The sirens didn't just stop—they kind of melted into this one long whine, then cut off sharp.
When everything comes back, it's off. Not the usual city buzz. More like an AC unit droning in a sealed room, with that fake-fresh air smell hospitals have. I crack my eyes open. Ceiling's all bland white tiles, lights sunk in deep, and a camera dome staring down like it's judging. My wrists are wrapped in these soft cuffs—rubbery but smart, like they're waiting for a remote to tell them what to do. There's a clear wall splitting the room in half, me on one side like I'm the exhibit.
My hands ache. I twist them a bit. The skin's shiny new where it got burned, and the bruises that should be blooming purple are just faint shadows, like my body half-assed the job and gave up.
Memory.
That chlorine-apple smell? Vanished. I poke at the spot right under my chest bone, like there's a hole there leaking stuff. Nothing.
"Subject's awake," a woman's voice says. Close, no-nonsense, with a gravelly edge like she's got a habit of crunching mints. "Eyes tracking, responsive. Frost the glass."
The wall goes milky—just enough to bounce my reflection back at me. A kid who looks too calm for this crap. Empty hands. The pin—
Where's the damn pin?
"Don't fidget," she snaps, like she caught me copying homework. "We've got the thing you yanked out of that freak. It's locked down."
I freeze my hands. The itch to grab something, anything, hits hard—like leftover adrenaline that forgot to clock out. I can still feel how the world snapped into gridlines when I held it, everything shifting out of the way. The pull. The—
No. The blank spot where something used to be.
Another camera lights up. The wall clears a notch. Now I see them: four people in a matching room on the other side, no glass for them. Big table. Two cops from the street—same weird badge, an eye with a zap through it. A drone humming up by the vents. And a lady in a sharp gray suit, lanyard dangling, hair cut short and severe like it means business.
She hits a mic. "Lieutenant Mara Ito. City Defense, Anomalies Squad." No grin. "You're in holding under District Seven. Nothing you say counts against you. Not arrested. But you're not walking out either."
"Feels like arrested with paperwork," I mutter. My voice comes out steady, almost cocky, which freaks me out because I should be scared shitless. "You watched the whole thing on the street."
"We saw a kid take down a Class-B whatever with his bare hands and walk away," she says. "Saw him pull out a piece that's now kinda stuck to his biology. Saw the sky rip open again and zip shut without us doing jack. And we saw that thing… back off from you."
The drone dips a little, like it's eavesdropping.
"I didn't tell it to kneel," I say.
"Didn't need to. Some things just know." She flicks her lanyard. "Name."
"Ryo." It pops out easy. The rest—last name, where I live, school—hitches for a split second. She clocks it. "Ryo S—" Glitch. Buzz in my brain. "Just Ryo."
Her eyes narrow. "We can patch the gaps, Ryo," she says, dangling it like a hook. "But tell me what you grabbed and how."
"Stuck my hand in and yanked." I show her my palms, pink like fresh scars. "Didn't know I could till I did."
"And after?"
"Hurt like hell. And it stole something."
The room tenses on "stole." Big cop—tan line on his ring finger—shifts like the floor's uneven. The younger one glances at the drone quick, then away, like it's bad luck. Mara watches me like I'm a puzzle with missing edges.
"What'd it steal?" she asks.
"A memory." It drops out flat, sinks deep. "Laugh in a kitchen. Can't—" I grind my palm into my eye till spots dance. "Gone. When I took the bone-thing, it was like paying a toll."
Mara looks beat for a second, human-tired. "Matches other cases," she mutters, like she's venting to herself. "Trades. Shifts. Upgrades."
"Other cases?" I snap it out.
She nods. "Few folks who've messed with rips or those things and came back different. Not many." Her glance at the drone screams red tape. "Most don't talk about losing stuff. You're the first with memory."
I chew on that. Somewhere there's files on people like me. I test another memory: first school day, red jacket, dad's— Wait, dad? The question shouldn't even make sense. My pulse skips. Room tilts.
"Breathe, Ryo," Mara says, almost kind.
I suck air. World straightens.
"Can I see it?" Maybe touching fixes this, like rewinding a glitch.
"Nope," a new voice butts in, whiny and full of himself. Guy slips in from a side door, clutching a tablet like it's holy. Lab coat over a dumb tee: SAVE THE DATA. Hair like he stuck a fork in a socket. "No way. It's sealed. Spitting readings we don't even have scales for. Can't let you paw it."
Mara ignores him. "Dr. Kwan's from the Institute," she says, like it's a necessary evil. "Loves his gadgets."
"It's not a gadget," he huffs. "It's a key. The weave is insane—"
"Doctor." She chills the air. He clams up.
I tune them out, stare at the cuff. Seamless band, humming low. I twist my wrist; it heats up, like saying "not yet."
"Why me here?" I ask. "Not arrested, right? Am I sick or a tool?"
"Depends on the meeting upstairs," Mara says, mouth quirking like a private joke. "Rules are fresh, gonna change. My job: keep you breathing."
Kwan snorts like he's debating philosophy with a puppy. "Brain in one piece, preferably," he adds, then leans in. "Ryo, when you held it, any new tricks? Moves? Seeing ahead?"
"Numbers," I blurt, no filter. "How far, angles, ways through. Like connecting dots that weren't there."
Kwan lights up. "Vector sense! Imagine what—"
"Kwan." She shuts him down. But I catch his greedy look—mirrors mine, no shame.
The drone whirs, room feels denser, buried. My brain traces down: labs below, vaults, stuff you don't mix with folks.
"My turn?" I ask.
Mara nods.
"The thing I offed." "Offed" tastes sour; I swallow. "What was it?"
"Scout, probably." She hedges. "Classes: A seeds, B scouts, C rippers, D big ones. Labels suck, but order helps." Eyes up, like seeing the sky. "What almost came after? C-level."
"Ripper," Kwan whispers, thrilled and spooked.
"Rips what?" I push.
"People," Mara says flat. "Makes their world not theirs."
Quiet sits heavy.
"Alright," I say, shrinking it down. "What now?"
"We chat," she says. "You spill what you felt, feel, can do. I block the docs from slicing you up and pols from spinning you."
"Then?"
"Up top, show the patched street, tell you don't bolt."
"If I do?"
"I hunt." She says it like she's already won. "Don't."
I meet her stare. She's real. My head maps escapes: guards, halls, glass thick. Possible, like a long shot bet. But the new bit nags about prices. Corridor vs truth?
"Fine," I say. "Shoot."
Kwan jumps in. "Feel inside when the lines kicked in?"
I spill. Short. Plain. Hit the memory part, trail off. Kwan pokes; Mara lets it echo. Big cop—Sato—breathes heavy, like reliving crap. Younger—Rey—thumbs his leg like scrolling invisible feed.
Then lights twitch.
Tiny shiver, buzz in my teeth. Drone dips. Mic pops. Kwan snaps up like sensing quake.
Mara slaps the table. "Status."
Ceiling voice: flat, office-like. "Sub-three glitch in field. Systems good. No break."
Room relaxes. Kwan savors: "Field glitch." Eyes on me.
Mara's too.
I don't need eyes—I feel it in my hands. Skin itches. Chest gap squeezes shut, testing.
"Bring it?" I ask, then nah. "No. Me to it."
Kwan's yes overlaps Mara's hard no. "Not putting you near that thing that vibes with you."
"Does it?"
"You say."
Almost lie. "Felt like it knew me first."
Kwan gawks at my hands. "He's tuned to it."
"Quit labeling him like your pet project." Mara stands. Glass clears. "Done. Water, food for you. Stay boring. Sato, Rey—watch. Doc, stay put."
"But—" Kwan whines.
"Say 'field glitch' again, I glitch you." She ghosts out.
Tension drops. Sato roots down. Rey peeks at me, door, me. Stray-cat saver type.
Cuff warms—nudge or hug? I lean back. Bed sighs. Ceiling blanks.
"Hey," Rey whispers, mic-low. "You saved asses out there."
Shrug, feels fake mid-way. Saved? Big word for stopping a thing while bigger watched.
Sato: "Hands visible." Softer now.
Palms on knees. They buzz.
Lights twitch again.
Drone drops, recovers. Kwan jumps. Ceiling panics: "Sub-three sustained glitch. Containment dropping—94, 91, 87. Locking down."
Sato's gun up smooth. Rey's chair scrapes. Kwan giggles mad. "It's stirring."
Mara's voice booms: "Seal up. Sato, Rey—grab the kid, evac up. Kwan—"
"Heading there," he says, bolting for sweets.
"Kwan," threat pure.
He pauses, curiosity wins. "If it's linked, pulling apart might amp—"
Floor bucks.
Thumb-push from below. Siren blooms red, strobing.
Cuff flips hot-cold-hot—glitching code. I stand. Sato tracks. Rey chokes on "sit."
"I can fix," I say. Not brag. Math. Lines point down, through locks. To hands. Pull wakes.
Sato no-shakes. "Boss'll skin us—"
Wall flips mirror-clear-mirror. Hall lights go red like choking.
"Containment 72," ceiling says. "65. 59. Field messing with—"
Building gasps, holds.
Glass doesn't break—bends. Top curves in, groans in teeth. Air snaps cold-hot.
"Back!" Sato yells. Not at me.
Through haze, hall chaos: suits, armor, gurney for bad news. Strobe hits wall smear—wet, red. Not paint.
"Ito to all: Ripper in sub-three. Real. Civs out. Teams only. Ryo—" Personal now. "Don't touch glass."
Pull grins silent. Head maps touch-glass: relief or ruin, same road.
"You said keep me alive," to ceiling.
"Planning on it. Don't screw odds."
Kwan's mug presses glass, sweat-slick, kid-scared. "It's grabbing for him. Syncing."
Sato's gun dips; no target. Rey gapes. My palms glow faint—waiting.
Something pats the building gentle, like checking kid's sleep.
Cuff clicks open, sorry-soft.
No command. Just frees me, like I'm worse bound.
Sato curses rare. "Freeze," sweet as begging storm stop.
"Containment 38," announce. "31. Stress in—"
Rip sound claws up—rules tearing. Lights die, reborn.
Shutters fail. We all get it different.
"I can end it," I say, "it" fuzzy on purpose.
Mara fierce-quiet: "It's using you for the field. Move to, helps it. Away—" No finish. "Stay. 30 secs out."
30 secs: eternity, tomb. Head sketches: doors bust, halls warp, doc dies for info, building spits folks.
Pull questions: What you forgetting next?
No answer. Step up.
Sato lifts gun, drops. Eyes show dad lying to kid about monsters. "Don't croak," compromise.
Rey slaps release. Door obeys no-code. Shocked. "Go."
Glass slides away slick. Cold floor air. Feet stick tile, peel.
Hall: ozone, battery guts.
Pace quickens. Lines guide: step here, touch there, breathe easy. World gives in cheap.
Kwan tags along, skip-run, knees wobbly. "This is breakthrough!" Breathless glee.
"Shut it," I snap.
Corner turn. Air thins, head-pound tease. Ahead: overlook rail, thick not-glass pane. Below: big room like sideways church. Center pedestal: my pull—bone-glow, red-hot memory, woven light endless.
Hums.
In me, skull-rim finger-drag.
Hands flame no-heat. Chest eases, shameful.
"Don't," Mara in ear, running, bossy. "Ryo. No touch."
Room warps.
Math shifts. Pin floats up—1cm, 2, 3—gravity winks. Red amps ember-knife. Hum turns want.
Boots thud back: Sato, Rey, good-guy late. Mara storms in red, sees hands, face, floating impossible. Decides solo.
"Hatch open," she orders.
Kwan whoops like coaster drop.
Sato: "Boss—"
"If it wants him," eyes on me, "route it, save structure."
Locks her look. "Ryo. Grab, drop where I say. Breathe my count. No freestyle."
Hatch hisses. Cycles.
Door yawns like mouth.
Pin floats meet.
Memory slips—apple-laugh, kite-free.
"Ryo," Mara low, rock-steady. "Eyes here."
I rip from red.
Holds gaze vice. "Keep one must-have, whatever cost."
"What?" Voice last-thing desperate.
No blink. "Your name."
Door wide.
I step in.