Chapter 16 – "Love, Laptops & Locked Doors"
You'd think saving the world — or at least a part of it — would come with a moment of glory. Balloons. Confetti. A dramatic musical score. Instead, I found myself back in Rohan's apartment, barefoot, hair frizzing from the Delhi humidity, and staring down a pile of tangled wires and a very suspicious-looking hard drive.
Yep. Reality. Unfiltered and slightly underwhelming.
Rohan sat across from me, his ever-present laptop balanced on one knee. The glow from the screen made his already intense eyes look like they'd been highlit with neon drama. He was biting his lower lip — something I'd learned meant either he's solving something extremely complicated or he's trying not to yell at me for touching his highly classified files again.
"So," I began, leaning back against the couch, "what are the chances this isn't some kind of ticking digital bomb?"
He didn't look up. "Slim to none. But hey, what's life without a little danger?"
"Says the guy who once panicked because I used his coffee mug."
"That was a security protocol."
"That mug had a cat on it that said 'Hiss Off'."
"I stand by my reasoning."
I grinned, but my chest still felt tight. Ever since Isha had reappeared — pale, shaken, and haunted — things had shifted. Rohan wasn't just Rohan anymore. He was someone who used to build systems capable of controlling memories. And I wasn't just Aanya. I was... Subject A.
Not the title I'd been aiming for in life.
"So," I said, breaking the silence again, "you're sure this data is the final piece?"
Rohan finally looked up at me, and something flickered in his expression. Weariness. Hope. Guilt.
"Isha believes it is," he said. "It's the original code she smuggled out before the Apex lab explosion. If we decrypt it, we'll have proof of the memory integration protocols. The ones they used on you."
Boom. There it was.
That phrase — "used on you" — still hadn't sunk in completely. I kept expecting to wake up and find this was just some hyper-dramatic Netflix show my subconscious had written during a particularly spicy dinner.
But I didn't wake up.
I was awake. And I was terrified.
And yet, I couldn't walk away.
Not anymore.
I sat up, legs folded beneath me. "Okay. So what's the plan? Besides, you know, not dying?"
Rohan gave me a wry smile — his version of romantic enthusiasm. "We decrypt the files. We extract the memory maps. We find out who authorized the use of live human subjects. And then... we leak everything."
"Wow. A date night plan that includes digital espionage. How do you keep things so spicy?"
He rolled his eyes, but I saw the corner of his lips twitch. "You're not afraid?"
"I'm terrified," I replied honestly. "But I'm also really pissed off. Someone messed with my head, Rohan. With my choices. With us. I want answers."
He nodded. Then hesitated. "You still trust me?"
That stopped me cold.
Rohan rarely asked emotional questions. He preferred firewalls and encryption to feelings.
But the way he asked it now — small voice, lowered gaze — told me he needed the truth.
So I leaned forward and took his hand, lacing my fingers through his.
"I trust you," I said softly. "Maybe not the version of you from two years ago. Maybe not the scientist who was too smart to realize he was being used. But this you — the guy who helped save Isha, who lets me steal his snacks, who gets flustered when I call him handsome — yeah. I trust him."
Silence stretched between us.
Then he squeezed my hand.
And for the first time in days, I saw the storm in his eyes calm — just a little.
---
Midnight Revelation
It took hours, but we finally cracked a part of the data.
Isha had created a mirrored file tree disguised as old audio logs. Genius. We ran them through a series of voice recognition filters and language protocols, and eventually, the machine began to speak.
"Subject A. Emotional trigger calibration: complete. Integration date: March 17. Simulation tested at 93% effectiveness."
My blood ran cold.
"That's my mother's birthday," I whispered. "They started testing the memory implants on me... the same day I went to that weird consultation for a scholarship. Remember?"
Rohan's hands curled into fists. "They weren't offering scholarships. They were scanning cognitive pathways. Memory mapping. It's why you never got the callback. They didn't need to admit you. They already had what they wanted."
I wanted to scream. Or break something. Or crawl into bed and cry.
But instead, I pulled the laptop closer and said, "Let's keep going."
Because rage has a strange way of sharpening your focus.
---
Flashbacks and Firewalls
The more we decrypted, the more horrifying it became.
Dozens of test subjects. Simulated interactions. Even emotional pairing models — where Apex tested how people responded to synthetic bonds.
In simple terms: They didn't just alter memories. They designed relationships.
And apparently, Rohan and I were one of their longest-running, unsanctioned experiments.
"It explains everything," he said, eyes locked on the screen. "Why we kept running into each other. Why I felt like I knew you, even when we'd never met. Why your laugh felt like something I'd heard before."
I swallowed. "Do you think it was all fake?"
"No." His voice was firm. "The setup may have been engineered. But what we built after that — the late nights, the fights, the feelings — that was real."
I wanted to believe him. Desperately.
But a small voice in my head whispered: How do you know?
Still, I nodded. Because sometimes belief isn't about certainty — it's about choosing to trust when it's hardest.
---
One Last Lock
As dawn broke, Isha returned with backup files and a plan.
"We expose them tonight," she said. "There's a symposium — media, Apex heads, rival companies. If we leak the files live, they can't bury it."
I stared at the hard drive. The device that held the truth about who I was... and who I wasn't.
"You okay?" Rohan asked, standing beside me.
"No," I said. "But I'm ready."
He took my hand.
"Let's finish this."
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