They didn't speak on the drive back.
Not because there was nothing to say — but because saying anything might break something that was barely holding.
The orphanage disappeared behind them, swallowed by distance, but it stayed lodged inside Ethan's chest like a foreign object. Every word the woman had said replayed on a loop.
You didn't leave.
You were taken.
Clara watched the road this time.
Not him.
Her fingers tapped lightly against her thigh, a rhythm that didn't quite settle.
"Do you believe her?" she asked finally.
Ethan didn't answer right away.
"I don't know what to believe," he said. "But I know my memories don't line up anymore."
"That happens," Clara said carefully. "Trauma reshapes things."
He nodded — but something in his expression said he wasn't convinced.
Back at his apartment, the air felt stale, wrong. Ethan dropped his keys on the counter harder than necessary and paced once before stopping.
"That man in the file," he said. "The one in the picture. Why does his face feel familiar?"
Clara leaned against the doorway. "Faces stick. Especially when they're tied to fear."
"Was I afraid of him?" Ethan asked.
She didn't answer immediately.
And that hesitation — that tiny pause — did more damage than a lie ever could.
Ethan turned to her. "Clara."
She met his eyes.
"I don't know," she said. "But whoever he was, he didn't come with good intentions."
Ethan exhaled slowly and sat on the couch, rubbing his temples.
"My phone rang yesterday," he muttered. "Unknown number. The voice didn't say much… but it felt like it knew me."
Clara stiffened — just slightly.
"What did it say?" she asked.
"That I shouldn't dig where I don't belong."
Silence stretched between them.
Clara crossed the room and sat beside him, her voice gentler now. "Listen to me. You don't owe the past anything. Whatever happened to you… it's over."
Ethan looked at her.
Really looked.
"For you to say that," he said quietly, "you sound like you already know how this ends."
Her lips parted — then closed again.
"I just don't want you hurt," she replied.
He nodded slowly, but the unease didn't leave.
Later that night, Ethan stood alone on his balcony, the city humming below. He pulled out his phone again and stared at the missed call log.
Unknown Number – 1 Call
He hesitated… then hit redial.
It rang once.
Twice.
Then—
The call connected.
Static crackled on the line.
A voice came through — distorted, filtered, unmistakably controlled.
"You went back."
Ethan's blood ran cold. "Who is this?"
A pause.
Then the voice replied calmly, almost sadly:
"I told you not to."
The line went dead.
Ethan lowered the phone slowly, heart pounding.
Inside the apartment, Clara stood just beyond the balcony door, unseen — her expression unreadable as she listened to the silence that followed.
Somewhere else, far from the city lights, a screen flickered to life.
A masked figure leaned closer.
And for the first time in years—
The pieces were beginning to move.
Clara didn't sleep.
She sat on the edge of her bed, phone facedown beside her, lights off, listening to the city breathe through the cracked window. Every sound felt amplified — a passing car, a distant siren, the hum of electricity in the walls.
Ethan was already becoming a problem.
Not because he was asking questions.
But because the questions were arriving too fast.
A knock cut through the silence.
Not loud.
Not hesitant.
Three precise taps.
Clara didn't jump. She didn't rush. She stood slowly, smoothing her shirt like she'd been expecting this moment all night.
Another knock.
She opened the door.
The gorilla mask filled the doorway.
Large. Still. Drenched in shadow.
He stepped inside without asking.
"You let him go back," the masked man said. His voice was low, controlled — but sharp underneath. "That wasn't part of the plan."
Clara closed the door behind him. "Plans change."
"They don't change that fast," he snapped. "That place was sealed for a reason."
She crossed her arms, unfazed. "And yet it surfaced anyway."
The gorilla mask took a step closer. "You were supposed to slow him down. Anchor him. Not send him digging through his own past."
"I didn't send him," Clara said. "He was already leaning that way. I followed."
"That's not control," he said. "That's reaction."
Her eyes hardened. "And pretending nothing is happening is denial."
Silence stretched.
The gorilla mask tilted his head slightly, studying her. "He's connecting things."
"Yes," Clara admitted. "Because the pieces are moving faster than they should."
He didn't respond.
She stepped closer now, lowering her voice. "You feel it too. Don't pretend you don't. This isn't natural progression. Things don't align this cleanly unless someone is pulling wires from behind the curtain."
The gorilla mask stiffened.
Clara watched for the reaction — the pause, the tension in his shoulders.
"I know you know what I'm talking about," she continued. "Or who."
His jaw tightened beneath the mask.
"You're speculating," he said finally.
"No," Clara replied calmly. "I'm observing. Files resurfacing. Memories cracking. Ethan recognizing faces he shouldn't. That call tonight?"
She shook her head. "That wasn't chance."
The gorilla mask turned away, pacing once before stopping. "If he keeps pushing, he'll get hurt."
"He already is," Clara said. "You just don't see it because you're watching from the outside."
He turned back to her sharply. "Then why are you still standing next to him?"
Her voice softened — just a fraction. "Because if I don't, someone else will. And they won't care what breaks."
Another silence.
Heavy.
Loaded.
The gorilla mask moved toward the door. "You're losing control."
Clara met his gaze. "No. I'm adapting."
His hand paused on the handle.
"Keep him close," he said. "But don't let him return there again."
She nodded once. "I won't."
He opened the door, then stopped without turning back.
"If the hand behind this reveals itself," he said quietly, "everything changes."
Clara's answer came without hesitation.
"I know."
The door closed.
She stood there for a long moment, breathing slowly, then finally looked down at her phone.
A new message blinked onto the screen.
UNKNOWN:
He's remembering.
Clara's fingers curled around the device.
Somewhere between fear and resolve, she whispered to the empty room:
"Then we're running out of time."