Liora's POV
I didn't notice anything strange when I woke up.
Not at first.
The room looks the same as it did last night. Clothes draped over the back of a chair. My keys on the floor where I dropped them. A mug I forgot to wash. The usual clutter. The usual smell of old coffee drifting through the air.
I rub my face, try to blink the sleep away, and shuffle toward the door because I think I heard a knock.
When I open it, there's no one there.
Just an envelope on the floor.
It's thick, and smooth. Heavier than anything that should show up at my apartment at eight in the morning. The front has only one word printed across it:
Hayes.
Not "Liora."
Not my full name.
Just the last one, like they want to be formal but distant at the same time.
I hesitate before picking it up, and I don't know why. Something about it feels cold and out of place. Like a wrong note in a familiar song.
But I carry it inside anyway.
I sit on the couch, slide my thumb under the seal, and open it.
Two pages slip out. Sharp, crisp paper. The kind that feels expensive. The kind that comes from people who want to look official.
I start reading.
"This document confirms the transfer of proprietary cognitive sequences from subject: Liora Hayes."
I stare at the page for a long moment, thinking I misread it.
Cognitive sequences?
Transfer?
Subject?
I keep going.
"All archived memory data collected between March 3rd and February 28th now falls under the legal and operational authority of Drayce Industries."
My heart kicks once, hard.
Those dates cover a full year.
A year I can't clearly remember anyway, but I always told myself it was because work had drained me. Because stress fogs everything. Because I'm forgetful when I push too hard.
But this says the memories weren't forgotten.
They were taken.
I sit back slowly. The couch feels too soft beneath me. The room feels smaller than it did a minute ago. I reread the sentence again, word by word, hoping it will make sense the second time through.
But it doesn't.
My pulse begins to run faster as I move through the rest of the page. Every line is written with that same cold certainty. That same tone that makes it sound like they're stating weather conditions instead of telling me something impossible.
A company claims ownership of a year of my mind.
There's no apology. Not one explanation. Just instructions:
"The subject is required to appear for compliance review within seventy-two hours."
Compliance with what?
I look up from the paper and glance around the apartment as if someone is about to jump out and yell that this is a prank. But the place is empty and quiet.
Too quiet.
I turn the second page.
At the bottom, printed neatly, is the name of the man who runs the company.
Eylon Drayce
Chief Executive Officer
Drayce Industries
I breathe out slowly, even though my lungs don't want to relax. I've seen the name online before. He builds things ordinary people don't understand, things beyond normal technology. His company works in security, neurodata, bioresearch. The kind of fields where mistakes ruin lives.
But I've never met him.
Never contacted his company.
Never signed anything.
Why would his name be on a notice like this?
My fingers tighten around the paper. A dull ache forms in my stomach, spreading upward like cold water.
I need proof this is fake. Some tiny detail I missed. A typo or misplaced stamp. I grab my phone and open my gallery.
The photos jump from March 2nd to March 5th the following year. One clean skip. I scroll slower, hoping something will appear if I look hard enough.
Nothing.
I check emails, calendar events, my messages, receipts and even notes.
Everything has the same hole.
March to March.
All Gone.
A soft sound escapes me—half disbelief, half panic. I close my eyes a moment, trying to remember anything from that missing stretch. A day, conversation, or a place. Something.
But when I reach for those memories, it feels like leaning over a railing and finding nothing but air below. There's no resistance. No shape. No hint of something blurred or distant.
It's blank.
I open my eyes again because staying still makes it worse. The room feels wrong now, like I'm seeing everything with a new filter. The shelves, the desk, the walls. Familiar things wrapped in a quiet threat I can't name.
I stand and walk toward the front door. I don't know what I expect to find—maybe reassurance that the envelope is the only strange thing in my morning. Maybe signs that this whole thing is harmless.
Instead, I see the scratches.
They're small, thin marks near the lock. I kneel and trace one with my fingertip. It's sharp. Newer than the rest of the door. Not the kind of mark someone makes by accident.
Someone tried to get in.
My breath catches tight in my chest.
I check the lock again, slow and careful. Nothing looks obviously broken, but the scratches don't lie. Someone worked at this door recently. Someone who knew what they were doing.
I sit back on the floor, the notice still in my hand, and the reality hits harder than before.
The missing year.
The letter.
The demand for compliance.
And now proof that someone touched my door.
None of this is random.
I try to picture who could want something from me. I write articles. I ask questions about companies and politics and people with too much power. I annoy the wrong types sometimes, but never enough to make anyone break into my home.
At least, I thought not.
My chest tightens. I hold the papers again, scanning the text for anything I missed—any clue that explains how a year of my mind disappeared.
But the notice gives nothing.
No reason or warning.
Nothing human behind the words.
Just control.
I stand up again because sitting feels dangerous now. My skin prickles like someone's watching. I check the windows. Then the peephole. The hallway outside is empty.
Still, I lock the door even though it's daytime.
My hands won't stop shaking.
I sit on the couch with the envelope placed in front of me like it might move if I blink. The room feels sharper now. Every creak in the walls. Every car below the window. Every tiny noise I never noticed before.
I breathe in through my nose. Hold it and let it go slowly. I've covered stories on people who panic until they can't think. I am not going to be one of them.
But my voice shakes when I whisper, "What happened to me?"
The question hangs in the air, heavier than the envelope.
The only thing I know for sure is this:
A year of my memory was stolen.
Someone left a warning wrapped in legal language, and someone marked my door.