The silence in the wake of her words was heavier than any sound. Not a natural death. The phrase echoed in the sterile hallway, sucking the air from Damian's new lungs. Dr. Thorne—Aris—wouldn't meet his eyes. She just turned and continued walking, a grey ghost leading him to his judgement.
They stopped before a door indistinguishable from any other, except for the small, glowing Aegis Division emblem beside it: a stylized shield with a circuit pattern at its core. It pulsed with a slow, relentless rhythm.
"Let me do the talking," Aris murmured, her hand hovering over the access panel. "They're protocol. They see a problem to be solved, not a person to be understood."
Before he could form a retort, the door hissed open. The room within was a stark contrast to the soothing curves of the Archives. It was a box of sharp angles, cold lighting, and walls the color of brushed steel. A single table, bolted to the floor, and two chairs. In one sat a man who looked as though he'd been carved from the same material as the room.
He was tall and lean, dressed in the sharp, black uniform of Aegis. His hair was cropped short, his face all planes and edges. He didn't stand as they entered. His eyes, a flat, dispassionate grey, scanned Damian from head to toe, cataloging him like a piece of evidence. This wasn't the curious gaze of a doctor assessing a patient. This was the stare of a mechanic looking at a malfunctioning unit.
"Mr. Grey. I'm Inspector Kaelen Rourke, Aegis Division." His voice was a low baritone, devoid of inflection. He gestured to the empty chair. "Please."
Damian sat, the chair cold and unforgiving against his thin patient garments. Aris positioned herself slightly behind him, a silent guardian.
"Dr. Thorne informs me you are experiencing a… memory gap regarding your predecessor's termination," Rourke began, steepling his fingers on the table. He didn't have a data-slate. Damian had the unnerving feeling the man was recording everything directly through his cybernetic-enhanced eyes.
"Predecessor?" Damian's voice was rough. "He was me."
"Was he?" Rourke's eyebrow twitched, almost imperceptibly. "That's the question, isn't it? Version 2.0 was found in his residential unit thirty-six hours ago. Cause of death was a catastrophic neural cascade. A system-wide failure of his organic brain."
Damian felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. "A stroke?"
"No. A stroke is a natural event. This was induced. The forensics report indicates a targeted data-stream, a malicious code packet designed to overload and literally burn out neural pathways. It was, to put it bluntly, a digital poison."
The world seemed to tilt. Damian gripped the edge of the table, the smooth metal solid under his fingers. Murder. Someone had murdered him. The him that was, minutes ago, just a missing memory. Now it was a crime scene.
"Who?" The word was a whisper.
"That is the question," Rourke repeated, his gaze unwavering. "The access logs for his apartment show only one entry in the 24 hours prior to the event. His own. The data-stream was routed through an encrypted, untraceable node. Very professional." He leaned forward slightly, the movement predatory in its stillness. "There is, however, one anomaly. A significant one."
Damian said nothing. He could feel Aris's tension radiating from behind him.
"Seventy-two hours before his death, Version 2.0 filed a formal request with Elysian Archives. A request for a Full Consciousness Audit."
Aris sucked in a sharp breath. "That's… highly unusual."
"What is that?" Damian asked, looking between them.
"It's a demand to inspect the integrity of one's own backed-up consciousness," Rourke explained, his eyes locked on Damian. "It's an invasive procedure, rarely used. Essentially, he was accusing the Archives of tampering with his engram. He believed his own mind had been compromised."
The pieces, sharp and jagged, began to click together in Damian's head. V2.0 had suspected something was wrong with his memories, with his very self. Days later, he was dead. And now, the only person who might know why—the new Version—was missing the key memories.
"You think he found something," Damian stated.
"I think it's a remarkable coincidence," Rourke said flatly. "And it creates a unique problem. The only person with any possible knowledge of the events leading to his death is you. And you claim to have no knowledge."
"It's not a claim! It's a hole. A blank space."
"Convenient,"Rourke said, the word hanging in the air like a threat.
"Inspector," Aris cut in, her voice firm. "Mr. Grey is hours out of restoration. His integration is fragile. This level of stress is detrimental. He needs time in a stable environment to allow his memories to resurface naturally, if they are going to at all."
Rourke finally broke his stare, shifting his gaze to Aris. "His 'stable environment' is a crime scene, Doctor. His apartment has been released by forensics, but it remains the epicenter of this investigation." He stood up, his movements efficient and precise. "Mr. Grey, you are not under arrest. But you are a material witness. You will return to your residence. You will not attempt to leave the Arcology. Aegis will be monitoring. Attempt to access any off-grid data networks or engage in any suspicious activity, and your status will be re-evaluated."
He walked to the door without another word, leaving Damian sitting there, his mind reeling. He was free, but he was a prisoner. He was alive, but he was living in a dead man's shoes, suspected of a crime he couldn't remember.
---
His apartment was on the 47th floor, with a window that looked out over the glittering, multi-leveled cityscape of the Arcology. It should have felt like coming home. It felt like walking into a museum curated by a ghost.
The air was still and scentless, scrubbed clean by the environmental systems. Everything was tidy, minimalist. A grey sofa, a single chair, a terminal desk. There were no personal touches. No photographs, no art. It was the home of a man who had already begun to suspect his own life was a lie.
Aris had accompanied him, a silent presence. "The integration protocol suggests familiar surroundings can trigger memory retrieval," she said, her voice softer now that they were away from Rourke. She sounded like she was trying to convince herself.
"Triggers," Damian muttered, running a hand over the cool surface of the desk. "He was paranoid. He thought someone was inside his head. And now I'm supposed to just… live here?"
"It's the only lead you have," she said simply. "Your past self left clues. Whether he meant to or not. Start with the terminal. Check his personal logs. The mundane things. Sometimes the truth is hiding in the ordinary."
She left him then, with a promise to check in later. The door slid shut, and the silence of the apartment descended on him, thick and smothering. He was alone with the ghost of Damian Grey.
He sat at the terminal, the screen blinking to life at his presence. It asked for a biometric scan. He pressed his thumb to the reader. A moment of hesitation, then a green light. Access granted. To the dead man's digital life.
He started where Aris suggested. Daily logs. The last entry was dated the day before his death. He opened it.
The video showed Version 2.0. Himself, but not. This man was older, his face etched with a tension that Damian didn't feel in his own new muscles. His eyes were tired, haunted.
"Log entry, September 28th," the recording began. "The audit is scheduled. Archives are pushing back, citing 'protocol.' They don't want me looking." He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture Damian recognized as his own when stressed. "I keep going over the lake memory. It's too perfect. The light, the smell of the pine… it's like a postcard. But I can't remember what we talked about that night. Elara was there, but her face is… fuzzy. A memory shouldn't be like that. It should have rough edges. This one's been polished."
Elara. The name hit Damian with a physical force. A wave of warmth, followed by a crushing sense of loss. A face flashed in his mind—smiling, with eyes the color of amber—but it was gone as quickly as it came. A memory of a memory.
On the screen, V2.0 leaned closer to the recorder, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I think they're editing me. I think they're making a new Version, and they're cleaning up the source material."
The recording ended.
Damian sat back, his heart hammering. Editing. Cleaning. The words from the Archivist echoed in his head: "The memory data packet… was verified prior to restoration."
What if the memory wasn't lost during restoration? What if it had been altered before he ever died? What if the man on the screen wasn't paranoid, but right?
He was suddenly aware of every quiet hum of the apartment, every flicker of the lights. Inspector Rourke thought the killer was outside these walls. But the enemy V2.0 feared was already inside his own mind.
And now, it was inside Damian's.
He wasn't just living in a dead man's apartment. He was living inside his murder mystery. And the first thing any good detective knows is that the killer always returns to the scene of the crime.