Iwoke in stages. First, awareness of warmth—soft blankets instead of medical restraints. Then scent—lavender and something clinical underneath. Finally, sound—his voice, low and careful, reading from what sounded like medical notes.
"Subject shows expected resistance patterns. Cognitive dissonance between implanted narratives and original conditioning creating systemic stress. Recommend graduated reintegration protocol with emphasis on positive association rebuilding."
My eyes wouldn't open properly. Too heavy, like someone had weighted the lids. But I could turn my head slightly, enough to see him sitting in a chair beside the bed. Not the regression suite anymore. Somewhere softer. Somewhere that smelled like him.
"Pupil response indicates consciousness returning." He set down his tablet, leaning forward. "Hello, sweetheart. Take yourtime. The sedatives were a bit stronger than usual—your system was severely compromised."
I tried to speak. Managed only a croak that might have been his name or a curse. Hard to tell when your throat felt like sandpaper.
"Here." A straw touched my lips. "Small sips. Your stomach's still settling."
The water tasted wrong. Too clean, with a bitter edge that meant medication. I turned my head away after two sips, rebellion in the smallest gesture.
"I know it tastes off. Just a mild mood stabilizer, some vitamins. Nothing that will compromise your autonomy." He set the glass aside, studying me with those winter-sky eyes. "How do you feel?"
Like I'd been unmade and reassembled by someone working from corrupted blueprints. Like my bones were in the wrong places. Like every truth I'd built was actually a lie, but I didn't know which direction the deception ran.
"Nathan." The name escaped before I could stop it.
Something flickered across Gabriel's face. Not jealousy—darker than that. "Being held for questioning. The facility's security isn't mine, if that's what you're wondering. Institute cleanup crew. They're very interested in his recent activities."
"You said he is your brother."
"He is." Gabriel's fingers found my wrist, checking pulse with casual intimacy. "The conditioning conflicts, the memory implants, the trauma bonding—all standard protocol. But actually developing feelings? Taking you to ground instead of immediate retrieval? That wasn't in his contract."
I tried to process this. Failed. Everything felt sideways, like looking at the world through broken glass.
"You're lying."
"Am I?" So calm. So reasonable. "Tell me, Bunny—what do you actually remember about your time with him? Not feelings, not impressions. Actual memories. Clear, sequential events."
I reached for them. Found fog. Moments of clarity surrounded by strange gaps, like someone had edited the film of my life. Nathan's hands. Nathan's mouth. The safe house that materialized exactly when we needed it. The intelligence that arrived just in time. How convenient it all was, when I really thought about it.
"That's the memory blockers working," Gabriel continued. "Makes it easier to implant false narratives if the real ones are chemically suppressed. You'll start recovering them as the drugs leave your system. Though I warn you—the process can be distressing."
"Stop." But the word had no force. I was too tired, too confused, too aware of how right his hands felt checking my vitals. "Just stop talking."
"If that's what you need."
He fell silent, but didn't leave. Just sat there, presence heavy as gravity, while I tried to sort truth from manipulation. The room was nice—soft greys and creams, morning light through gauze curtains. Nothing like the clinical spaces I associated with him. Or was that another lie? Another implanted association designed to make me distrust?
"Where are we?"
"Recovery suite. Private facility about two hours from the city." He anticipated my next question. "Not Institute-affiliated. I've been quite careful about maintaining distance from them since... since I lost you."
Since he abandoned me. Since he left me to die without him. Since whatever actually happened that my broken memory couldn't quite access.
I tried to sit up. Made it halfway before muscles protested, everything weak and uncoordinated. Gabriel moved to help and I flinched back, body confused about whether his touch meant safety or danger.
"I'm not going to hurt you."
"You already have."
"Yes." Simple acknowledgment. "Though I'd argue the context matters. Everything I did was to prepare you, protect you, make you capable of surviving what was coming. Would you prefer I'd left you ignorant? Untrained? Unable to defend yourself when they came?"
"I'd prefer you hadn't made me at all."
Something shifted in his expression. Pain, maybe, or its clinical cousin. "You weren't made, Bunny. You were refined. Shaped. There's a difference."
