Chapter 2: Aurelia Doesn't Ask
Elias didn't open the file right away.
That delay wasn't fear, exactly. It was discipline. The same discipline that let him stand in front of investors while his heart tried to chew through his ribs, the same discipline that let him smile at clients who treated reality like something they could return for store credit.
He didn't panic.
He triaged.
In the street set, the guests were clustered in pockets now, masks tilted, phones out, voices sharp with the thrill of witnessing something that might become a headline.
Mara's face was pale in a way Elias rarely saw. "The medical team is trying to get her stable."
"The system did that," Elias said.
Mara swallowed. "The air readouts are still 'normal.'"
"Normal by whose definition?" he asked, and his voice came out calm enough to be cruel.
He looked back at the woman on the ground. She was breathing now, shallow and wrong. Her eyes were half-open, unfocused, as if she was watching a memory instead of the ceiling.
"You left me there," she'd whispered.
Not a plea. An accusation.
Elias had never seen her. He knew that the way he knew the layout of his own apartment in the dark. But certainty didn't change the fact that his body still felt like it had been recognized.
Recognized by something that shouldn't know him.
Mara's tablet buzzed again. "The system is generating something else."
Elias finally looked at his phone.
The attachment waited. AURELIA_BRIEF.pdf.
He moved with Mara toward the corridor, away from the crowd, away from the cameras. His staff opened the velvet curtain and Elias stepped through the threshold into concrete silence.
The corridor was intentionally boring. It always was. Like an airlock. Like the part of your mind that tried to act normal after something broke.
Mara sealed the curtain behind them. Sound vanished.
"What if it's malware?" Mara asked.
Elias didn't answer right away. He was already doing the math. There were two ways this could happen:
One: someone got access to the system.
Two: the system didn't need them to.
He opened the file.
The PDF loaded instantly. No lag. No buffering. Like it had been waiting.
At the top was a single line:
WELCOME BACK, ELIAS.
His stomach tightened. The sensation was small but precise, like a needle pressing into skin.
Mara leaned over his shoulder, reading. "That's… not a client brief."
Elias scrolled.
The "brief" was formatted like his actual internal documents. Same structure. Same headings. Same language. Someone had copied his style so well it felt like looking at his own handwriting.
PROJECT: AURELIA
LOCATION: UNDISCLOSED
OBJECTIVE: CONTROLLED RECOVERY / UNCONTROLLED RECALL
SPECIAL CONDITIONS: NO MEDIA. NO OUTSIDE SECURITY. NO INVESTOR OBSERVERS.
PAYMENT: UNLIMITED
He scrolled again.
ENVIRONMENT REQUIREMENTS:
Hallway: 11 feet long. Narrow. Paint: "Seafoam" with water damage in upper corner.
Bathroom: cracked mirror, lower left. Sink dripping at 3-second intervals.
Scent profile: wet cardboard + antiseptic + burnt sugar.
Sound cue: refrigerator hum, intermittent clicking.
Lighting: single bulb, flickers twice before stabilizing.
Elias stared.
His fingers went cold.
Mara spoke first, voice thin. "How would someone even—"
Elias kept reading.
NOTE: The hallway must feel "too small." The ceiling should press. The air should turn heavy. We want the subject to recall the moment before the door opened.
Elias's throat tightened. Not from fear. From a sudden, violent anger he couldn't place neatly.
He didn't remember telling anyone about seafoam walls.
He didn't remember describing a mirror crack.
He didn't remember sharing a scent like burnt sugar.
But his body remembered it anyway, a phantom reaction: nausea, sweat, the urge to back up, the urge to put a door between himself and whatever that hallway had contained.
Mara's eyes flicked to him. "Elias… is this real?"
He shut the phone screen off.
The corridor light above them buzzed softly. Not part of the set. Just cheap building electricity.
He didn't like the way it sounded. It sounded too much like the hum in the brief.
"Who has access to my prototype files?" he asked.
Mara stiffened. "Prototype files?"
Elias held her gaze. He could feel the moment trying to become a confession.
Mara's expression sharpened. "Elias. What did you build before this?"
He didn't answer. He didn't need to. Silence was an answer when you knew how to hear it.
Mara's mouth tightened. "You said GOLDEN HOUR was the first full biometric adaptation test."
"It was the first public one," Elias said.
Mara went very still.
"Elias," she said quietly, "what did you do?"
Before he could respond, the building shuddered.
Not an earthquake. Not a passing truck.
A deliberate vibration.
Like something heavy had moved behind a wall.
They both froze.
The velvet curtain behind them stirred, even though there was no air current. It lifted slightly, like a hand had brushed it.
Mara's fingers hovered near her earpiece. "Security, report."
Static answered.
Then, through the static, a whisper.
Not a clear voice. Not on the line.
In the corridor itself.
Elias's skin prickled. He turned his head slowly.
The corridor at the far end looked the same. Concrete. Dim lights. Blank door.
But the blank door was no longer blank.
A thin line of light leaked from underneath it.
As if someone had turned on a room behind it.
Mara's breath hitched. "That door doesn't go anywhere."
"It goes to storage," Elias said automatically.
But as he said it, he realized he'd never actually used it.
Storage was what you called a place you didn't want to think about.
Mara took a step back. "Elias…"
His phone vibrated again. The PDF had updated.
A new line appeared under the environment requirements, like it was typing in real time:
6. DOOR MUST OPEN INWARD. SUBJECT MUST HESITATE.
Elias's pulse finally rose, sharp and undeniable.
"Someone is inside," Mara whispered.
Elias listened.
No footsteps. No breathing. No movement.
Only the soft hum of the corridor light.
And that thin strip of light under the door, steady as a promise.
Mara reached for her radio again. "Security, I need—"
The radio crackled.
A voice came through, strained and panicked.
"Mara, we can't get out."
Elias's head snapped toward her.
The voice continued, shaking. "The gallery doors won't open. The exits aren't responding. The clients are—"
A crash in the background. A scream.
Then the line cut.
Silence returned so fast it felt like pressure.
Mara stared at Elias like she was seeing him for the first time. "This isn't a glitch. It's coordinated."
Elias's eyes returned to the door.
The light under it brightened.
Then dimmed.
Then brightened again.
Twice.
Like a bulb flickering before it stabilizes.
Exactly like the brief.
Elias took one step toward it.
Mara grabbed his sleeve. "Don't."
He didn't look at her. "If that room exists…"
"It shouldn't," Mara said, voice cracking.
Elias's hand reached for the handle.
Cold metal.
He hesitated.
A beat too long.
Then, from the other side of the door, something tapped.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
A rhythm Elias recognized in his bones.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Mara's grip tightened. "Elias, what is Aurelia?"
His fingers closed around the handle.
And in the silence, Elias realized the truth he'd been dodging:
He didn't know if he was about to open a storage room.
Or a memory he'd buried on purpose.
He turned the handle.
The door opened inward.