The rain turned Bangkok into a blur of neon and wet asphalt. Karn stood before the rusty gate of Bang Kwang Prison, his hand gripping a black leather bag holding five hundred thousand baht in cash.
Three days ago, a frantic mother called him, a Memory Detective, begging him to find her daughter's body. The culprit—a serial killer slated for execution in 72 hours—held the last piece of the puzzle.
The Confession Room
Karn was ushered into a stark interrogation room. Sumet Chontharn, a pale, shackled man facing the electric chair, was waiting.
"Mr. Sumet Chontharn," Karn stated flatly. "Serial killer. Seven victims. You die in three days."
Karn placed the bag on the table. "I want your memory. Specifically, the final moments of your last victim, Pah Lek, age 19. The police never found her body."
Sumet's gaze darted from Karn's face to the cash. "Five hundred thousand baht," Karn offered. "Transferred directly to your wife and daughter. Why not do one last good thing before you go?"
Sumet eventually nodded.
Karn moved behind him and fitted the Memory Reader—a metallic gray, VR-like device with five neural connectors—onto Sumet's head.
"Will it hurt?" Sumet whispered. "No. You'll just feel the memory fade. Like watching a movie that finished long ago," Karn replied, adjusting the dials. "You'll still remember what happened, but the feeling will be gone."
While the download processed, Sumet started talking. He described the emptiness after the kills, and how Pah Lek had begged, mentioning her mother and sibling. "But I killed her anyway," Sumet concluded, his voice trembling. "Buried her in the jungle, and drove home as if nothing happened."
The device beeped. Download complete.
Sumet lunged, chained hands straining. "Do you think I'll go to heaven if I tell you where I buried her?"
Karn secured the memory drive. "I don't know about heaven. But at least her mother can finally close her eyes."
He left Sumet alone with his new, sterile emptiness.
The Weight of Knowledge
Outside, Karn sat in his worn Toyota Camry, the city's neon reflected on the hood. He lit a cigarette. Every billboard glowed with the blinding promise of Mnemosyne: "Happiness is near. Just delete the pain."
Karn felt a familiar bitterness. Ten years ago, he believed this tech would save the world. Now, he only saw souls selling their past for temporary relief.
Back in his dilapidated Ramkhamhaeng apartment, he ignored the cold Hainanese chicken rice and plugged the serial killer's memory drive into his analysis machine.
The screen lit up. Karn saw the world through the murderer's eyes: Pah Lek leaving a convenience store at 2 AM, the abduction, the desperate cries, the drive to a forest near Nakhon Nayok, and finally, the silence of the burial site near a large waterfall rock.
Fifteen minutes later, he had the location. He used an encrypted channel to send the anonymous tip to a contact in the press. By morning, the police would have the lead, and the family would have closure.
Job done.
Karn ate the cold chicken rice mechanically, the taste irrelevant. He flipped on the TV for noise, unable to tolerate silence now.
On the news, the founder of Mnemosyne, Dr. Araya Vichyavisit, was being interviewed after opening a new branch in Singapore.
"We are not selling happiness," Araya, sharp in his dark suit and confident smile, declared. "We are giving people the chance to start fresh, to let go of the past, to look forward. This is the evolution of humanity."
Karn stared at the screen, staring at the face of his father—the man he hadn't spoken to in three years.
He shut off the TV. Before falling asleep on his sagging mattress, Karn found himself pondering the question he asked every night: In a world where everyone casts aside their pain, mistakes, and lessons—are we truly still living?
He had no answer, only the relentless sound of the falling rain.