Vernon woke up with someone else's name in his mouth.
He didn't remember dreaming, only the aftermath—his heart racing, skin cold, the echo of a voice that didn't belong to any memory he officially owned.
"Ash…"
The word lingered in the dark like smoke.
Vernon sat up slowly, pressing a hand to his chest. His apartment was exactly as it always was— controlled, safe. Too safe. Like a set dressed to look lived in.
He exhaled sharply.
This had been happening more often.
The pauses.
The gaps.
The feeling that something vital had been surgically removed and poorly stitched over.
Vernon swung his legs off the bed and froze.
There was blood on his knuckles.
Fresh.
He stared at his hands, pulse ticking faster.
"I didn't go out last night," he murmured.
But the blood disagreed.
So did the faint ache in his ribs.
The bruising along his forearm—finger-shaped.
Someone had grabbed him.
Someone he hadn't reported.
Someone he hadn't remembered.
The system would've flagged it.
Unless—
"Unless it didn't want me to," Vernon whispered.
The thought landed heavy.
He dressed quickly, movements precise but restless, and activated his terminal. The screen bloomed to life, flooding the room with cold blue light.
"Run a personal activity audit," he ordered. "Last seventy-two hours."
NO ANOMALIES DETECTED.
Vernon's jaw tightened.
"Cross-check biometric data with environmental records."
A pause.
Too long.
REQUEST DENIED.
That had never happened before.
Vernon leaned back slowly, a familiar tension coiling in his spine—the same instinct that had kept him alive when the rules stopped making sense.
"Who authorized the denial?"
Silence.
Then:
ACCESS LEVEL RESTRICTED.
Vernon smiled faintly.
There it was.
The lie.
He stood and crossed the room, opening a hidden compartment behind a wall panel. Inside: an old analog drive. Pre-system. Untouchable.
He hadn't used it in years.
Hadn't needed to.
Until now.
He slid it into the port.
The screen flickered—glitched—then dumped raw data across the display.
And Vernon stopped breathing.
Images scrolled past.
Him—running through rain.
Him—bleeding.
Him—holding someone whose face blurred every time Vernon tried to focus on it.
But the posture was familiar.
The way the body curved toward his.
The way his hands trembled.
"That's me," Vernon whispered.
And then the audio kicked in.
Static.
Gunfire.
A voice—hoarse, desperate.
"Vernon—don't—"
Vernon slammed his hand against the console.
The room lurched.
His vision doubled, pain spiking behind his eyes as memories tried to force their way through a sealed door.
He staggered back, breath ragged.
"I know that voice," he said aloud.
The lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then every screen in the apartment went black.
The air changed.
He felt it before he heard it—a pressure, subtle but absolute, like gravity adjusting around him.
Then—
"Ash."
The voice wasn't in the room.
It was everywhere.
Vernon spun, heart hammering. "Show yourself."
"I can't," Ash replied softly. "Not like before."
Vernon swallowed. His throat felt tight. "You're dead."
A pause.
Then, almost gently:
"They told you that."
Vernon laughed once, sharp and humorless. "They tell me a lot of things."
"I know," Ash said. "I used to believe them too."
The word used hit harder than it should have.
Vernon pressed his palm to the wall to steady himself. "Why do I feel like I'm forgetting something every second I'm awake?"
Silence stretched.
Then Ash spoke—quiet, devastating.
"Because you are."
The room dimmed further, shadows bending at wrong angles.
"They erased you from the world," Vernon said slowly. "But not from me."
"Yes."
Vernon closed his eyes.
Something broke open behind them.
A memory—not whole, not clean—but burning.
Rain.
Hands gripping his coat.
A voice snarling, Run.
His chest ached.
"Why didn't you fight harder?" Vernon asked, voice raw.
Ash didn't answer immediately.
When he did, it was a whisper threaded with pain.
"I did. This is me fighting."
Vernon laughed weakly. "By haunting me?"
"By staying," Ash said. "By refusing to let the system finish the job."
Vernon's fingers curled into a fist. "What are you now?"
A longer pause.
Careful.
"I'm the thing keeping you alive," Ash said. "And the thing that will destroy this world if they try to take you again."
The lights surged.
Warning symbols flashed briefly—then vanished.
Vernon's pulse spiked. "They can hear you?"
"They can feel me," Ash corrected. "And they're panicking."
As if summoned by the words, the floor vibrated faintly beneath Vernon's feet.
Sirens—distant, muted—began to rise.
Containment units.
Already mobilizing.
"They're coming for you," Ash said. "For what you remember."
Vernon didn't hesitate.
"Good," he replied. "Because I'm done forgetting."
The terminal sparked, screens shattering as the system tried—and failed—to regain control.
Somewhere beyond reality, alarms screamed.
CRITICAL ERROR:
CONSTANT INTERFERING WITH SUBJECT PRIME.
Ash felt it—the system tightening, preparing to cut deep.
"Ash," Vernon said quietly. "If they erase me—"
"They won't," Ash interrupted.
"—will you still exist?"
Ash smiled, though Vernon couldn't see it.
"I already do," he said. "Inside you."
Outside, boots thundered closer.
Inside the system—
The first rule cracked.