Day Reset in: 22:13:54
Noah stared at the countdown hovering faintly in the air, its glow like a thin, cold pulse against the darkness. The numbers were ticking down steadily—as if nothing had changed, as if the world still believed he had a full day ahead. But he knew better.
Reset only restored time.
It never restored consequences.
0-2's scream still lived in the back of his skull—her voice cracking between pain and betrayal as he pulled her away from the swarm of shadows. He saved her, yes. But the system had punished him for stepping outside its perfect script. He could still feel the echo of the penalty burning beneath his skin, a warning branded into bone.
Noah pressed his fingers against his temple, steadying himself as the corridor around him resolved into shape. This time when he opened his eyes, he wasn't in the previous room. The system had moved him.
A new district. A new day. A new trap.
Harsh white lights buzzed above him. He stood in a narrow hallway with walls made from reflective metal—cold, surgical, too clean for anything human. It reminded him of a laboratory where mistakes were dissected instead of corrected. Cameras lined the ceiling like metallic insects.
Something felt off.
His breath clouded faintly in the air.
Cold. Too cold.
This room wasn't a test.
It was an archive.
The system whispered into existence:
[District 04 — Memory Extraction Wing]
[Welcome, Subject 0-1.]
[Your presence has been verified.]
He exhaled slowly.
The system had never addressed him this directly before.
A chill crawled up his spine as the next line appeared:
[Proceed to Room Θ-19 for orientation.]
Orientation.
As if he were starting a job.
As if this weren't a nightmare consuming him one reset at a time.
But he walked.
Because the system never left him a choice.
THE MEMORY HALL
The hallway stretched long and silent, each step echoing too loudly. Doors lined both sides, each labeled with Greek letters: Σ-02, Φ-07, Ψ-14… all sealed, all humming softly as though something behind them struggled to breathe.
Then something flickered.
Noah paused.
A door far down the hall—Ω-03—shuddered violently. A dull, rhythmic banging came from behind it. Not mechanical. Not structural.
Human.
"Noah…"
A voice.
Soft. Raspy. Familiar.
His chest tightened.
"Liora?"
No answer—but he felt her presence like a second heartbeat.
The system chimed:
[Distraction detected.]
[Deviation from assigned path will result in penalty.]
He didn't care.
He reached for the door handle—
But before his fingers touched it, static exploded across the hallway like a shockwave. Every door lit red. Sirens wailed.
[Warning: Unauthorized contact.]
[Penalty Imminent.]
A jolt ripped through his spine, throwing him against the opposite wall with enough force to bruise bone. He tasted blood. The metal floor shook beneath him, resonating with the system's irritation.
The pain stopped abruptly.
[Final warning issued, Subject 0-1.]
[Proceed immediately to Room Θ-19.]
His vision blurred, but he forced himself upright. The system wasn't bluffing—he knew the next penalty wouldn't just hurt.
It would kill.
He inhaled shakily and continued walking, but his mind stayed behind that door.
Ω-03.
Liora's voice.
Why would she be here?
Why would she sound like that?
Unless…
Unless she wasn't a survivor.
Unless she wasn't a prisoner.
Unless she was a memory.
ROOM Θ-19
The door to Θ-19 slid open with a slow hiss. Noah stepped inside—and immediately froze.
The room stretched wide and circular, filled with floating screens suspended in the air like holographic petals. Each screen showed fragments:
A boy running.
A hand reaching.
Blood splattering against concrete.
A woman crying in a white coat.
A metal cradle.
A child with wires in his skull.
His stomach twisted.
These weren't images.
They were memories.
His.
The system welcomed him like a host preparing a dinner he never asked for.
[Subject 0-1's Memory Integrity Assessment Initiated.]
[Please stand in the center circle.]
He didn't move.
"Why am I here?" he demanded.
The screens flickered.
[To learn.]
"What?"
[To remember.]
The temperature in the room dropped again, frosting the edges of the screens. Noah's breath came out in a cloud. One screen drifted closer, glowing softly.
A little boy sat inside a glass chamber, hugging his knees. He looked five. Maybe six. Too small. Too pale. Too quiet.
Noah recognized him instantly.
He felt the memory punch through him like a dull blade.
"No…" he whispered.
The boy lifted his head.
His eyes were empty.
His eyes were Noah's.
The system spoke:
[Memory File: "Origin 0-1."]
[Status: Unlocked.]
The screen expanded, filling the room—
And Noah fell backward into the memory.
THE ORIGIN
He was inside a small chamber.
Cold.
Sterile.
Silent.
He felt the tubes attached to his arms, the weight of the wires on his scalp. He felt the numbness of hunger, the ache of loneliness. Voices murmured on the other side of the glass:
"Subject 0-1 is showing accelerated cognitive responses."
"We should separate him from Prototype 0-2. Emotional contamination risks the experiment."
"He doesn't speak."
"He doesn't need to. He only needs to obey."
He watched the scientists move like shadows.
He watched himself try to speak—
but no sound came out of the child's throat.
Not because he couldn't.
Because he wasn't allowed.
The memory cracked, breaking into another—
He saw 0-2 beside him, a girl with tangled dark hair and bright, defiant eyes. She was slightly older. She whispered stories to him when the lights dimmed. She held his hand through the glass crack they both discovered. She taught him words.
She taught him hope.
Noah suddenly understood why her scream haunted him.
Why he felt connected to her beyond survival.
0-2 wasn't just another experiment.
She was the only warmth in his childhood.
The memory shifted again—
Scientists pulling her away.
Her nails scratching the floor.
Her scream piercing the sterile air.
"Noah! Don't forget me!"
The glass room blurred in his vision. The adult Noah felt his chest cave in as the boy Noah pounded on the glass, helpless, silent, unheard.
The memory dissolved—
And Noah collapsed to his knees in Θ-19, gasping.
THE SYSTEM SPEAKS
Screens dimmed.
The air stilled.
Then:
[Subject 0-1's emotional stability: compromised.]
[Initiating correction protocol.]
A low hum vibrated across the floor, crawling into Noah's bones.
He staggered upright, wiping blood from his lip.
"What correction?"
The room darkened.
A single line appeared.
[Erase Memory File: 0-2?]
[Y/N]
His heart stopped.
"No."
The system repeated:
[Erase Memory File: 0-2?]
[Y/N]
"I said no."
[Confirmation required.]
He clenched his fists, shaking with fury.
"You can reset my day.
You can break my body.
You can punish me for every choice—
But you don't get to erase her."
The screens hissed with static, irritated.
[Subject 0-1 has refused.]
[Penalty Authorized.]
A shockwave slammed into him, hard enough to tear the breath from his lungs. He hit the floor, muscles spasming violently.
But he didn't let go of her name.
Not this time.
Not ever.
The system tried again:
[Erase Memory File: 0-2?]
[Y/N]
He forced his head up, teeth clenched.
"Go to hell."
Silence.
Then—
[Refusal noted.]
[Memory File 0-2 flagged as "Protected".]
Noah froze.
Protected?
The static faded.
The screens dimmed softly.
[Proceed to District 05 for next assignment.]
The door slid open behind him.
He stood on shaking legs, breath harsh and uneven.
The countdown blinked in front of him:
Day Reset in: 20:51:02
Two hours had passed.
His memories restored.
0-2 confirmed alive.
Liora's voice still ringing in his head.
A war was coming.
He stepped into the hallway—
And felt someone watching him.
"Noah," a whisper drifted from the shadows ahead.
Female.
Warm.
Familiar.
Liora's voice.
But not from memory.
From here.
From now.
He raised his head slowly—
And saw a silhouette standing at the end of the corridor.
She stepped into the light.
His heart stopped.
"Liora…?"
Her eyes glowed faintly, the same color as the system's screens.
Not human.
Not anymore.
"Hello… 0-1," she said softly.
"I've been waiting for you."