I didn't go home.
Not right away.
The live location request sat on my screen like a dare, pulsing softly, insistently. Whoever sent it knew exactly what it would do to me, that I wouldn't ignore it, that I'd imagine footsteps in my hallway, fingers brushing over my things, memories being rearranged while I wasn't there to stop it.
I declined the request.
Then I turned my phone off.
It felt reckless. Liberating. Stupid. Necessary.
I walked for a long time. Past streets I recognized, past ones I didn't. I needed distance, physical distance, to remind myself that I still had control over my body, even if everything else was slipping through my fingers.
By the time I stopped, I was standing in front of a building I hadn't visited in years.
The public records office.
I stared up at it, my reflection warped in the glass doors. I didn't know exactly what I was looking for. Only that if my memory had been tampered with, there had to be a trace. Paper trails were harder to erase than people.
Inside, the air smelled like dust and bureaucracy. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. No one paid attention to me, and that alone felt like a small victory.
I requested the files quietly. Signed my name without hesitation.
The woman behind the desk glanced at the screen, then paused.
"Are you sure?" she asked.
"Yes," I said too quickly.
She studied me for a second longer, then nodded. "Have a seat. It'll take a while."
I sat.
Waited.
Tried not to think about Tara. Or the photo. Or the way the woman in the café had looked at me, not like a threat, not like an asset, but like a variable that hadn't finished revealing itself yet.
When my name was called, my heart jumped.
The folder was thin.
That was the first thing that unsettled me.
I flipped it open, scanning dates, names, locations. Police reports. Witness statements. Medical evaluations.
Then I saw it.
My name.
Not in the margins. Not as an afterthought.
Right there in black ink.
Subject displayed signs of acute distress. Memory gaps consistent with trauma response.
I swallowed hard.
The report was from years ago. Filed quietly. Closed without follow-up.
I turned the page.
Another line stood out.
Subject released into care of trusted party.
Trusted party.
Tara.
My fingers tightened around the paper.
So I hadn't imagined it. I hadn't simply forgotten.
Something had been taken from me.
And everyone around me had agreed it was better that way.
My phone buzzed as I left the building.
I turned it back on.
Immediately, messages flooded in.
Unknown: You disappeared.
Unknown: That's dangerous.
Unknown: We had a plan.
I stopped walking.
Me: You didn't tell me everything.
A pause.
Unknown: Neither did you.
That stopped me cold.
Me: What does that mean?
The reply took longer this time.
Unknown: It means you're still pretending you're a bystander.
My chest tightened.
Me: I didn't choose this.
Unknown: You chose not to walk away.
The words echoed the woman's from the café.
Different voice. Same script.
That was when I realized it.
They weren't testing me.
They were training me.
My phone buzzed again.
Unknown: Go home.
Unknown: We need to talk.
I hesitated, then typed.
Me: Not there.
Another pause.
Unknown: Fine. Your place or mine?
I laughed under my breath. The audacity. The casual ownership implied in those words.
Me: Somewhere public.
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Then:
Unknown: You're learning.
That should have terrified me.
Instead, a strange calm settled in my chest.
I gave them a location.
The bar was quiet, mid-afternoon empty. Sunlight filtered through dusty windows, turning the bottles behind the counter into rows of fractured color.
I arrived early. Chose a seat with clear sightlines. No mirrors. No blind corners.
When they walked in, I almost didn't recognize them.
Not because they looked different.
Because I did.
They slid into the seat across from me like they belonged there.
"You shouldn't have gone digging," they said lightly.
"You shouldn't have lied," I replied.
A flicker of something crossed their face. Annoyance. Respect. Maybe both.
"That file didn't tell you everything," they said.
"No," I agreed. "But it told me enough."
They leaned forward. "Then you understand why this can't end cleanly."
I met their gaze. "I understand you've been managing me without my consent."
"Managing is a harsh word."
"So is manipulating."
They didn't argue.
"That night," I said quietly, "what really happened?"
Silence stretched between us.
Finally, they spoke.
"You were never supposed to remember," they said. "You were collateral."
The word landed heavily.
"You were in the wrong place," they continued. "You saw something you weren't meant to. Tara panicked. We improvised."
My pulse roared in my ears. "You drugged me."
"No," they said calmly. "We protected you."
I laughed, sharp and hollow. "From what?"
"From becoming what you're becoming now."
That did it.
I stood up.
"This ends," I said. "Right now."
They didn't move.
"No," they said softly. "It escalates."
My phone buzzed.
A new message.
From Tara.
Tara: I did it because I thought it would save you.
My vision blurred.
I sat back down.
They watched me carefully.
"That," they said, "is why you're still useful."
I clenched my jaw. "I'm not doing this for you."
"Of course not," they replied. "You're doing it for her."
They stood, placing a small envelope on the table.
"Inside," they said, "is a choice. One that proves where your loyalty actually lies."
I didn't touch it.
They smiled. "Open it when you're ready."
And then they left.
The envelope felt heavier than it should have.
I stared at it for a long time before finally sliding it into my bag.
Because the truth was already sinking in.
I hadn't escaped the trap.
I'd stepped deeper into it, willingly.
And whatever was inside that envelope?
It was going to decide who I hurt next.
No spoilers, but opinions welcome.
What would you have done in Lila's place?
Tell me in the comments 👇 your answers help guide how this story unfolds.