I stood there, staring at my—her—reflection, willing the body I inhabited to look around. To take in the room. To search for clues, for answers, for something that might make sense of this nightmare.

But she never did.

Because it was useless. Meaningless. Subject 3840 had learned long ago that looking for escape, for hope, for anything beyond these four white walls was a waste of energy. Energy she couldn't afford to waste.

So she—I—just stood there, staring at the hollow eyes in the mirror.

But I felt something.

A presence. Faint but undeniable. The System.

It was already there. Already active. Not like the hunter's primitive interface or the thousands of awakening moments I'd witnessed. This was established. Permanent.

I tried to sense it, to pull it forward into view, but it resisted. Like trying to grab smoke. It was there, but barely. A whisper of existence.

The job title flickered at the edge of my awareness.

Jobmaster.

But it was so faint. So dim. Like a candle flame struggling against a hurricane.

Rank D.

That hit me like a physical blow. I already knew that hers was at Rank D. But the stark contrast from my—Reynard Vale's—current System which was SSS-Rank was overwhelming to say the least. I was the highest. The pinnacle. But here, in this moment, Subject 3840's Jobmaster title was barely functional. Newly formed. Fragile.

This was the beginning. Before the power. Before the multiple jobs. Before everything.

The door opened.

The body I inhabited turned automatically, trained response overriding any thought. A researcher entered, wearing a white coat stained with coffee and ink. Clipboard in hand. The sterile, detached expression of someone who'd stopped seeing subjects as human long ago.

But when Subject 3840's eyes focused on his face, I felt shock ripple through both of us.

Hugo Vale.

My father.

Time seemed to fracture. I knew this face. Knew it from childhood memories that felt simultaneously recent and ancient. But this wasn't the Hugo Vale I remembered. That man had been younger, sharper, still carrying himself with the arrogance of someone convinced they were changing the world.

This Hugo Vale was older. Much older. His hair had gone mostly gray, deep lines etched around his eyes and mouth. He moved with the careful deliberation of someone whose body had started betraying them. Late sixties, maybe. Possibly early seventies.

The math clicked into place despite my disorientation. I'd been a kid—maybe eight or nine—when Hugo left. Abandoned us to chase his research. Now, in this memory, Reynard would be around twenty-eight. That made Hugo… somewhere in his late sixties.

And I—the current Reynard Vale, thirty-nine years old and lying on an operating table—was seeing a version of my father that existed eleven years in my past.

The temporal displacement made my head spin.

Hugo approached slowly, that clipboard held against his chest like a shield. His eyes—cold, analytical eyes I remembered hating even as a child—studied Subject 3840 with clinical interest.

"Subject 3840," he said, his voice exactly as I remembered. Smooth. Measured. The voice of a man who believed every word he spoke was profound. "This is an honor for you. I hope you understand that."

Subject 3840 said nothing. Didn't move. Just stood there beside the sink, water still dripping from her face.

I wanted to scream at him. Wanted to lunge forward and wrap my hands around his throat. But I was a passenger here. A witness. Powerless.

"You are the final subject," Hugo continued, stepping closer. "The culmination of decades of research. Every trial, every failure, every sacrifice has led to this moment. To you."

My blood boiled. I couldn't tell if it was my rage or Subject 3840's. Maybe both. They felt indistinguishable now, bleeding together like ink in water.

Hugo consulted his clipboard, humming thoughtfully. "The System integration is stable. The Jobmaster title has manifested successfully. You are, quite literally, the first of your kind. The only human being to possess the capacity for multiple simultaneous jobs and job titles."

He looked up, smiling. That same self-satisfied smile I'd seen on his face countless times as a child. The smile that said he was brilliant and everyone else was too stupid to understand his genius.

"You should be proud," he said. "Your contribution to humanity's evolution cannot be overstated."

I hoped—desperately hoped—that he would say something. Reveal something. A name. A connection. Anything that might link NovaCore to the World President.

I knew they were connected. Had known since I first learned about the experiments. NovaCore's research, the Cain Protocol, the systematic manipulation of the System itself—it all pointed back to the World President's network.

And Hugo, as lead researcher, had to know something. Had to have worked with someone who could give me answers.

But he never said the name.

Never mentioned a superior or a benefactor or a mysterious figure pulling strings behind the scenes.

He just kept talking, his voice droning on about the "benefit of humanity" and "evolutionary advancement" and "necessary sacrifices for progress."

Each word was a knife twisting in my gut.

Subject 3840's hands clenched into fists. I felt her rage rising, bubbling up from somewhere deep and primal. Years of imprisonment. Years of torture disguised as research. Years of being treated as an object instead of a person.

"The next phase begins tomorrow," Hugo said, making a note on his clipboard. "We'll be testing the limits of job acquisition. How many can you hold? How quickly can they be integrated? What are the cognitive and physical ramifications? You are only D-Rank after all, you must have a limit."

He looked up again, and for just a moment, something flickered in his eyes. Not compassion. Nothing so human. But perhaps… curiosity? Professional interest?

"I do wonder what it feels like," he mused. "To have the System bend to your will in ways no one else can. Does it hurt? Does it feel like power? Or is it simply… there?"

Subject 3840 didn't answer. Couldn't answer. Her throat was too tight, her body too rigid with suppressed fury.

Hugo waited a moment, then shrugged. "No matter. We'll document everything regardless."

He moved toward her then, reaching out with one hand.

She—we—tried to pull back, but the body wouldn't respond. Frozen in place by fear or training or some combination of both.

Hugo's hand closed around her arm, grip firm and clinical.

"Come along now," he said, pulling her toward the door. "Time for your evening evaluation."

Subject 3840 screamed.

Not with her voice. That stayed trapped in her throat, strangled by years of learned helplessness.

But somewhere deeper—in her mind, in her soul—she screamed.

And I screamed with her.

The room began to fade. The white walls bleeding into gray, then black. Hugo's face dissolved like smoke. The fluorescent lights dimmed and vanished.

I was being pulled away again. Back into the void.

My last coherent thought before everything disappeared was a wish. A desperate, violent wish.

I want to meet Hugo Vale.

Not the memory. Not the ghost. The real man. Wherever he was now.

So I could beat him half to death for everything he has done.

The void swallowed me, and for a moment, there was nothing but rage and darkness.

Then, so faint I almost missed it, a whisper.

Subject 3840's voice. Or maybe my own. Or maybe both at once, speaking across time and consciousness.

"People with job titles are burdened with blessings."

The words hung in the emptiness, echoing endlessly.

Burdened with blessings.

And then I was waking up.

For real this time.

Not into another memory. Not into another life. Into my body. My actual, physical body.

The first thing I felt was pain. Dull and throbbing, centered in my head. My skull felt like it had been cracked open and put back together—which, I realized with nauseating clarity, it probably had been.

The second thing I felt was the bandages. Wrapped around my head, tight and secure. Medical grade. Professional work.

I was lying on something soft. Not the operating table. A couch, maybe? Or a medical cot?

My eyes opened slowly, vision blurry and unfocused. The ceiling above me was familiar. White tiles. Recessed lighting. Alexis's office.

I was back.

I tried to move, but my body felt heavy. Weak. Like I'd been asleep for days instead of however long the surgery had actually taken.

My mouth was dry. My limbs tingled with that unpleasant pins-and-needles sensation that comes from lying still too long.

But I was alive.

I was awake.

I was—

And then I heard it.

Crying.

Quiet at first. Muffled. But unmistakable.

Someone was crying in the corner of the room.

I couldn't turn my head yet. Couldn't move enough to see who it was.

But I knew.

Alexis.

Alexis was crying.

Not the quiet, controlled tears of someone trying to maintain composure. This was raw. Uncontrolled. The kind of crying that comes from a place too deep for dignity or restraint.

She was sobbing in the corner of her own office, and I couldn't do anything but lie there and listen.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

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