When I leave my room in the morning, the first thing I do is look around. Normally I don't do that. The inside of Helix is already controlled. Security is layered. Who enters where, who leaves at what time, everything is recorded. But today there is a strange alertness inside me. The moment the autonome stopped me yesterday is still in my mind.
"Unauthorized access is a system violation," it had said.
Its tone was the same as always. Calm, but the warning was clear. I understood that I shouldn't try again. If I search for 17483 through the system one more time, this time it won't be a warning. It will be an action.
I go to Melissa's room. She has already left. I have to be at my desk in ten minutes, but first I need to find her. I go down to the break area. I don't want to run and attract attention, but my steps are faster than usual. She isn't there either. As I walk toward my desk, I see Melissa already sitting at hers.
"How are you feeling?" I ask.
"Much better," she says. "But this time you don't look good."
"There's something I need to tell you. Let's talk during the first break," I whisper.
"Okay," she says.
Nine o'clock.
I sit at my desk, but I don't really work. I look at the screen, open the files in front of me, but my mind is on 17483. Yesterday the system first gave an authorization error. Then an autonome arrived. Then the log record appeared as "invalid." When those three things come together, it doesn't look like an error. It looks like an intervention.
I open a random file. I watch it, but I barely understand what I'm seeing. My mind is too full. I keep rewinding again and again. I only manage to analyze the first part of the file before the alarm rings.
I stand up immediately. Melissa stands at the same time. We both act normal. We walk through the corridor to the break area. We sit at the table by the window.
It's crowded. But that's not a bad thing. Voices blend together as everyone tells the person next to them what they saw on their screens today. No one can understand anyone except the person right beside them.
I lean closer to Melissa's ear.
"Yesterday I saw a number," I say.
"What number?"
"17483."
Melissa frowns.
"On the analysis list?"
"No."
I tell her everything from the beginning. How I found the paper. How I searched the system. The authorization error. The autonome arriving. The strange movement it made.
Melissa says nothing for a moment. Then she asks calmly,
"Did you search it again?"
"No."
"Good."
"Good?"
"Yes. Because if you search again, it leaves a trace."
I nod. I know that too.
"So what do we do?" I ask.
Melissa thinks for a moment. Then she narrows her eyes.
"You won't search digitally," she says.
"I know."
"Physical archive."
When I hear that word, something moves inside me.
Most things in Helix are digital. But some old records are kept physically. Especially early system transitions, manual lists, entry forms. No one uses them. But they're never destroyed.
"Do we have access there?" I ask.
"Officially, no," she says.
"Unofficially?"
Melissa smiles slightly.
"Meet me during lunch break. Leave the rest to me."
She talks as if the plan is simple, but I have no idea what she will actually do.
"All right," I say.
Waiting for 12:00 has never felt this long.
I analyze the files in front of me, but my mind keeps drifting to the archive floor. The archive is two levels below the main analysis area. Usually only the technical teams go down there. Our access cards are authorized only up to the main corridor.
At twelve, everyone stands up in the same mechanical way. Lunch break in Helix is almost like a programmed movement. Everyone rises at the same time. Everyone walks in the same direction.
Melissa and I don't walk side by side. We keep distance between us.
Instead of the main stairs, I turn into the service corridor. Melissa follows a few seconds later.
The service corridor is narrower. The lights are colder. Cameras are fewer, but they exist. You have to look natural here. No rushing. No looking around too much.
The moment we turn into the service corridor, my pulse rises. The white lights from the main analysis area feel colder here. The ceiling is lower. The space is quieter. Every step echoes more clearly.
Melissa walks in front of me. I follow half a step behind. Neither of us speaks. Talking is unnecessary risk.
When we reach the door leading to the archive level, Melissa takes out an old card from her pocket. Its edges are worn.
"This?" I whisper.
"Old," she says. "Not updated. Someone owed me a favor."
That can be an advantage. Or a risk.
She scans it.
One second.
Two seconds.
The reader light turns red.
Something tightens in my chest.
"Try again," I whisper.
Melissa flips the card and scans it again.
This time yellow.
Then green.
The door slowly opens.
We step inside.
The metallic sound of the door closing behind us feels louder than it should.
The archive level is darker than I expected. Half the lights are off. Long shelves form narrow corridors. The air is dry. There's a faint metallic smell.
The moment I turn on a light, we hear movement somewhere far down the aisle.
We both freeze.
Heavy, regular steps echoing across metal flooring.
An autonome.
Melissa looks straight into my eyes. She doesn't speak, but her expression is clear.
There's a patrol here too.
The steps get closer.
Between the shelves, I see part of its white body. Its head slowly rotates, scanning.
Melissa quietly turns off the light.
Darkness.
Only the emergency strip glows faint red along the floor.
The steps stop.
I can hear my heartbeat in my ears.
One second.
Two seconds.
Then the autonome speaks.
"Human presence detected in the area."
My throat dries.
That sentence wasn't part of the plan.
Its head turns toward our shelf.
I feel Melissa's hand on my shoulder. Don't move.
The autonome takes one step forward.
Then another.
If it takes one more step, it will see us.
Melissa suddenly takes a small metal object from her pocket and throws it across the floor.
A sharp metallic sound echoes through the archive.
The autonome instantly changes direction.
Its head turns toward the noise.
"Sound source being identified."
The steps move away.
Melissa whispers in my ear.
"Now."
We slip out from between the shelves and move deeper into the archive. Not fast, but determined.
The autonome has turned toward the noise.
We have maybe ten seconds.
We turn a corner and reach the storage shelves.
My hands are shaking, but we don't stop.
I find the 17480 block and pull the box down.
Footsteps again behind us.
The autonome must have heard something.
I place the box on the table and open it.
My hands tremble, but I force them steady.
17482…
17484…
"Other box," Melissa whispers.
We pull down the second box.
The footsteps are louder now.
I open it.
17483
I take out the folder.
At that exact moment, the autonome speaks again.
"Unauthorized personnel detected."
I look up.
Between the shelves, I see its white frame. Three corridors away.
Melissa whispers,
"Close it."
There's no time to open the folder.
I shut the box, but the 17483 folder remains on the table.
The autonome moves one corridor closer.
"The archive area is restricted to authorized personnel."
Melissa pushes the folder into the box. There's no time to return it properly. We lean the box back onto the shelf.
The lights being off helps. But not enough.
The autonome reaches the end of the corridor.
If it takes one more step, it will see us.
My heart feels like it's in my throat.
Melissa speaks calmly.
"Authorization code: Analysis unit access."
It's a bluff.
The autonome stops.
Its head tilts slightly.
"Authorization verification in progress."
Time freezes.
If the system checks the card, it will show that we are unauthorized.
One second.
Two seconds.
Then the autonome speaks again.
"Access duration nearing expiration. Please return to the main levels."
Melissa nods slightly.
"Confirmed."
The autonome turns around.
The footsteps fade away.
We don't move for several seconds.
I slowly exhale.
Melissa looks straight into my eyes.
"We have five minutes."
This time we actually do.
I pull the box down again.
Take out the 17483 folder.
Open it.
Inside are blank white pages.
The feeling is worse than almost being caught.
I can understand them locking the digital file. Blocking access. But replacing the physical archive documents with blank pages?
That makes no sense.
When I return to my room later, the uneasiness hasn't left me.
All day I open files and close them again, but it feels like I haven't really analyzed any of them.
17483 sits inside my head like a fixed point.
It no longer feels like a number.
It feels like a word.
A word whose meaning I don't know.
I change my clothes. Gray sweatpants. Gray shirt.
I lie on the bed.
Staring at the ceiling.
My eyes close.
I wake up to the sound of wind.
But my eyes are still closed.
Something touches my face.
Cold, but soft.
Fine grains.
I lift my hand.
Something flows between my fingers.
Sand.
I open my eyes.
Sky.
A real sky.
Not gray. Not a ceiling.
Endless.
I take a breath.
The air smells salty.
It burns my lungs, but it's a good burn.
I stand up.
Warm sand sinks under my feet.
In the distance I hear the sea.
I have never seen the sea in my life. I know that.
But in that moment, I don't know it.
It feels like I remember this place.
Like I've stood here before.
Then I hear a voice.
A man's voice.
Not clear.
As if it's coming through the wind.
"Queue…"
A pause.
"Queue number 17483."
My heart races.
I look around.
No one.
Only waves.
Only wind.
I take one step forward.
My foot finds empty space.
I jolt upright in bed.
My breathing is fast.
My room is dim, but not dark.
I check the time.
03:17
My face is damp with sweat.
Sea.
Sand.
Queue 17483.
I have never seen the sea.
Before coming here I remember nothing about my life.
But there is no sea here.
No wind.
No sand.
It feels like my brain created a memory that doesn't belong to me.
I get up and walk around the room.
I look at the window simulation.
The sky is artificial again.
I place my hand on the glass.
Not cold.
Not real.
I don't go back to bed.
I sit in the chair and wait for morning.
I'm at my desk early.
The system boots up.
Normal flow.
File #41209 appears in front of me.
But my eyes keep drifting to the top right corner.
The search bar.
I don't type 17483.
I know I shouldn't.
Melissa sits at her desk.
Her screen isn't facing me, but I can see its reflection in the glass.
For a moment, the screen freezes.
Very briefly.
Maybe half a second.
A black window appears.
A number.
17483
Under it, two letters.
A.K.
The screen instantly returns to normal.
Melissa continues typing as if nothing happened.
I'm not even sure if I actually saw it.
Maybe my brain is connecting everything to that number after the dream.
Melissa looks up and meets my eyes.
As if she's about to say something.
Then she stops.
I turn back to my screen.
A new file opens.
But now I know one thing.
17483 is not just a forbidden file.
It appears somewhere else in the system too.
And the system does not want me to know that.
For the first time, I think this:
Maybe there is something I don't remember.
But the system does.