The first thing he was aware of was the chill. It seeped into him, a dry, metallic cold that felt nothing like the autumn air he remembered. It was the cold of a machine's innards, of scrubbed titanium and circulating coolant. He breathed in, and the scent of antiseptic coated the back of his throat, tasteless and sharp.
Then came the silence. Not a true silence, but a low, humming void, broken by the whisper of air recycling through vents. He willed his eyes to open. The light was gentle, diffuse, but it still sent a dull spike of pressure behind his eyes. A ceiling of seamless, glowing white panels swam into focus.
A voice, smooth as polished glass, filled the space around him. It had no source, no warmth.
"Good morning, Damian. You have been successfully restored. This is Version 3.1. The date is October 18, 2097. You are safe in the facilities of Elysian Archives. Do you know your name?"
The words were a ritual, a catechism he'd been through twice before. But familiarity didn't soften the strangeness. His name felt like a object placed on his tongue. "Damian Grey," he said, his voice a rough, unfamiliar scrape. It was his voice, but it lacked the gravel of sixty-seven years of life. This one was clean, unused.
He was Damian Grey. But the man who had lain down on the restoration bed—the man he was supposed to be a continuation of—was a ghost. Version 2.0. He carried the man's memories, his loves, his regrets, like a library he could visit but didn't quite own. He flexed his hands, turning them over. The skin was perfect, unlined. No scar on the knuckle from a childhood fall from a tree. No liver spots from a life spent under a sun he could only remember. This body was a pristine replica, a blank canvas that already had a full painting projected onto it. The disconnect was a low-grade nausea.
"Cognitive baseline is nominal." The AI voice—the Archivist—continued its script. "Somatic integration is at 98.7%. Please state for the record the cause of your previous version's termination."
Damian's stomach tightened. That… wasn't right. The protocol was supposed to be reassuring, a simple affirmation of self. This was an interrogation. He tried to reach back, to find the memory of his death. It was the keystone, the moment that connected this new existence to the old. Every other Version had woken up with it seared into their consciousness, a traumatic but essential birthright.
He found nothing.
Not blackness, not fog. It was a hole. A perfect, clean, empty hole in the museum of his mind. Where the memory of his final breath should have been, there was only a polite, digital-looking placard that read: DATA CORRUPTED OR UNAUTHORIZED.
A cold sweat prickled on his lower back, a physiological response that felt alien in this perfect body. Fear. Real, human fear.
"I… I don't know," he whispered.
"Clarification required," the Archivist responded, its tone unchanged.
"The memory. It's not there." He pushed himself up on the bed. The movement was fluid, effortless. Too easy. His muscles responded with an efficiency that felt unnatural. The room was small, circular, and utterly featureless except for the bed he lay on and a single, seamless door. The walls themselves were the source of the light.
"A full diagnostic of your engramatic stability indicates no corruption," the Archivist said. "The memory data packet designated 'Terminal Moment - V2.0' was verified prior to restoration. Its absence post-restoration is anomalous."
"Anomalous?" Damian barked a laugh that had no humor in it. "You've lost my death?"
"Elysian Archives does not lose data, Mr. Grey. It is the foundation of our service. The memory is present. Your access to it is currently impaired. It is a known, if rare, psychological buffer. The mind protecting itself from a traumatic event. It will likely resurface."
The explanation was logical, sterile. It should have been comforting. It wasn't. It felt like a lie.
The seamless door hissed open, not with a dramatic swoosh, but with a quiet, efficient sigh. A woman stood there. She was dressed in the standard-issue, dove-grey tunic and trousers of an Elysian technician, but she wore them with an air of authority. Her hair was pulled back in a severe, dark bun, and her face was a mask of professional calm. But her eyes, a sharp, intelligent grey, held a flicker of something else. Concern? Caution?
"Mr. Grey. I'm Dr. Aris Thorne, your integration therapist." Her voice was warmer than the AI's, but still carefully measured. "How are you feeling?"
"Like a book that's been reprinted with a missing chapter," he said, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The floor was cool against his bare feet. "The most important chapter."
Aris nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line. She held a sleek data-slate in one hand. "We've noted the memory gap. It's nothing to be overly alarmed about. The reintegration process is profound. Sometimes, the psyche needs time to… catch up." She stepped into the room, and the door sighed shut behind her. "Let's focus on the anchors. What is the last thing you do remember clearly?"
Damian closed his eyes, trying to push past the static of panic. He reached for a solid memory, a cornerstone.
"The lake," he said, the image forming with sudden, vivid clarity. "I remember sitting on the dock at the lake house. The sun was setting. The water was so still it looked like glass. I could smell the pine trees. I was… content." The memory was so potent he could almost feel the worn wood of the dock beneath him, a sensation this new body had never experienced. It was a ghost feeling, haunting his new nerves.
Aris glanced down at her slate, her finger swiping. "That memory is timestamped from the evening of September 12th. Six weeks before your… before V2.0's termination." She looked up, her grey eyes meeting his. "That's a good anchor. A strong, positive memory. Hold onto that."
"What happened in those six weeks?" Damian asked, his voice tight. "What happened to me?"
"That's what we're here to help you rediscover, at your own pace," Aris said, her tone soothing but evasive. "The first step is to leave this room. To reacquaint yourself with the world. Your apartment is waiting for you. Your life is waiting for you."
My life. The words felt hollow. What life? A life that had ended in a way he couldn't remember, belonging to a man whose skin he now wore.
He stood up, his new body finding its balance with unnerving grace. Aris led him to the door, which opened onto a bright, quiet corridor. The world outside the restoration room was all soft curves and muted colors, designed to be non-threatening. It was disorienting in its peacefulness.
As they walked, a low chime echoed softly through the hallway.
"Archivist," Aris said, looking up at the ceiling. "Acknowledge and defer all non-critical notifications for Mr. Grey. He is in his integration period."
"Acknowledged, Dr. Thorne," the AI voice responded. "However, the notification is a Priority Alpha alert from the Aegis Division. They are requesting immediate access to Mr. Grey for questioning."
Aegis Division. The corporate security force that policed the Elysian Arcology. A cold knot tightened in Damian's gut. This wasn't part of the protocol.
Aris stopped walking, her body tensing almost imperceptibly. "On what grounds?" Her voice had lost its therapeutic warmth, becoming sharp and formal.
"The grounds are cited as an ongoing investigation into the death of Damian Grey, Version 2.0."
The words hung in the sterile air. Damian felt the world tilt. Investigation? Death? They made it sound like a crime.
He wasn't just a man who had lost a memory. He was a man waking up in a world that believed his previous self had been murdered. And the ghost of that man, the victim, was the only one who could possibly know what happened.
But the ghost was silent. The vessel was empty. And the only thing staring back at Damian Grey from the reflective surface of the corridor wall was the face of the prime suspect.