Rotham approached the suspended spiral — its soft pulses syncing unnervingly with his heartbeat. Each rotation seemed to pull thoughts from his mind, memories flickering behind his eyes like old film: a burning station, Selin's voice, a decision made in desperation.
Directive-7 stood behind him, motionless.
"You don't remember everything," it said, "but your neural pattern still carries the code. That's why it's responding."
Rotham reached toward the field. The energy danced at his fingertips — not hostile, but inquisitive. It recognized him.
Suddenly, the spiral flared.
Images rushed in — not memories, but lives. Faces he didn't know, thoughts he never had, moments stretching across centuries.
The Memory Code isn't data, he realized. It's experience. Collective consciousness, fragmented, and stored in this station like a prison.
And he had been the jailer once.
Selin's voice returned — faint, broken by static.
"If it escapes… identity becomes meaningless. Past and present will collapse."
He staggered back, breath ragged. "It's leaking," he muttered. "That's why I came back. To finish the seal."
Directive-7 tilted its head.
"And if you fail again?"
The spiral pulsed faster, reacting to Rotham's fear.
"Then no one will remember who they truly are."
He looked at the interface beside the containment field. Final access required — one command away.
But inside him, the code stirred. Not a key. A bargain.
The Memory Code didn't want to be sealed.
It wanted to merge.
And Rotham had once agreed to let it happen.