I reached my building a little after seven. The cold air clung to my clothes. I pushed through the front door of the building. The hallway lights flickered once before settling. The place always smelled faintly of detergent. It should have comforted me, but it didn't.
Caleb's door came into view as I climbed the stairs. The air felt strange around it. So still and heavy.
I slowed.
I heard a soft click . Then silence.
I hesitated and knocked. My knuckles landed lightly. I didn't want to seem paranoid. I just wanted to know everything was normal.
There was a beat before the lock turned.
The door opened a crack. Caleb stood behind it, half hidden by the shadows. His eyes looked tired. His hair stuck out at odd angles as if he had been running his hands through it over and over. He didn't smile the way he usually did.
"Hey," he said. His voice came out rough.
"You okay?" I asked.
He nodded. Too quickly. "Yeah. Just resting."
Something in the room behind him moved. A faint shuffle, fast and low, almost like a footstep. He glanced over his shoulder as if checking something or someone.
"Is everything alright in there?" I asked.
He tightened his grip on the door. "All good. Long day."
I waited for more, but he didn't offer it. His eyes flicked toward the stairwell, then back at me. He looked nervous. Like he wanted me gone.
"Did anything happen earlier?" I asked. "When I was about to leave for work in the morning, your apartment seemed a little off."
He shook his head. "No. Nothing."
That wasn't an answer. It was a wall. A sharp, deliberate one.
"Alright," I said. "If you need something, just knock."
"Yeah. Same." He started to close the door, then paused and lowered his voice. "Keep your door locked tonight."
I stared at him. "Why? Did something happen?"
He swallowed hard. His throat bobbed. "Just do it."
Then he shut the door. The lock turned fast, as if he couldn't wait another second.
My heartbeat picked up. I stood there a moment, staring at the wood grain of his door, trying to decide whether to knock again. I didn't. Something told me he wouldn't open it a second time.
I walked to my apartment, unlocked it, stepped inside, and locked it again. The click sounded louder than usual.
My place felt exactly how I had left it. Pillow on the arm of the couch. Blanket thrown to one side. Coffee mug on the table. Everything looked normal. But something underneath that normal tugged at me.
I picked the letter up from the table. The words on it looked sharper under my apartment lights. The sentences felt colder, and more final.
Your memories are the legal property of Elyon Drayce Industries.
I sank onto the couch and stared at the ceiling. The room seemed to shrink around me. Maybe from fear or exhaustion. I didn't know anymore.
After a moment, I got up and grabbed my phone. If I sat still, I would start imagining things. Worse things. So I opened the browser and typed the name again.
Elyon Drayce.
The results appeared fast. Almost too fast.
His face filled the screen. I knew it from years ago. From articles I skimmed back when I still had the full year between my ears. He was the kind of man who made the world tense. Not because he was violent. Because he was brilliant. And brilliance, in the wrong hands, was always dangerous.
I clicked an older interview. One from long before the missing year.
He stood in a white lab with machines behind him that looked like something from a future no one asked for. He spoke with calm certainty about memory-transfer prototypes. About storing memories like data and protecting the mind from trauma.
The interviewer asked a question about ethics. He answered without blinking. His voice didn't rise or fall. He sounded like he believed every word.
A cold pressure settled under my ribs.
I scrolled down to another article. Then another. Each one showed a man who didn't just chase the future. He wanted to control it.
One headline caught my eye.
Drayce Labs Receives Grant for Neurodata Encryption.
I clicked it. The article mentioned technology that could lock memories inside protected vaults. Memories that only authorized parties could access. My palms grew damp.
Another link showed criticism.
Experts Question Legal Framework for Memory Rights.
I read every line. The article talked about how governments still struggled to write laws about something as personal as memory. The gaps in regulation. The loopholes and the danger.
I set the phone down for a second and rubbed my temples. My head felt too full, yet somehow empty at the same time. A hollow ache lingered behind my eyes.
I stood and walked to the window. The street below looked normal. The cars, lights, and a couple arguing near the bus stop.
I returned to the table and opened another tab. My chest tightened as I typed the words.
Elyon Drayce lawsuits.
The page filled with accusations. Experiments without clear consent. Settlements that happened quietly. Employees claiming the company hid research that should never have been approved.
A lawsuit from two years ago stood out. A woman said her memories were accessed without her real understanding. She lost the case after a settlement. No amount was disclosed.
My throat tightened.
I scrolled deeper. A small forum came up, buried behind locks and warnings. Someone had posted a list of internal departments. It looked old. Maybe leaked or stolen.
One name pulled my eyes toward it.
Memory Services Division
and under it, a smaller line:
Identification and Ownership Bureau.
The description was short.
Handles verification of temporary or permanent memory rights.
The words felt wrong in my mouth.
Memory rights?
As if memories were property someone could buy or take.
I pressed the back of my hand against my lips. I felt my heart beating too fast.
I clicked back to the company's official site, searching for something familiar and solid. I saw a help line. A number meant for people who needed information about past agreements.
My stomach twisted.
A part of me wanted to call it right away. Another part told me to shut the phone off. Pretend none of this existed. Go to sleep like a normal person and wake up to a normal world.
I didn't call. Not yet.
Not when my thoughts felt frayed and thin. Not when Caleb had looked at me like someone was listening from behind his own door.
I locked my phone and placed it face down on the table. My hands didn't stop shaking right away.
I walked to the door and checked the lock twice. Then a third time. A faint sound from the hallway made my breath hitch. A soft scrape, and a shift of weight. I leaned closer and looked through the peephole.
Nothing there was visible. I couldn't tell.
I stepped back and hugged my arms around myself.
I needed answers. I needed them soon. But I needed to stay alive long enough to get them.
The room felt colder now. The shadows seemed sharper. Something wasn't right in this building. Something wasn't right in my life. And someone, somewhere, knew exactly what that something was.
I glanced at the phone again. The number waited on the screen, patient.
"I would call. But not tonight."
Tonight, I chose to listen.
A soft knock echoed down the hallway. Not at my door, but farther. Closer to Caleb's apartment.
Then a whisper and a low voice. Too soft to make out. My skin crawled.
The building settled, or maybe someone moved. Fear sat heavy in my throat.
If my memories belonged to someone else, then so did the pieces of my life tied to them. And if someone expected me to follow their path, then maybe I had already stepped on it without knowing.
I stood perfectly still, listening to the quiet outside my door as it grew sharper and sharper.
Then everything went silent.
The kind of silence that felt like the moment before something broke.