The lab hummed with the cold indifference of machinery, sterile walls pulsing faintly under the fluorescent lights. A room stripped of personality, of anything that might tether it to the human world. The floor gleamed, too white, too reflective, like a frozen pond beneath artificial suns. In the center of this clinical void sat The Patient. Their body was a stillness that bordered on unnatural, like a figure carved from some forgotten stone, their presence unsettlingly muted yet somehow vast.
They wore gray—a shapeless, colorless uniform that rendered them indistinct against the sterile space, as though they were designed to disappear into it. Their shaved head caught the light in a way that made them seem both ghostly and luminescent, and their hands, pale and deliberate, rested on the arms of a metal chair bolted to the floor. Wires spidered out from nodes along their temples, snaking into machines whose displays flickered with unreadable data.
Behind the glass wall, Miranda Solis watched. She stood tall, a sleek blade of a woman, her movements precise as the instruments that surrounded her. Her tailored charcoal suit fit like armor, sharp angles that mirrored the hardness in her hazel eyes. Her lips curled in concentration, the faintest hint of satisfaction betraying itself as she surveyed the figure in the chair. She scribbled something in the notebook pressed against her palm—quick, efficient strokes of her pen—before turning toward the glass again.
“Begin the protocol,” she said into the intercom.
Somewhere in the room, a machine clicked, then hummed to life. The air grew heavier, though nothing visible changed. The Patient didn’t move, didn’t blink. Their breathing remained maddeningly steady, like a metronome ticking out an otherworldly rhythm. Miranda leaned closer, her fingertips grazing the edge of the control panel as she scanned the monitors.
“Stage one complete,” a technician’s voice crackled in her earpiece.
On the screens, faint lines of biofeedback—heart rate, brain waves—bloomed into steady patterns. The alpha waves were too even, too quiet. Miranda tilted her head. “Increase input by five percent,” she said flatly.
Another click. A faint whir.
The Patient twitched, just once. Barely noticeable, like a breath catching at the end of a dream. Their head lifted slightly, and for the first time, their hands began to move.
The motion was deliberate—slow, like they were underwater—but unmistakably precise. A finger rose into the empty air before them and began tracing invisible lines, movements so fluid they felt almost ritualistic. Circles became spirals; spirals became jagged peaks. Miranda’s brow furrowed. The glass separating her from The Patient now felt thin, too thin.
“What are you doing?” she whispered to herself.
The machinery whined. Monitors flickered, then faltered, lines jagging suddenly out of control. Miranda’s eyes darted to the screens. For a split second, nothing made sense. Numbers collapsed into symbols. Alpha waves turned jagged. Then, without warning, images bled into view—fractured, disjointed, like fragments of forgotten film spliced together in a way the mind couldn’t hold.
A man, barefoot, walking through an endless field of tall grass.
A woman sitting in a doorway, her face hidden, her shoulders shaking with quiet sobs.
Two children holding hands under a bruised twilight sky, staring at something unseen, something waiting just beyond the frame.
Miranda’s hand tightened around her pen, knuckles whitening as the hum in the lab rose to a deafening pitch. The Patient’s movements became more frantic, their hand carving furious shapes in the empty air. Spirals shattered into broken lines. The glass wall trembled as though something far larger than the room itself was pressing against it.
“Shut it down!” Miranda barked, her voice snapping through the intercom like a whip.
The technician stammered something in response, but the machines weren’t listening. Lights pulsed erratically now, casting frantic shadows across the floor. The Patient’s head tilted back, their face expressionless, as if the memory—the force—was pouring through them. For a heartbeat, Miranda swore she saw the faintest light glow behind their eyes, not human but alive.
And then it stopped.
The machines fell silent. The lights steadied. The Patient’s hand froze mid-air before falling limp to the chair’s arm. Their breathing resumed its steady rhythm, as though nothing had happened.
Miranda let out a shaky breath, already reclaiming her composure as she straightened her jacket. Around her, technicians scrambled to assess the damage—monitors flickering back online, wires hissing softly as they cooled. Miranda ignored the chaos, her eyes locked on the figure in the chair. They sat still, untouched, their expression blank as always, but Miranda knew better.
She flipped open her notebook and scribbled furiously.Cross-memory contamination increasing. Could this be weaponized?
Her gaze lingered on The Patient. They remained motionless, but she thought—no, she knew—that something had changed. That finger, tracing symbols in the air…
Miranda’s eyes narrowed, her voice barely a murmur as she whispered to herself.
“What are you hiding?”
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