The definitive *click* of the door reverberated not through the sterile air, but directly against Demyan’s cranial bone. He stood, unmoving, the spectral woman’s words still vibrating in his mind. He wanted to dismiss her as a residual bioelectric tremor, a misfiring synapse. Yet, the stark memory of the star-shaped scar, a detail plucked from the unseen, clung to him like frost. He clenched his fists, knuckles white against the pristine fabric of his gown. “Used us up for what, phantom?” His voice, though a whisper, felt rough, unused. The sound startled him, proof of his own tangible existence against her ethereal one. “For the Vesna Protocol,” she replied, her voice now closer, a breath against his consciousness. “To replicate it. To make more like you. More like… what I became.” A profound sorrow underlay her words, a raw ache that Demyan, for all his clinical detachment, felt as a strange, unwelcome resonance in his own mind. He walked to the large observation pane, staring out at the blizzard-whipped peak of Mount Verkhniy, the jagged, snow-draped forms a stark contrast to the smooth, cool surfaces of his prison. He needed data, not spectral lamentations. “Explain.” “I was a patient here,” Zoya began, her voice a low thrum. “Before you. They called it the ‘Arion Recovery Program’ for me. A neurological degenerative condition. Vlasova… she offered a solution. A new form of synaptic interface. But it was a lie.” The last word was a brittle shard of ice. “They didn’t save me, Demyan. They murdered me. Right here, in this facility.” Murder. The word hung in his mind, stark and illogical. He turned from the window, scrutinizing the empty room as if her presence might manifest. “Who?” “I don’t know,” she confessed, a note of desperation entering her tone. “The face… it’s gone. A blur. But I remember the act. The cold. The finality. And then… this.” Her presence swelled, a tide of agitated static that made the fine hairs on his arms prickle. “I remember the betrayal. Someone I trusted. Someone close.” Demyan walked to the sterile console built into the wall. A screen flickered to life, displaying his current vital signs: heart rate elevated, cerebral activity spiking. He tapped the display, a sharp, rhythmic sound in the silence. “You are a variable, Zoya. A hallucination. A side effect. Your ‘memories’ are likely scrambled data fragments, neurological noise.” He didn’t believe it, not anymore, but the familiar language of science was a shield. “You saw the scar, Demyan!” Her voice was a sudden, piercing cry within his skull. “How could you have known about Vlasova’s scar? Tell me that isn’t real!” The shield splintered. He pressed a hand to his temple, a phantom ache blooming there. “Fine,” he conceded, the word a bitter taste. “Assuming, for a moment, that you are not merely a complex synaptic misfire… what do you want?” “Justice,” she stated, a fierce, unwavering determination entering her voice. “And to warn you. You are in danger. We both are. Vlasova… she experiments without limits. She sees us as tools. If the Vesna Protocol is deemed a success, my consciousness will be ripped apart, fragmented to serve as a template for more ‘revivals’. And you…” Her voice dropped, a chilling whisper. “You will be disposed of as a failed prototype.” Demyan’s detached curiosity gave way to a cold, analytical surge of self-preservation. Disposal. Failed prototype. He, Demyan Yevgrafov, was not a prototype. He was a master of his own fate. He would regain his autonomy. He looked at the stark white walls, then at his own hand, flexing his fingers. This body felt alien, yet undeniably his. He had to purge this voice, this echo. But first, he needed to understand the game. “A truce, then,” Demyan said, his voice flat, devoid of warmth. “I will listen. But I require verifiable data. Information I can use. Something concrete against Vlasova. Not vague accusations of ‘murder’ or ‘betrayal’. Prove your utility, Zoya. Provide me with leverage. And I will consider your… plight.” A beat of silence, then a faint, almost imperceptible sigh from within his mind. “Agreed.” Her tone was still wounded, but with a new edge of resilience. “I will try. But my memories are fractured. Like shards of ice.” Just as Demyan was about to formulate his next query, a soft chime announced an approaching presence. The door hissed open, revealing a young man with a mop of unruly dark hair and a disarmingly open smile. It was Luka Morozov, a junior researcher Demyan vaguely recalled from brief, pre-accident encounters during his own consulting work at the institute. Luka carried a slim, silver slate. “Doctor Yevgrafov,” Luka greeted, his voice warm, almost too casual for the sterile environment. “Good to see you… upright. Dr. Vlasova sent me to deliver your initial cognitive assessment regimen. Just some simple pattern recognition and recall exercises. Nothing too strenuous.” He offered the tablet. “Think of it as physical therapy for the brain.” Demyan took the tablet, his fingers brushing Luka’s. A faint, almost imperceptible jolt passed between them, a residual current from the device itself, perhaps. But then, a distinct tremor ran through Demyan’s mind. Not his own, but Zoya’s. A sharp, almost painful intake of a non-existent breath. *“Luka…”* Her voice, a ragged gasp, was laced with an inexplicable recognition, a shock that reverberated through Demyan’s own neural pathways. It was a name, a name she knew. The recognition was immediate, visceral. Then, without warning, a deafening screech ripped through Demyan’s head. It wasn’t a sound, but a raw, agonizing burst of static, like a thousand television sets losing signal simultaneously, amplified within the confines of his skull. His vision swam, the clean lines of the suite blurring into a chaotic mess of white and silver. A searing pain erupted behind his eyes, radiating outward. He dropped the slate. It clattered against the polished floor, the screen cracking. His legs gave out. He stumbled, collapsing against the cool, unforgiving surface of the floor, clutching his head, a guttural groan escaping his lips. “Demyan? Doctor Yevgrafov! What’s wrong?” Luka was instantly at his side, his friendly demeanor replaced by genuine alarm, his hand reaching for Demyan’s shoulder. Demyan pushed him away with a convulsive jerk, his eyes, still clouded with residual agony, fixing on Luka’s face. The pain slowly receded, leaving behind a cold, hard knot of suspicion. Zoya’s broken gasp echoed. Luka’s name. This man. What did you do to her?

Rules of Cohabitation