The chill in my ribs became a furnace. Tymon’s gleaming penthouse, his perfectly calibrated climate control, the scent of expensive synthetic polish – it all felt like a suffocating blanket. Marek’s ragged cough echoed in my mind, a frantic drumbeat urging me forward. I had to get out. But how? An audacious scheme bloomed in the fertile ground of my panic. It was a long shot, but I’d seen enough medical dramas to know the tropes. A sudden, sharp pain. A loss of balance. A convincing display of distress. My dramatic arts degree, long abandoned for the sterile precision of Mnemonic design, might finally have its moment. I waited until Tymon was engrossed in a multi-screen conference call, his voice a low rumble against the hum of the living quarters. Then, I initiated my performance. A low moan, a hand pressed to my temple, a wobbly step. I swayed theatrically, deliberately bumping into a minimalist display pedestal holding a fragile-looking kinetic sculpture. It wobbled precariously. “Ms. Nowak?” Tymon’s voice cut through the air, sharp with irritation. He hadn’t even looked up yet. I clutched my stomach, collapsing slowly to one knee, a choked gasp escaping my lips. “My… my head,” I rasped, making sure my voice trembled. “And… a terrible cramp. I feel… faint.” Silence from the call. Tymon’s chair scraped back. His footsteps were quick, purposeful. I risked a peek through my lashes. His brow was furrowed, a mix of annoyance and something else – suspicion, perhaps? He crouched before me, his eyes, usually so cold, now narrowed with a dissecting intensity. He reached out, pressing two blunt fingers against my carotid artery. My blood thumped against his fingertips in frantic double-time. The deception, the fear for Marek, the proximity of Tymon – it was a potent cocktail. He pulled his hand back, his expression unreadable. “Your pulse is elevated. Are you prone to… these episodes?” “Only… only when I’m under immense stress,” I managed, my voice strained. “And… without proper nutrition. My… my blood sugar might be low.” It was a perfect storm of plausible excuses. He stood, pacing a tight circle. I braced myself for a dismissal, an order to fetch a sugary drink. Instead, he pulled out his comm-pad. “I’m calling Dr. Kasztelan. He’ll meet you at the Oculum emergency bay.” Relief, hot and dizzying, washed over me. It worked! I’d gambled on his need for efficiency, his disdain for any disruption to his perfectly ordered world. A fainting employee was a liability, a potential scandal. A quick trip to a private infirmary, a clean bill of health, and back to work – that would be his calculation. “Thank you, Mr. Jarosinski,” I murmured, pushing myself up with a shaky effort. “I… I appreciate your concern.” I made sure to infuse my voice with just the right amount of pathetic gratitude. He merely grunted, already calling for a private transport. Within minutes, I was being whisked away, not to the Oculum, but to the agreed-upon location Marek had texted me: a small, unassuming café nestled between two towering data-centers in the Old Town district. The contact was waiting. Kasper was younger than I’d expected, barely out of his teens, with a shock of neon-blue hair that stood out against the muted tones of the café. He wore a patched-up synth-leather jacket and fidgeted with a small, cube-shaped puzzle. “Zosia? Marek said you’d be… well, less like a ghost that just saw itself.” He offered a tentative smile. “Kasper. My network handle is ‘Cipher-Punk’.” “It’s a long story,” I said, sliding into the booth opposite him. “But Marek said you were good. With data. And… locked slates.” “The best. Marek talks me up. He’s a good kid. Got a real eye for fractal art.” Kasper's gaze darted around the café, then settled on me. “He said you had something important. Something that could help him.” I hesitated, then pulled the 'Daedalus' slate from the hidden compartment in my uniform, placing it on the table. “This. It’s locked tighter than a bank vault. My rival, Tymon Jarosinski, believes it contains evidence against me. I need to know what’s on it. To clear my name. And… to save Marek.” The hacker stared at the slate, his brows shooting upward. He picked it up, turning it over in his hands with an almost reverent touch. “’Daedalus’,” he murmured. “This is… serious. Military-grade encryption. Not something you just ‘find’ lying around. And Jarosinski? He’s big. If he thinks this is evidence against you, then…” He trailed off, looking at me with new respect. “Okay. I’ll do it. For Marek. And because this looks like a hell of a challenge.” He grinned, a genuine, youthful spark. “Give me twenty-four hours. I’ll send you a secure link when I have something.” My heart soared. A glimmer of hope. I pressed a coded credit chip into his hand. “Thank you, Kasper. You have no idea what this means.” Returning to Tymon’s suite an hour later, armed with a fabricated doctor’s note declaring ‘acute stress-induced syncopal episode’ and a recommendation for rest, I expected skepticism. What I got was a full-blown blizzard. Tymon stood in the center of the living area, his posture rigid, the air around him crackling with suppressed fury. “Where have you been, Ms. Nowak?” His voice was low, deceptively calm, but the menace behind it was unmistakable. “Dr. Kasztelan called. Said you never showed.” My carefully constructed facade crumbled. I felt a flush creep up my neck. “I… I felt better. I just needed some fresh air. I went to a local dispensary. They gave me this.” I brandished the fake note like a shield. He plucked it from my hand, his gaze scanning the document. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched his lips. “’Healing Hands Urgent Care’,” he read aloud, his voice dripping with disdain. “A pop-up clinic in the Old Town. Convenient. And quite far from the Oculum. A place, I might add, that has no record of a Dr. ‘Eliska Petrova’ on staff.” He crumpled the note into a tight ball. “You lied to me.” The air thickened. My defiance, fueled by Marek’s desperate plea, flared. “What was I supposed to do? I needed a moment away from this… gilded cage! A moment to breathe without you hovering, without your accusations.” “Accusations?” His eyes flashed, dark as a storm cloud. “You think this is about accusations? You think I’m playing games, Nowak? My family’s legacy was destroyed. My father’s vision for the Spire, his very life’s work, ripped apart by a betrayal that led straight to you! And you think I’m just going to tolerate your deceit, your insubordination, your little excursions to… wherever you sneak off to?” “And what if I did?” I retorted, my voice rising. “What if I needed to see someone? What if I had no other choice? You’ve trapped me here, Tymon! You’ve taken everything, and you expect me to sit quietly and endure it? I am not your prisoner!” “You are under contract,” he hissed, stepping closer, his imposing height suddenly overwhelming. “You are my assistant. And your debt makes you beholden to me. Every moment you spend outside this building, every breath you take that is not in service to me, is a direct violation. A violation I will make you regret.” He reached out, his hand closing around my arm, his grip surprisingly strong, not painful, but firm, demanding. His grip, unexpected and forceful, combined with his fury and my own rising panic, triggered it. A jagged tear in my perception. A flicker. Not a vision, but a sudden, violent intrusion of something I had buried. The clean, minimalist lines of the apartment dissolved, replaced by a softer, warmer glow. I saw myself, a year younger, my hair longer, wearing a different, vibrant color. My hands, not trembling, but purposeful, holding a sleek, black data-slate. It looked identical to the 'Daedalus' slate now in the hacker's hands. And I was handing it to Irena Rostova. Her elegant fingers closing around it, her smile, radiant and knowing. And then, an icy dread settled over me, a single, horrifying thought screaming through the chaos: *I did this.* My knees buckled. The room spun. The image of Irena’s smile, my own hand, the cold casing of the slate—it was too much. A roaring filled my ears, and the world went black. As I fell, a pair of strong hands closed around me, Tymon’s face, a mask of shock and a strange, unfamiliar guilt, rushing towards me before everything vanished.

A Memory Like a Locked Room