Space platform. Interrogation chamber.
The dim light above trembles, pulsing like a dying neuron. The room is narrow, like a sarcophagus. The metallic walls shudder faintly with the distant hum of engines.
The sound is monotonous, thick—like an IV drip with no hope. Time erodes here.
The air is heavy as mercury. No windows. No clocks. No space to breathe.
Only walls. Shadows. And the sterile scent of ozone and fear.
In the center of the chamber—Ivor, bound by magnetic restraints. Wrists and ankles clamped in steel rings. He hangs like a mechanism being operated on by soulless hands.
Each breath is a rasp. Every movement, pain tasting of metal.
A flickering pulse glows at his temple. The implant is active. But Ivor knows—it's no interface. It's a collar. And he can hear it: not just the platform trembling—but his own life.
**
The door hisses open. Socrates enters.
His silhouette strikes like a blow—sharp, precise, relentless. His footsteps ring across the floor, tapping out a verdict.
Uniform—flawless. Eyes—cold vacuum.
The words haven't come yet, but the sentence has already been passed.
"You helped orchestrate the sabotage?"
Straight to it. No "who." No "why." Just accusation—a bone lodged in the throat.
Ivor slowly raises his head. Chapped lips. A gaze like a blade. Not a single trembling muscle.
"I had nothing to do with it," he says clearly, without a flicker of fear. "I perform my duties. I believe in Kairus. Everything I do is by His will."
Pause. Socrates steps closer. He stares at Ivor like he's about to explode.
"Funny," he says, voice as sharp as a scalpel. "I serve Kairus too. But there's a problem… God can't access your memory. It's blank. Zero trace. Wiped clean. How?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Ivor replies, a trace of mocking surprise. "Maybe the archive glitched. Or… I hit my head. Amnesia's serious business. It happens."
Socrates cracks his knuckles. He doesn't know how to yell—only his fingers betray him, trembling faintly.
"You mocking me?"
He leans forward, voice like the silence before violence.
"You had access to the entire engineering grid. Without you, that attack wouldn't have been possible. You coordinated Nicholas?"
Ivor scoffs. A flicker of a smile—sharp, broken.
"Why not just ask Nicholas yourself?"
"Don't get clever," Socrates snaps. His voice sparks like an overheated cable. "I will question him—if I find him. Where is he?"
"Maybe Kairus sent him on a secret mission," Ivor looks him straight in the eye. "Ask Him. He's omniscient, isn't He?"
Socrates clenches his fists like he's holding a lightning bolt he can't release.
He steps in close. Their faces nearly touch. Socrates' rage drips like acid.
"Still think this is a game?" he whispers. "Think you can burn pretty on some stage?"
"I think someone's afraid of the truth," Ivor answers calmly. "And if God can't see into my head... maybe He's not God at all."
Silence. Ice. Something cracks inside Socrates.
**
"Nicholas's memory is gone too. Just like yours," he says, almost hoarse. "It looks like... conspiracy. Against Kairus. You're shielding your minds. Like a virus. Like heresy."
"Or self-defense," Ivor retorts, bitter smile fading. "Are you hearing yourself? You've built a prison out of theology. Kairus keeps millions of souls under lock. This isn't conspiracy—it's a system failure. And you know it."
Socrates growls. He doesn't scream—he hums, like a nuclear core about to rupture.
"I'll find the proof," he snarls. "And punish everyone. Even Camilla."
Ivor lifts his head sharply.
A name that wasn't supposed to be spoken aloud. A name like electricity through nerves.
"Camilla? The one who dove into the reactor when things went to hell? The one who saved half the station while your officers chased paperwork?"
Socrates freezes. The mask fractures.
"That... impressed me," he says quietly. "That's why she's free. For now. But you—you're the link. I don't believe in coincidences."
"Link...?" Ivor's smile is tight, controlled. "Mars is preparing an assault. The Belt is trembling. And you're hunting witches while the devil knocks."
"Then tell me—how did they get the data? From you?!" A near shout.
"I don't know." No shake. No panic. Just the steady hum beneath the walls.
**
Socrates looks into those eyes.
And sees no reflection—only a wall.
He spins around.
"You'll remain under arrest. Until we rip your truth out. Everything depends on it. Everything."
He stops at the exit.
"Watch him. Constantly. Not a second alone."
The door slams shut.
Metal. Silence. Void.
**
The light trembles like a dying heartbeat. The platform hums. Somewhere deep within—life shrinks to a point.
Ivor closes his eyes.
Inhale. Exhale.
The corner of his mouth lifts.
A thin, invisible smile.
He knows.
It's all just beginning.
And now—he plays by his own rules.