(Elias POV)
Noa has changed.
Not enough that anyone else would notice. Not enough that she would know how to describe it. But I feel it the way you feel pressure before a storm—subtle, atmospheric, unavoidable.
She's quieter.
Not the fragile quiet from before. This one has edges.
When I come home that evening, she's sitting on the couch with her legs tucked beneath her, hands folded in her lap. She looks small. Contained. Perfectly composed.
Too composed.
"Hi," she says.
Her voice is steady.
I hang my coat slowly, deliberately. I don't respond right away. I watch her reflection in the darkened window instead. Her eyes track my movements even when she pretends they aren't.
She's alert.
Good.
Dangerous.
"How was your day?" she asks.
The question is wrong. She never asks that unless she's trying to anchor herself to normalcy.
"Productive," I reply.
She nods, like that means something to her.
I sit across from her, crossing one leg over the other. I keep my posture open, non-threatening. I've learned the value of appearing permissive.
She studies my face.
"Did Dr. Keene say anything?" she asks.
Interesting.
"She's concerned," I say truthfully. "Concerned is her default."
"And you?" Noa presses. "Are you concerned?"
I hold her gaze. "I'm attentive."
Her fingers tighten together.
There it is.
The fear she's trying to suppress.
Fear is predictable. Fear makes people reactive.
But this… this feels like something else.
"Did you sleep?" I ask.
"A little."
"Dreams?"
She hesitates. "Not that I remember."
Lie.
A soft one. Practiced. I don't correct her.
Instead, I lean forward slightly. "You should eat."
She nods. "I will."
She doesn't move.
I stand, go to the kitchen, and begin unpacking the food. I keep my back to her intentionally. Give her the illusion of opportunity.
People reveal themselves most when they think they aren't being watched.
"You didn't yell today," she says suddenly.
I pause.
"Was I supposed to?"
"No," she replies quickly. "I just… expected anger."
I turn slowly. "Anger would suggest loss of control."
Her eyes flicker.
"I don't lose control," I continue. "I adjust."
She swallows.
This is the moment I realize she's listening differently now. Not absorbing. Analyzing.
I set the plates down and gesture for her to come over.
She does.
Carefully.
Like she's approaching something that might bite.
We eat in silence for a while. I let it stretch. Silence presses on people. It forces them to fill it.
Finally, she speaks.
"You said you've been… maintaining me."
I don't look up. "Yes."
"How often?"
I chew slowly. "Often enough."
She sets her fork down. "How do you decide what to take?"
Now that is a dangerous question.
I meet her gaze. "Why do you ask?"
"I want to understand," she says. "So I don't trigger it."
There's intelligence in that. Adaptation.
I consider lying.
Then decide not to.
"I remove moments that destabilize your identity," I say. "Anything that causes fixation. Loops. Self-harm ideation."
"And emotions?" she asks.
"Emotions aren't memories," I reply. "They're patterns."
Her jaw tightens. "So you leave the feelings… but erase the reasons."
"Yes."
Her face drains of color.
"That's cruel," she whispers.
"It's efficient."
She looks away, blinking rapidly. "Sometimes I wake up terrified for no reason."
I nod. "Because the fear kept you alive. Removing it would've been negligent."
She presses her palms flat against the table.
"I don't know who I am," she says quietly.
I watch her closely.
"That's temporary," I say.
Her head snaps up. "Temporary?"
"Yes."
The truth hangs between us.
"Eventually," I continue calmly, "you stabilize. The emotional residue fades. You become… lighter."
Her voice shakes. "And if I don't?"
I don't answer immediately.
That's my mistake.
She notices.
"If I don't," she repeats, "what happens?"
I lean back in my chair. "Then we reassess."
Her lips tremble. "You talk about me like I'm a system."
"You are," I reply. "Just a biological one."
She laughs weakly. "You don't hear how insane that sounds."
I smile faintly. "I hear it. I just don't share your moral reaction."
She pushes her chair back abruptly and stands. "I need air."
I stand too.
"Stay inside," I say gently. "It's late."
She looks at me, something sharp flaring behind her eyes.
"You don't get to lock me in," she says.
I step closer. "I get to keep you safe."
"I don't feel safe," she snaps.
That's new.
Dangerous.
I soften my tone. "That's because you're remembering more than you should."
Her breath stutters.
"I didn't do anything," she says quickly. "I swear."
I believe her.
That's the problem.
Memory doesn't require intent. Proximity is enough.
I reach out, touching her arm lightly. "You're pushing yourself."
She jerks away.
The room goes very still.
That's the moment.
The shift.
I see it then—clear and unmistakable.
She's not just afraid anymore.
She's planning.
I inhale slowly.
"We need to slow this down," I say.
Her eyes widen. "No—"
"I'll call Dr. Keene," I continue, already reaching for my phone. "Just to recalibrate."
She backs away. "Please don't."
Her voice cracks.
I hesitate.
Just for a fraction of a second.
Enough to confirm it.
"You're thinking about leaving," I say quietly.
Her silence is answer enough.
My chest tightens—not with anger, but with something colder.
Loss of trajectory.
"You know what happens if you do," I remind her.
She shakes her head. "You said you'd let me remember everything."
"Yes."
"And that would destroy me."
"Yes."
Her eyes burn into mine. "You don't sound sad about that."
"I sound honest," I reply.
She laughs then. A sharp, broken sound. "You don't love me."
I step closer, lowering my voice.
"I love you enough to be the villain," I say. "No one else volunteered."
She stares at me, breathing hard.
Then she says something I didn't anticipate.
"What if I already remember something you don't know about?"
The room tilts.
"What?" I ask calmly.
She tilts her head, mirroring me. "What if I remembered wrong?"
That's not possible.
I designed the gaps.
I mapped the sequence.
Unless—
No.
I watch her carefully.
Her expression is unreadable.
Controlled.
For the first time since this began, I feel something slip.
Uncertainty.
I mask it instantly.
"You're testing me," I say.
"Maybe," she replies.
I study her like a problem I've just realized might evolve.
"You shouldn't play games like that," I warn softly.
She meets my gaze.
"Neither should you."
Silence.
Heavy.
Final.
I pocket my phone.
"We'll talk later," I say. "Get some rest."
She nods.
Too easily.
As I turn away, I feel it fully now.
The thing I've been avoiding naming.
Noa isn't just remembering.
She's adapting faster than I anticipated.
And if she's already found a memory I missed—
Then this is no longer containment.
This is an arms race.
Behind me, she whispers my name.
I don't turn around.
Because for the first time since I erased her—
I'm not entirely sure
which one of us is more dangerous now.