"What, the sugar? Some of us like our coffee to actually taste good, Harrison. Not everyone wants to drink bitter bean water and pretend it's a personality trait."
"It's not a personality trait. It's efficiency."
"Sure. And the black clothes, the minimal furniture, the complete absence of anything resembling joy in this apartment—that's all efficiency too?" He gestures around with his mug. "You know what this place says about you? It says, 'I've never had fun and I'm vaguely offended by the concept.'"
I should ignore him. Should let his commentary wash over me like every other irrelevant variable.
Instead, I hear myself say, "There's a library."
"Oh, a library. How decadent. It’s full of military history and philosophy texts and maybe one novel you've read seventeen times because it's 'efficient.'"
"Dostoevsky isn't efficient."
"Ha!" He points at me, triumphant. "A true Dostoevsky guy. Very on brand. Very 'I enjoy watching people suffer through moral crises because it makes me feel something.'"
"I don't feel things."
"You keep saying that." He takes a long sip of his sugar-laden coffee. "But you also keep responding to my bullshit, which suggests otherwise."
He's not wrong. I don't know why I'm engaging with him. I don't engage with assets. I process them, extract what I need, and move on.
"So," he says, when I don't respond. "What's on the agenda for today? Waterboarding? Psychological manipulation? A rousing game of 'remember the trauma'?"
"Memory evaluation. Controlled triggers to assess the extent of your resurgence."
"Ah. So option three." He takes another sip. "Will there be snacks? I feel like there should be snacks if you're going to dig around in my broken brain. The one you broke, mind you. Funny… it’s also you trying to fix it. Ahh, the circle of life."
I finally turn to face him. He looks worse in daylight than he did on the security feed. Dark circles under his eyes, a grayish pallor to his skin, the kind of exhaustion that goes bone deep. But his mouth is curled into that sharp, mocking smile, and his eyes are alert, watching me like a cat toying with a mouse.
"You didn't sleep," I say.
"Neither did you, apparently. We have so much in common." He gestures between us with his coffee cup. "Insomnia buddies. This is beautiful. So fucking beautiful, Harrison. We should get matching t-shirts."
"The nightmares will get worse as more memories surface."
His smile flickers. Just for a moment. Then it's back, sharper than before. "Thanks for the heads up. Really appreciate the bedside manner. Very comforting."
"I'm not here to comfort you."
"No, you're here to extract information from my scrambled brain and then probably kill me." He shrugs, casual, like we're discussing the weather. "At least you're honest about it. That's refreshing. The guards at detention used to pretend they were helping me. 'Rehabilitation,' they called it. Like drugging someone into compliance is rehabilitation."
Something twists in my chest. I ignore it.
"You were compliant?"
"I was nonresponsive, Harrison. There's a difference." His voice goes flat, the humor draining away. "Three years of chemical fog. Three years of not knowing my own name, my own face, my own thoughts. You know what that's like? Waking up every day and not recognizing the person in the mirror?"
I don't answer. I'm not sure I can.
He watches me for a moment, then shakes his head. "Of course you don't. You've always known exactly who you are. That must be nice."
Before I can respond—before I can tell him that I'm not sure I know anything anymore—he drains his coffee and sets the mug in the sink.
"So. Breakfast? Or do we jump straight into the psychological torture?"
I set my cup next to his. "Eat something. We start in an hour."
"Wait, actual food?” He puts a hand to his chest in mock surprise. "Harrison, you're spoiling me."
