Arnold learned the first rule without anyone explaining it to him.
Nothing here happened quickly.
The receptionist—if that was what she truly was—stood and gestured for him to follow. Her heels made no sound against the floor as she walked past the desk and into a side corridor that Arnold was certain had not existed a moment earlier.
"Where are you taking me?" he asked.
"Forward," she replied.
"That's not an answer."
She glanced back, eyes mild. "It's the only one that's accurate."
The corridor narrowed as they walked. The walls were close enough now that Arnold felt watched from inches away, though there were no eyes, no cracks, nothing physical to justify the sensation.
"Am I under arrest?" he asked.
"No," she said. "Arrest implies intent."
"Intent to what?"
"To punish." She stopped in front of a reinforced glass wall. "This is not punishment."
Beyond the glass was a room.
Inside it sat a man.
He looked normal. Middle-aged. Brown jacket. Hands folded neatly in his lap. He could have been waiting at a bus stop, or in a hospital lobby, or for a meeting that ran late.
The only wrong thing about him was the way the room bent inward around his chair.
"Who is he?" Arnold asked.
The receptionist hesitated.
"That depends," she said. "On whether you mean who he was, or what he triggered."
---
Maizy Harlan read the authorization twice before signing it.
Not because she doubted it.
Because once signed, it would become untrue.
She pressed her thumb to the biometric seal. The screen blinked green, then immediately grayed out, as if embarrassed by its own confirmation.
"Proceed," she said.
Jack did not move.
"That's a civilian," he said quietly.
Maizy didn't look at him. "So was the last one."
"He didn't weaponize anything."
"No," she agreed. "He remembered something."
Jack clenched his jaw. "That's not a crime."
Maizy finally met his eyes. For just a second, the mask slipped.
"It is," she said softly, "when memory causes collapse."
---
The man in the chair looked up as Arnold entered the observation room.
"Oh," he said, relief flooding his voice. "Good. Someone real."
Arnold's stomach twisted. "You're real too."
The man smiled weakly. "That's what I'm afraid of."
The receptionist remained by the door. "You may speak," she told Arnold. "But do not explain."
"Explain what?" Arnold asked.
She didn't answer.
Arnold approached the glass. "What's your name?"
"Daniel," the man said. "Daniel Kress. I think."
"Why are you here?"
Daniel laughed, short and brittle. "I asked a question."
Arnold frowned. "That's it?"
"I work in data recovery," Daniel continued, words spilling faster now. "Old files. Corrupted archives. I found a gap. A missing week in the city records. Not deleted—just… smoothed over."
Arnold felt a cold recognition crawl up his spine.
"I remembered it," Daniel said. "I shouldn't have, but I did. People were gone. Streets rearranged. And when I tried to tell my wife—"
He stopped.
"She looked at me like I was lying," Arnold said quietly.
Daniel's eyes widened. "Yes."
---
The room hummed.
Arnold felt it then—a pressure, subtle but growing, like a headache forming inside the walls themselves. The air thickened. The glass between them frosted at the edges.
"What's happening?" Arnold asked.
The receptionist checked an invisible watch. "Correction."
Daniel began to shake.
"No," he said. "No, I didn't do anything wrong. I didn't tell anyone else. I stopped. I swear I stopped."
Arnold turned to the receptionist. "You said this isn't punishment."
"It isn't," she replied. "It's containment."
"For what?"
"For the idea that shouldn't be spreading."
The pressure intensified. Arnold's vision blurred. Symbols flickered at the edge of his sight—half-formed, painful to focus on.
Daniel screamed.
Not in pain.
In confusion.
"I can't remember!" he cried. "I can't—there was something—I knew something—"
His voice faltered. His posture straightened.
The room relaxed.
Daniel blinked.
"Oh," he said calmly. "Am I waiting for someone?"
Arnold staggered back.
"What did you do to him?" he demanded.
The receptionist's expression was almost kind. "We saved him."
---
Later, as Arnold was escorted away, he glanced back through the glass.
Daniel sat peacefully now, humming to himself. Whole. Functional.
Erased.
Somewhere deep below, Jack turned away from another monitor.
Eron Pike stood beside him, silent, eyes hollow.
"They're alive," Eron said finally.
Jack nodded. "Yes."
"That's supposed to make it better, right?"
Jack didn't answer.
---
As Arnold was led into a waiting room that smelled faintly of antiseptic and dust, a thought settled into his mind—heavy, unavoidable.
No one here called this death.
No one here thought they were villains.
And that terrified him more than monsters ever could.
Because if this was mercy…
What did cruelty look like?
---