An Architect who can build and destroy in the same breath.
But Jonah Doe looked at me with his too-sharp eyes and his broken smile, and he saw something else.
I make it back to my office before I allow myself to stop. Lock the door. Sit in the dark with only the glow of the monitors for company.
On the screen, Jonah's file stares back at me. His photo from three years ago, before we took him. Bright-eyed. Determined. The kind of face that belongs on someone who still believes in things like truth and justice and making a difference.
We destroyed that person.Idestroyed that person.
And now the pieces are coming back together, and I don't know if I should help them or bury them again.
I pull up the Project Omega files. The Harrison Protocol notation. The phrase that's been haunting me since I found it blinks on the screen.
Three viable subjects.
We were never orphans, were we? We were never rescued from the margins and given a purpose.
We were made. Designed. Products of whatever nightmare Project Omega really was.
And if Jonah's memories surface completely, he might be the only person alive who can prove it.
I close my eyes and breathe.
Tomorrow, I'll have him transferred to my residence. I'll watch him and study him. Extract whatever information he carries.
And somewhere along the way, I'll find out the truth about what I am.
Chapter Two: Jonah
I'msandwichedbetweentwoguards who haven't said a word since they pulled me out of the interrogation room. No explanation. No destination. Just zip ties replacing the chains and a black bag over my head that smells like the last three people who wore it didn't make it to wherever they were going.
Fun.
I try keeping track of the turns. Left, right, right, left. Then I lose it because one of the guards shifts and his elbow digs into my ribs, and suddenly I'm back in a white room with Jagger Harrison's voice in my ear, calm and precise, asking questions that peeled me apart layer by layer.
Shake it off. Focus on the present. The hum of the engine. The scratch of the bag against my nose. The fact that I'm still breathing, which is more than I expected after that little interrogation.
The van stops. Doors open. Hands grab me, haul me out, and I stumble on legs that haven't worked properly in three years.
"Easy there, big guy," I mutter. "Buy me dinner first."
No response.Shocking.
The ground under my feet changes from concrete to something smoother. Tile, maybe. Then carpet. We go up stairs, through a door, and finally the bag comes off.
I blink against the light, eyes watering, and find myself standing in what looks like a very expensive apartment. High ceilings. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a city I don't recognize. Furniture that probably costs more than every possession I've ever owned combined.
And Jagger Harrison, standing by the window with his hands clasped behind his back like some kind of Bond villain waiting for his moment.
"You can leave," he says to the guards. Not looking at them. Looking at me.
They go. The door clicks shut. And then it's just us.
"Nice place," I say, because silence has never been my friend. "Very minimalist murder dungeon. I like what you've done with the lack of personality."
His expression doesn't change. "Sit down."
"Where? On the couch that costs more than my college education? I might get poor person residue on it."
