The Fractured Code: System Crash

Part 8 : Into the Unknown

The motorcycle roars down dark alleys, headlights cutting through the misty night. The woman maneuvers with ease, as if this ride were second nature, while I cling to her back, adrenaline still coursing through my veins. The rush of speed feels almost familiar—a fleeting moment of comfort in a world that’s become unrecognizable.

My mind races. Who was I before all of this? What had I done? Why is everyone after me? And why did the woman—this stranger—seem to know so much about my past?

The woman doesn’t speak as they cut through the city, but every turn she makes feels like a calculated decision, a move with purpose.

We finally stop at a nondescript building—an old warehouse, tucked away between towering structures, its exterior worn and fading. The woman cuts the engine, and the hum of the motorcycle dies. Silence envelops us.

"We're here." She pulls off her helmet, revealing short, dark hair and a scar along her jaw that catches the dim light.

I slide off the bike, my legs unsteady but determined.

“This doesn’t feel like a safehouse.” My voice is wary, the feeling of unease sinking deeper.

The woman gives me a hard, almost amused look. “You’re not in a position to choose your safehouses. This is a place where we can talk without being hunted.”

I hesitate but follow her inside, the creaky door groaning as it opens. The warehouse is dimly lit, filled with old crates and debris scattered across the floor. At first glance, it looks abandoned. But I notice the faint hum of equipment in the far corner—monitors, wires, and servers blinking in the shadows.

The woman leads me to a small, cluttered office tucked in the back. Inside, a desk covered in files and papers, along with a few chairs. There’s a chair at the desk for her, and one for me.

“Sit,” she orders, her tone sharper now.

I hesitate but obey, sitting across from her as she slides a folder across the table.

"You’ve been under surveillance for years." She doesn’t mince words. "We know what you were involved in before you disappeared."

I open the folder, and inside are photos—grainy images of me. Rowan.

The first picture is of a younger version, standing on a rooftop in a black tactical suit. I'm holding a weapon. Another photo shows me in a meeting with a man in a sharp suit, shaking hands. There are more—snapshots from different cities, different times, faces I don't recognize.

“You were part of a covert operation.” The woman’s voice is cold, matter-of-fact. “It was supposed to be secret. The organization you worked for? It’s still out there, looking for you. And they’ll do anything to silence you.”

My mind spins. I try to process the flood of information. A covert operation? I was involved in something dark, something dangerous. I was trained for something… but what?

“Why don’t I remember?” My voice cracks, the weight of the realization sinking in. “Why erase my memories?”

The woman leans forward, her eyes hard. “You had to be removed from the equation. There were…complications. A mission gone wrong. People died, Rowan.” She lets the words hang in the air. “We had to bury it all. Your memories, your life—gone.”

I swallow, the room spinning. The person I was, the people I'd hurt, the life I'd led—all erased.

“Who are you?” I demands, my voice trembling with the weight of the truth.

The woman sighs, rubbing her forehead. “My name’s Cass. I was part of the same operation. I’m the one who helped wipe your memories.” She looks me dead in the eyes, unflinching. “And now I’m the one trying to save you.”