Good. The memories are closer to the surface than the report suggested.
"Jonah Doe." I take the seat across from him, keeping my posture deliberately relaxed. Projecting calm. Control. The kind of stillness that makes nervous people more nervous. "Do you know who I am?"
His mouth twists into something that's probably supposed to be a smile. It looks more like a grimace. "Jagger Harrison. The Architect. The mind behind half the operations I can't quite remember investigating." He spits as he says my name and title.
Cute.
"You remember investigating The Silent?"
"Fragments." His voice is rough. Damaged from years of disuse, or maybe from the screaming. "Faces without names. Places without context. The shape of something massive and terrible that I was stupid enough to try exposing."
"Stupid is accurate." I let my gaze move over him, deliberately dismissive. Taking in the tremor in his hands, the sweat beading at his temples, the way he's gripping his knees to keep himself still. "You thought you could take on an organization that's existed for centuries. You thought your little newspaper articles would matter. And now look at you."
His jaw tightens. There it is. Anger breaking through the fear.
"The report says you're experiencing memory resurgence," I continue. "Tell me what you remember."
"Bits and pieces. Nothing useful." He's trying to match my coldness, but his body betrays him. "Is this the part where you threaten to hurt me if I don't cooperate? Because I should warn you, I've been hurt by professionals before. You'll have to get creative."
"I don't need to hurt you. Pain is inefficient." I lean back in my chair, letting silence stretch between us. "I broke you once already. I can do it again whenever I choose. The only question is whether you're useful enough to justify keeping you functional."
The color drains from his face. "You. You were the one who—"
"Yes. It was me. I designed your interrogation protocol. I supervised your chemical processing. Sat across from you for eighteen hours while you screamed yourself hoarse." I watch his reaction with detached interest. The way his breathing speeds up. The way his pupils dilate. The way his body tenses like a trapped animal. "You don't remember the specifics. The erasure took most of the details. But somewhere in that damaged brain of yours, you know exactly what I am."
He's silent for a long moment. I can almost see the gears turning, the fragments of memory trying to coalesce into something coherent.
"Why am I here?" His voice cracks on the question. "If you're the one who broke me, why bring me back?"
"Because something went wrong with your processing. Memories that should have been permanently erased are resurfacing." I stand, and he flinches hard enough to rattle his chains. The sound is satisfying in a way I don't examine too closely. "I need to know what you're remembering. And why."
"So you can erase me again?"
"So I can determine whether you have any remaining value." I move toward him, watching the way he tries to press back into the chair like he can phase through it. "The Silent doesn't keep broken tools, Jonah. You're either useful or you're disposed of. There is no third option."
He swallows hard. "And if I refuse to cooperate?"
"Then I hand you over for reprocessing, and this conversation becomes the last coherent thought you ever have." I stop directly in front of him, close enough that he has to crane his neck to look at me. "Your choice."
Something shifts in his expression. Still terrified, but underneath it, a flicker of defiance that has no business being there. A spark that should have been extinguished three years ago.
"Westpoint," he says. "I was investigating Westpoint Academy when you took me."
The name hits like ice in my veins.He remembers.I keep my face blank, but my surprise must show, because his eyes sharpen despite his fear.
"You know that name," he says. "You know what I was looking for."
"Westpoint Academy was a boarding school for gifted youth. It burned down over a year ago."
"Bullshit." He's leaning forward now, chains forgotten, terror temporarily eclipsed by whatever drove him to investigate us in the first place. "It was a front for something. I found shipping manifests. Medical equipment going in, but no patients being treated. Birth certificates that didn't match any hospital records. Connections to fertility clinics on three continents. I found—"
He stops. Presses the heel of his hand against his forehead, face contorting with pain.
"You found what?" I already know what he found… what hereportedthat he found, but I want him frantic. That’s when he will tell me what I need to know and I can throw his body to the sea.
"I don't know. It's right there, but I can't—" A frustrated sound escapes him. "Like reading through frosted glass. I can see the shapes but not the details."
The memories are fragmentary but present. With time, with the right triggers, they might surface completely.
