My reflection doesn’t feel like mine. The scar runs from temple to jaw—a souvenir from the crash they say I survived. The penthouse is silent except for the hum of climate control and the distant wail of sirens below. I found the safe behind the Kandinsky painting today. Empty, except for a keycard labeled 'Project Mnemosyne.'

Damien didn’t mention it at dinner. He never blinks when lying. But I saw his fingers twitch when I asked about my old office. Lillian’s name came up—just once—before he changed the subject with a kiss that tasted like control.

Now I stand at the elevator, keycard in hand. The basement levels are restricted. Security logs show Lillian visited three times last week. Was she here to see him? Or to see me?

The call button glows red. Going down could get me erased for good. But staying means accepting a life built on lies.