"The details will come back," I say. "The resurgence has already started. It will continue."
"How do you know?"
"Because I designed your erasure protocol." I return to my seat, crossing one leg over the other. "I know exactly how it works. And I know how it fails."
He stares at me, and for a moment, the fear recedes entirely. What's left is something harder. Colder. "You sound almost proud of that."
"I'm good at what I do."
"Breaking people."
"Understanding them." I hold his gaze. "Which is what I'm going to do with you. I'm having you transferred to a private facility. Better conditions than detention.”
I don’t tell him that he will be at my house. I want this off the official records.
Suspicion floods his face. "Why would you do that?"
"Because your memories have potential strategic value. And because I have questions that only you might be able to answer." I stand again, moving toward the door. "Don't mistake practicality for kindness. The moment you stop being useful, this arrangement ends."
"Wouldn't dream of it." His voice is steadier now, the defiance winning out over the fear. "You don't exactly scream humanitarian."
"I'm not any type, Jonah. I'm a tool designed to serve a purpose." I pause with my hand on the door. "You'd do well to remember that."
"Hard to forget when you keep reminding me."
I glance back. He's watching me with those too-sharp eyes, and there's something in his expression I can't quite recognize. Not fear. Not hatred. Something more complicated.
"Get some rest," I say. "You'll need your strength for what comes next."
"That sounds ominous."
"It's meant to."
His laugh catches me off guard. Broken and bitter, but a laugh nonetheless. The sound scrapes against something inside me, something I don't have a name for.
"You know what's funny?" He shakes his head, chains rattling with the movement. "I spent three years terrified of faceless monsters. The people who took everything from me. And now I'm sitting across from one, and you're just... a guy. A cold, fucked up guy with control issues and probably serious attachment disorders, but still. Just a guy."
"I'm not just anything."
"Sure you are. You probably piss the bed at night when the monster in your dreams turns out to be you." His eyes meet mine, unflinching despite everything. Despite the fear still coursing through him, despite the chains, despite the power imbalance that should have him cowering. "That's what scares you, isn't it? You want to be a machine. A perfect tool without weakness or want. But you're not. You're part human, somewhere under all that ice. And you hate it."
My fists clench and my nails dig into my palms. He’s been watching me the whole time I've been watching him, reading me the way I read everyone else.
I should hurt him for that. Should remind him exactly how inhuman I can be when someone pushes me too far. Should puthim back in his place, make him understand that whatever he thinks he sees is a projection, a fantasy, anything but the truth.
Instead, I leave. Close the door behind me. Walk down the corridor with his words echoing in my skull.
You're part human, somewhere under all that ice.
My footsteps are steady. My breathing is controlled. Anyone watching would see exactly what they expect to see: the Architect, calm and composed, another successful interrogation completed.
They wouldn't see the way my hands want to shake. The way my chest feels too tight. The way something cracked, just slightly, when he looked at me and saw past everything I've built.
He's wrong.
He has to be wrong.
Because if he's right, then everything I've constructed over the last thirty years is a lie. Every wall I've built. Every emotion I've suppressed. Every part of myself I've locked away because feeling things is dangerous and wanting things is fatal and the only way to survive in this world is to become exactly what they designed me to be.
