Ira noticed it while rewriting an old article.
That was the part that scared her most.
She sat alone in the media lab, lights dimmed, the soft hum of computers filling the space. On her screen was a draft she remembered writing clearly — an early piece about campus safety, filed weeks before the metro incident.
She reread the opening paragraph.
Then stopped.
That wasn't how it started.
Ira scrolled up.
The headline was the same.
Her byline was there.
The timestamp matched.
But the tone felt… wrong.
Too confident.
Too certain.
She searched for a sentence she distinctly remembered including.
It wasn't there.
Instead, a different line sat in its place.
No verified anomaly was observed.
Her stomach tightened.
She had never written that.
She opened the version history.
There were two drafts.
Same date.
Same time.
Same file size.
Different wording.
Ira leaned back slowly.
"No," she whispered. "That's not possible."
She remembered hesitating while writing. Remembered uncertainty. Remembered choosing careful language because she didn't know what she'd seen yet.
This version didn't hesitate at all.
She pulled up another file.
Then another.
Three articles.
Five drafts.
Each one subtly different.
Not contradictions.
Variations.
Each version sounded like her.
Just… adjusted.
Arav found her twenty minutes later.
She was still staring at the screen.
"Ira," he said gently. "You okay?"
She didn't look up.
"How many versions of a memory can exist," she asked quietly,
"before one of them stops being real?"
Arav froze.
She turned to him then.
Her eyes were steady.
Too steady.
"I remember covering the lab incident," she said.
"I remember standing outside. Hearing shouting. Smelling smoke."
She swallowed.
"But I also remember not being there."
Arav felt the pressure behind his eyes sharpen.
"Those memories don't agree," Ira continued. "They don't conflict either. They just… coexist."
He didn't answer right away.
He knew this pattern.
Not as damage.
As interpretive overlay.
"You weren't edited," Arav said finally.
"Then what happened?"
"You were branched."
The word hung between them.
Ira laughed softly.
"That's worse," she said.
"Yes," Arav replied.
She stood and paced the room.
"If I don't know which version of me remembers what," she said, "how do I know which one is making decisions now?"
Arav had no answer.
That terrified him.
Inside his head, the system activated briefly.
Not diagnostic.
Historical.
Memory Integrity Variance Detected
Subject: Ira Gupta
Conflict Type: Non-Exclusive
Correction: Not Advised
Not advised.
Ira saw his expression.
"Don't tell me," she said quietly. "I already know."
She stopped pacing.
"When you used that… perception thing," she said carefully,
"did it feel like choosing the best outcome?"
Arav hesitated.
"It felt like closing doors."
Ira nodded slowly.
"That's what this feels like," she said.
"Like parts of me were closed — but not erased."
She looked at him then.
Not accusing.
Assessing.
"Did you ever do this to me?"
The question landed heavy.
"No," Arav said immediately. "Never."
She believed him.
That was worse.
Outside the lab, laughter echoed down the hall.
Normal.
Unaware.
Ira turned back to the screen.
"Someone changed how I remember," she said.
"Not to control me. To stabilize me."
Arav felt something cold settle in his chest.
"That's the logic," he said. "That's how it starts."
Ira closed the files.
"I don't want to be stable if it costs me that," she said.
Arav nodded.
"I won't let it," he said — then stopped.
Because he wasn't sure anymore what letting meant.
That night, Ira went home early.
Alone.
Arav stayed behind, staring at the blank monitor.
For the first time, Ajna wasn't abstract.
It had a face.
A voice.
A memory that refused to agree with itself.
Elsewhere, Rhea watched the ripple settle.
Not pleased.
Not disappointed.
Curious.
"So," she murmured,
"you noticed."