"So let me get this straight," Anne said, zipping up her oversized black hoodie like she was prepping for battle, "the guy who spent years testing fragmented memory prototypes on me… was also my actual father?"
Javier nodded. "Yep. Biologically, at least. Emotionally? About as absent as my will to do math."
They were in a battered garage just outside the city ruins—Eli had secured it with stolen keycards and a personality that screamed "I hack banks for brunch." The bunker had been too exposed; this place had rust, rats, and regret. Perfect cover.
Anne flipped through the rest of the decrypted file. Photographs. Letters. A family tree where her name had been redacted.
Like she was a secret even in her own history.
She raised an eyebrow. "And no one thought to mention this little 'daddy dearest' twist before now?"
"Well, to be fair," Javier said, loading energy cells into a compact scanner gun, "you were half-trapped in a simulated art therapy fever dream for most of your life."
She glared at him. "Oh, right. My bad. Totally missed the 'Check box if your dad's a delusional AI overlord' section in therapy intake."
"You mean runs in the family?"
Anne stared at him.
He shrugged. "Had to."
Eli burst in, waving a cracked holopad. "Found him. The Director's signal just pinged west of the Zero Line. He's holed up in the Red Sector."
Anne froze. "Red Sector's been dead for years."
"Exactly," Eli said. "It's the perfect place for someone who wants to hide… or control every last glitch in the system."
Javier frowned. "That place is crawling with tech decay. No maps. No exits. No guarantee you'll come back not mutated and/or possessed by old radio frequencies."
Anne's eyes were locked on the coordinates.
"I'm going."
Silence.
Javier crossed his arms. "Then I'm going too."
Eli raised a hand. "I'll stay behind and… handle logistics. Yeah. That sounds like a non-life-threatening choice."
Anne turned to Javier. "You don't have to do this."
"I know, but have you met me?" he said. "I make most of my life decisions based on emotional stupidity and caffeine."
She sighed.
"You sure?"
He grinned. "I told you not to fall for me, remember?"
"And I did," she muttered. "Just my luck."
They set out that night. Two backpacks. One stolen bike with mismatched tires. A half-glitched map. And the kind of bond that only forms when trauma, love, and government conspiracy are involved.
The city blurred behind them. Neon ruins. Broken towers. Silent streets whispering with leftover memories. Anne felt like she was driving into her own mind—layers peeling back with every mile.
Hours later, the border to the Red Sector loomed ahead: a rusted gate, flickering with scanner rays and old war drones.
Javier scanned the area. "No movement. Which somehow makes this creepier."
Anne stepped toward the gate.
Her scanner beeped.
Then buzzed again.
And suddenly a voice crackled through her earpiece.
A voice she hadn't heard in over a decade.
> "Annie."
She stopped cold.
> "I knew you'd come."
Javier turned. "Was that—?"
Anne nodded slowly. "That was him."
Her father.
The Director.
Alive. Waiting.