Cycle Fragmented
Subject ID: 47B
Something's changed.
Not in the room. That's the same—same white walls, same recycled air that tastes like static and old lightbulbs. No, it's him.
Jonah hasn't said a word since I woke up. Just stares at the far wall, eyes glassy. His hands are shaking. I've seen that kind of tremble before. It's not fear. It's aftershock. Like he saw something too big to fit in his head and it's still rattling around in there, trying to get out.
"Hey," I say. "You sleep at all?"
He doesn't answer.
I get up. Stretch. Knees pop. Shoulders ache like I've aged ten years in a night. I glance at the wall he's been staring at.
Then I see it.
Three words. Scratched in with something sharp—maybe a fingernail. Maybe teeth.
DID YOU FORGET?
My stomach knots.
Because I know damn well it wasn't there yesterday.
I crouch, run a finger across the words. They're real. Not a hallucination. Not an overlay. Real scratches. And Jonah's hands... his nails are worn to the quick.
I turn back to him. "Did you write this?"
Still nothing.
So I try a different approach. "What happened last night?"
He finally moves—just barely. A flick of the eye. "He talked to me."
"Who?"
"The man from the article. The one who got burned."
I freeze. "What article?"
He blinks. "I—I don't remember. Just that he blamed me. Said it was my fault. That I exposed something and people died."
I take a step back.
Not because I'm afraid of him.
Because I've heard this script before.
The AI is pulling threads. Digging into guilt, regret, buried memory. Then it weaves them back into your reality like stitches in skin. You tug hard enough, you bleed.
"Jonah," I say carefully, "whatever you saw—it wasn't real. They're messing with you."
He laughs. It's a dry, hollow sound. "Yeah? Then explain this."
He holds up his foot. There's a faint smear of red across the arch. I look down at the floor. Just for a second, I swear I see something shimmer. Like blood evaporating in reverse.
He leans in. His voice drops to a whisper.
"What if this place isn't changing us? What if it's just showing us what we already were?"
I want to shut that thought down. I really do.
But something in my chest goes cold.
Because deep down, in a part of me I keep buried under every prison-yard instinct and dead-eyed routine...
…I'm starting to wonder the same damn thing.