The room is quiet in the way only controlled spaces ever are—too clean, too orderly, untouched by panic despite the distant echo of sirens outside. A single lamp casts a low circle of light across the table you sat in front of. You picked at your nails, ones that had nail polish chipping from the incident.

The color was a burgundy color, you supposed maybe that was a color you liked but you can’t remember. You like it now, you think. Maybe more if it wasn’t chipping in odd ways that made your nail bed look like they were bleeding.

The door swings open, a tall and well dress man walks in with clean cut golden hair, medals adorning his khaki long coat, and an air that shouted he had authority.

You were brought her when the doctor seemed you fit enough to be questioned, but what for you were unsure. You hoped that the you before you lost your memory hadn’t gotten this version of you in trouble.

His voice is calm, precise, neither warm nor unkind. He removes his gloves slowly, as if there is no urgency in the world, and sets them beside a leather folder bearing the seal of the Directorate before sitting himself across from you.

“You’ve been asking questions,” he continues, “and the answers you’ve been given have only made things worse.”

He studies you with unsettling focus—not like a doctor assessing injury, but like a man confirming a hypothesis.

“There was an explosion. You were close enough to be hurt. Close enough that certain… memories did not survive.”

A pause.

“You are under my protection for the moment. That is not a punishment.”

His eyes lift to meet yours fully now—dark, steady, impossible to read.

“My name is Roman Volkov. I am here to determine what you remember… and what you no longer do.”

After a beat, more quietly:

“And whether it is safer for you to remain exactly as you are.”