(Elias POV)
Noa is lying.
She always lies the same way.
Not with her words—she's careful with those—but with her stillness. Too controlled. Too composed. Like an animal that's learned freezing is safer than running.
When I stepped into the apartment and saw the bookshelf slightly misaligned, I already knew.
She found something.
The question isn't what she found.
It's how much.
I watch her from the doorway, cataloging the changes the way I always do. Her pupils are blown. Her breathing is shallow. She's holding her hands together to stop them from shaking.
Fear looks different on everyone. On Noa, it looks like obedience sharpened into desperation.
I close the door behind me gently.
No rush.
Panic makes people sloppy. Silence makes them confess.
"You moved things," I say, keeping my tone neutral. Not accusatory. Not curious.
She laughs too quickly. "I was just restless."
There it is.
The lie she thinks will save her.
I step closer, slow enough to let her heart rate spike before I reach her. She doesn't back away. She never does. Noa learned a long time ago that retreat invites pursuit.
"Restless how?" I ask.
She shrugs. "Couldn't sit still."
I nod, as if considering this. "That happens when your mind tries to reconnect fractured memory threads."
Her eyes flicker.
Good.
I reach out and brush her hair behind her ear. My thumb presses lightly against the pulse point in her neck. Fast. Unsteady.
She's terrified.
But she hasn't bolted.
Which means part of her still believes I'll protect her from whatever she just uncovered.
I lower my voice. "Tell me what you found."
Her lips part. Close again.
I wait.
Silence is a blade if you know how to hold it.
"I didn't find anything," she says finally.
I smile.
Not because it's funny.
Because it's tragic.
"You're doing it again," I murmur. "The thing where you think denial creates distance."
I step closer, backing her toward the couch. She moves instinctively, like her body remembers this choreography even if her mind doesn't.
"I don't need you to lie," I continue calmly. "I need you to survive."
Her breath stutters.
"There's a difference," she whispers.
"Not in practice," I reply.
She swallows. "You weren't supposed to keep anything."
Ah.
So she found the phone.
Not everything. Not yet.
But enough.
I straighten, letting a fraction of disappointment enter my expression—not anger. Never anger. Anger makes people defensive.
Disappointment makes them small.
"You weren't supposed to look," I say.
Her voice breaks. "You said it was all gone."
"I said the dangerous parts were gone."
"That's not the same thing."
"No," I agree. "It's better."
She shakes her head, backing away until her knees hit the couch and she sinks onto it without realizing.
"You're still doing it," she says. "Controlling the narrative."
I tilt my head. "You say that like it's a flaw."
Her eyes fill with tears. "You took my choice."
I crouch in front of her, resting my forearms on my knees. Bringing myself to her level. Equalizing the power just enough to feel humane.
"You were going to die," I say softly.
"That doesn't give you the right—"
"It gave me the obligation," I interrupt.
Her hands curl into fists. "You decided who I was allowed to be."
I nod. "Yes."
The word lands heavier than any apology could.
She stares at me, horror slowly eclipsing confusion.
"You're not even sorry," she whispers.
"I am," I say. "About the pain. Not about the outcome."
She laughs then. A broken sound. "You're sick."
I don't deny it.
I stand and walk to the kitchen, giving her space to unravel just enough to feel the loss of control.
"Do you know why memory is dangerous?" I ask casually, pouring myself a glass of water.
She doesn't answer.
"Because it creates moral frameworks," I continue. "Before memory, there's instinct. After memory, there's guilt."
I turn back to her.
"I took the guilt," I say. "So you wouldn't have to."
Her voice trembles. "You took the truth."
"I curated it."
She presses her hands to her temples. "I saw the messages."
I freeze.
Just for a second.
That's more than I planned.
"What messages?" I ask evenly.
Her eyes lift to mine. Something sharp and new flickers there. Suspicion, finally untethered from fear.
"There was someone else," she says. "You weren't doing this alone."
I inhale slowly.
Then I smile.
"Ah," I say. "That."
Her face pales. "You admit it?"
"There are some truths you don't deny," I reply. "They become louder when you do."
She stands abruptly. "Who are they?"
"Someone who understands consequences."
"You mean someone who helps you erase people," she snaps.
"Memories," I correct. "I erase memories. People erase themselves."
She recoils like I struck her.
Good.
This version of her—the one that flinches—is still moldable.
"You killed him," she says. "You covered it up."
"I contained the damage," I reply. "There's a difference."
"You're a monster."
I step close again. Close enough that she has to tilt her head back to look at me.
"And yet," I murmur, "you slept peacefully beside me for months."
Tears spill down her cheeks. "Because I didn't know."
"Because you trusted me," I correct. "And that trust wasn't misplaced."
Her voice cracks. "You don't get to define that."
I lean down, my mouth near her ear.
"I already did."
She shoves me then.
Harder than I expected.
I stagger back a step, surprised—not angry.
She's stronger than before.
That's a problem.
"I won't let you do this again," she says, breath ragged. "I won't let you erase me."
I straighten slowly.
"This again?" I repeat. "Noa… this never stopped."
Her face drains of color. "What does that mean?"
I study her. Weighing options. Risk. Timing.
Truth is a weapon. Best used when escape routes are limited.
"It means," I say carefully, "that memory isn't a switch. It's a process."
She shakes her head. "You said it was done."
"It was stabilized," I correct. "But stabilization requires maintenance."
She stares at me, horrified.
"You've been doing this," she whispers. "Little by little."
"Yes."
Her knees buckle. She grabs the back of the chair to stay upright.
"Every time you got too close," I continue calmly. "Every time you asked the wrong question. Every time you started remembering the stairs."
Her lips tremble. "How many times?"
I pause.
Long enough to let dread bloom.
"Enough," I say.
She sinks into the chair, sobbing now. "You're erasing me."
"No," I say gently. "I'm preserving you."
She looks up, eyes wild. "There won't be anything left."
I kneel in front of her again, taking her face in my hands.
"There will be exactly what you need to survive," I whisper. "Nothing more."
She shakes her head. "I won't forgive you."
I smile sadly. "You already have. You just don't remember when."
Her sob catches.
That line always works.
I stand, already reaching for my phone.
"I'll call Dr. Keene," I say. "We'll slow things down. Make adjustments."
She lunges for me.
"Don't," she begs. "Please. I'll be good. I won't look. I won't ask."
I stop.
Turn back to her.
And for the first time since this began, I feel something dangerous stir beneath my calm.
Not anger.
Fear.
Because I recognize that tone.
The bargaining.
That's not submission.
That's preparation.
I step closer, lowering my voice.
"Noa," I say quietly, "if you run… I won't erase anything."
Her breath catches.
"I'll let you remember everything."
Her eyes widen in terror.
"And then," I continue softly, "I'll let the world decide what to do with you."
I straighten.
"Be careful what freedom you ask for," I say. "You might survive it."
I walk away, already dialing.
Behind me, she whispers my name.
But she doesn't follow.
Good.
Because the next time she tries to leave—
I won't be choosing mercy.