The second room was colder.
Not colder like temperature. Colder like intention. The walls here were grey instead of white, a matte steel finish that reflected no light. A calculated lack of warmth.
The kind of place where you didn't just feel watched, you felt recorded.
I stepped through the automatic seal at exactly 1600 hours. Five hours after the first meeting. Helix never deviated. Not by seconds.
The chair across from mine was already occupied.
Lyra.
She looked up this time. Met my gaze the moment I entered. No hesitation. Just a single blink, as if verifying that I was real.
I took my seat. Didn't rush. Matched her posture. Calm. Calculated. My chip vibrated faintly as I sat, a soft background pulse, like the engine hum in a grounded shuttle.
The lights above us strobed gently.
Imperceptible to most.
But I wasn't most.
They were testing blink rate.
Disruption pulses. A standard Helix method to prevent sync coherence. Keep minds unsynced by cycling the brain's visual cortex. But I matched the rhythm anyway.
I didn't blink.
Neither did she.
A file glowed on the table between us, flat, inert. It didn't open. We weren't here to read.
A voice chimed overhead.
"Interview Session Two. Behavioral Continuation. Proceed with scripted diagnostics."
Specter. Again. Same tone. Genderless. Removed.
I spoke first.
"Subject B-19. Can you identify the source of the neural flare recorded during transport?"
Lyra's mouth opened, but no sound came out.
Instead.
A scent.
Sharp. Familiar.
A scent. Sharp. Familiar. Soap. Lemon and alcohol. Not synthetic, homemade. The smell of a cleanroom inside a private lab. A woman's hands scrubbing the floor, humming a tune she never changed. Not Helix. Not foster dormatories. A home. Her home.
It was hers.
I saw a hallway. Metal walls. Yellowed lighting. A bunk with torn sheets.
The image dissolved.
I blinked once.
She hadn't spoken.
Still staring.
Still syncing.
The pulse in my neck chip fluttered.
"Dr. Thompson?" I prompted.
She responded.
"The flare originated from unstable core-loop activity. Subject Alpha's resonance pattern is volatile under proximity."
But she didn't blink.
The words were spoken, but something was wrong. The delay between thought and sound.
She was hearing my questions before I asked them.
I shifted in my seat. Ran a fingertip along the edge of the desk.
She followed the motion with her eyes.
Then tapped once.
Soft. Barely audible.
I didn't react.
Instead, I answered the next line of script.
"What do you hypothesize is causing the fluctuations?"
She didn't move. Didn't breathe.
And then:
> "They're not fluctuations. They're fragments."
My fingers clenched involuntarily.
The words weren't hers.
They were from a recording. An old brief, long classified. I'd heard them once. Sixteen years ago.
My head ached.
Specter's voice returned.
"Maintain verbal clarity. Subject B-19, respond within parameters."
She looked down. Inhaled. Reset her posture.
> "Apologies. Fragmentation pattern is consistent with loop feedback resonance. Not environmental."
I wanted to ask something real. But couldn't. Not here.
She tapped again. Twice this time.
Then whispered something, barely audible.
> "Don't blink."
But her lips didn't move.
I blinked once.
And everything stuttered.
Flash…
Her memory.
Running through a hallway. Holding someone's hand. My hand. Our fingers interlocked, small, smeared with soot. A siren in the background. A child's voice calling a name.
Not hers.
Mine.
"Aaron."
I recoiled slightly.
The pulse spike registered. The table screen flickered red.
ALERT: SYNC LEVEL BREACH.
Specter's voice changed tone. Sharper. Closer.
"Terminating interview. Emergency override in process."
Lyra gripped the table.
I could see it now. Her fingers white knuckled. Her skin pale. The chip behind her ear flickering in erratic bursts.
I needed a way out.
Without thinking, I pushed my vitals up, raised my heart rate, held my breath for four seconds, let it out in a violent cough. My body convulsed forward.
The system registered it as a spike.
A simulated seizure.
EMERGENCY OVERRIDE: ENGAGED.
The lights snapped white.
Doors hissed open.
Medical drones rolled in on silent wheels.
Hands grabbed my arms.
I caught a glimpse of her as they pulled me backward. She was still sitting.
Still staring.
And then she mouthed something.
I couldn't hear it.
But I read it.
Three words.
"Half of a whole."
My pulse flattened.
They dragged me down a different corridor, this one with harsher lights. Fewer cameras. Less forgiveness.
And yet…
Her voice stayed.
Not in the hallway.
Inside me.
Somewhere deep.
Like a frequency I couldn't shut off.
I didn't blink again until they strapped the dampener rig over my skull.
By then, it was too late.