“Still here,” I say aloud, even though I can’t hear it.
Good, Donnelly mutters.Keep saying it.
The voice returns without warning.
“Subject Zero-Three. Confirm awareness.”
I smile.
“No,” I say.
A pause. Not long. But there.
“Confirm awareness,” the voice repeats.
“No,” I say again, and this time I feel Donnelly surge forward, lending heat to the defiance. “You don’t get confirmation. You get presence.”
Silence.
Then: “Noted.”
Something changes.
Pressure builds behind my eyes – not pain, exactly, but insistence. Like a hand pressing gently but relentlessly against my thoughts.
Images surface.
A room. A door. A person standing just out of sight.
Memory injection, Silas says.Or simulation. False? Or real?
The scene sharpens. I recognise it now. A place from my past. Not an important one. Not a trauma. Just…ordinary.
That’s how they get you.
The door opens. Someone steps inside.
Their face is blurred, indistinct, but the posture is familiar. Friendly. Non-threatening.
“Hey,” they say. “It’s been a while.”
My chest tightens.
Don’t engage,Donnelly warns.
I want to,Silas protests, aching.I want someone to see us.
The figure steps closer. The room fills with details – colour, sound, weight. Sensory feedback floods back in so fast it makes me dizzy.
Relief hits like a drug.
I stagger.
“Easy,” the figure says gently, reaching out.
The urge to lean into that hand is overwhelming. To anchor myself in this borrowed reality.
It’s not real,Donnelly insists.It’s a construct.
