everything broke — before he remembered how to be human.
I wrap my fingers tighter around the key.
"No."
His eyes sharpen.
"No?"
I shrug.
"You don't get to demand access to your trauma like it's a software patch. If you unlock this without preparation, without control—"
"You think I'll become the clone."
He already knows the risk.
Good.
"Not the clone," I correct."The man they built. The version of you who didn't hesitate. Who obeyed."
Silence.
Heavy.
Real.
Then Nivaan says something terrifyingly calm.
"What if that's who I need to be to survive?"
Avni flinches.Kiyan swears under his breath.
I don't move.
I just look at him.
Really look.
He's exhausted.Cornered.Half-awake.Still bleeding from memories.
And yet somehow — still trying to choose the version of himself that ends the war, even if it costs him the softer parts he's just starting to reclaim.
I exhale slowly.
"Maybe one day," I say."But not now."
He stares at me.
Then — something shifts.
Not anger.Not betrayal.
Acceptance.
Like part of him already knew I'd refuse.
A distant explosion shakes the walls.Lights flicker back to red.
SYSTEM OVERRIDE DETECTED.PURGE MODE ACTIVATED.ALL PERSONNEL: RUN.
Kiyan yells: "Okay THAT tone means we need to leave like— now now."
We move.
Running through smoke, alarms, glitching walls.
Nivaan keeps pace beside me.
Not speaking.Not demanding.
Just existing.
But right before we hit the final exit door, he catches my arm.
One sentence.Not a threat.Not a plea.
A promise.
"When this is over," he says quietly,"we open it. Together."
My throat tightens.
I nod.
And for the first time in months — maybe years — he smiles.
Not his corporate smile.Not his dead smile.
A real one.
The kind that remembers.
We push through the door.
And step into the night.
Running — not from the danger.
But toward the truth.