"You think you're clever," he says quietly. "You think the jokes and the attitude will protect you. That if you're annoying enough, I'll get frustrated and make a mistake."
"Is it working?"
"No." He leans in, one hand bracing on the counter beside my hip. "I've interrogated people who made you look like an amateur. I've broken minds that were stronger than yours. Your little defense mechanism is transparent, predictable, and ultimately useless."
"And yet you brought me here." I don't look away. Don't give him the satisfaction. "Off the record. Hidden from your own people. If I'm so useless, why go to the trouble?"
Surprise colors his expression. There and gone, too fast to read.
"Get off my counter," he says again. "Please."
The 'please' throws me. It's not a word I expected from him.
I slide off the counter, putting a few feet of space between us. My heart is still pounding, but I keep my voice light.
"Since you asked so nicely."
He picks up his coffee and takes a long sip, watching me over the rim.
"Project Omega," he finally says. "You were investigating something called Project Omega when we took you. I need to know what you found."
My vision blurs, fragments of memory crashing through—a file folder, photographs of children, shipping manifests, a name I can almost grasp—
I grab the counter to steady myself. The kitchen tilts, then rights itself.
"Jonah."
I blink. Jagger is closer than he was, one hand hovering near my arm like he's not sure if he should touch me. There's something in his face that looks almost like concern, which is disorienting enough to pull me back to the present.
"I'm fine." I step back, putting distance between us. My hands are shaking. I shove them in my pockets so he can't see. "Just... that name. It triggered something."
"What did you see?"
"I don't know. People. Kids." I press the heel of my hand against my forehead, trying to hold onto the images as they slip away like water through fingers. " A facility somewhere cold. Snow outside windows. And there was a name, someone important, but I can't..."
I trail off, frustrated. It's like trying to grab smoke.
"A name," Jagger repeats. "What kind of name?"
"I don't know. Foreign, maybe? German? It's gone now." I laugh, and it sounds bitter even to me. "Three years of chemical erasure, and now my brain is leaking like a broken faucet. Very dignified."
He's watching me with that intensity again. Studying me. I can practically see the gears turning behind his eyes.
"The memories will continue to surface," he says. "The process has already started. It can't be reversed."
"Wonderful. Perhaps I’ll finally be able to remember my mother’s name.” I grab my water bottle, take a long drink. "So what happens when I remember everything? When I remember what you did to me?”
"We'll deal with that when it happens."
"You keep saying 'deal with.' That's very ominous and non-specific. Are we talking therapy? Murder? A strongly worded apology?"
"I don't apologize."
"Shocking. Truly shocking." I set the bottle down. "Look, Harrison, I get it. You're the big bad wolf and I'm supposed to be terrified. And I am, for the record. Terrified. But I've also been terrified for three years straight, and at some point, the fear just... runs out. You hit a baseline of constant dread and everything else becomes background noise."
He's quiet for a moment. "You're not what I expected."
"What did you expect? A weeping mess? A broken shell? Sorry to disappoint."
