The file stuttered once before playing.
Zayaan's breath hitched.
No visuals — just audio. Garbled at first, like it had been recorded through walls.
Then—
a voice.
His voice.
"I can't keep doing this."
His heart stopped.
He didn't remember saying it.
But it was him. Younger. Tired. That scratch in his throat from long nights, from those nights.
Another voice answered. Female. Calm.
"You don't have to. You just have to stay quiet."
Zayaan gripped the desk.
He remembered now.
Not the words — the moment.
The sting of antiseptic. The hum of the room. And the flickering red light just above the lens.
Delta's confession room.
Where memories didn't stay in your head — they were archived.
But this… he never consented to this being saved.
"You said I'd be reassigned," his voice crackled on the recording. "Not looped back."
The woman's reply came too fast.
"Everyone loops back."
A pause.
Then static again. Just for a beat. Long enough to feel like the universe was holding its breath.
Then, her voice again — colder now, clinical.
"308 accepts memory imprints better when fear is active."
Zayaan's gut twisted.
They'd used him.
Not just physically. Neurologically.
His breakdown hadn't been a byproduct — it had been the point.
"This wasn't part of the contract," his recorded self whispered.
Then silence.
Long, awful, silence.
And then a third voice.
Not human.
Not entirely.
"Memory pattern: stabilized."
His hands dropped from the table.
Because he knew that voice.
Everyone at Delta did.
It was Observer #0.
The one that wasn't supposed to exist.
The one they swore was retired.
---
The screen blinked.
One last message appeared.
"Welcome back, Zayaan. Room 308 is ready."
The terminal powered down.
Zayaan sat there, breath shallow.
Not because he didn't know what was coming.
But because deep down...
He did.