Page 141 of Fractured Devotion
And now we know exactly where it started.
Reyes watches without a sound as I scroll further, cataloging the strands. Each file we unlock paints the same picture: a system built not to heal, but to condition.
One log catches my eye: voice transcriptions from a masked clinician. The language is clipped and technical. “Subject demonstrates high neural elasticity. Recommend progressive loop retention intervals at 30-second lapses, increasing by exposure.”
“Jesus,” Reyes mutters. “This isn’t therapy. It’s training.”
“Conditioning,” I say. “They were building reflexes. Hard-coded trauma reactions.”
“Why?”
I glance at him. “To test what could be broken and rebuilt. Over and over. Until the subject obeyed.”
He flinches like I hit him. I don’t blame him.
We pull one more file that’s older than the rest and marked with only a three-letter code:RHK.
My stomach knots.
“That’s Rourke’s old signature,” Reyes says before I can.
I open it.
It’s not code. It’s notes, observational and philosophical.
“The girl exhibits ideal malleability. Identity is not fixed. It can be scripted. Our task is not to discover who she is, but to decide who she will be.”
“There is no such thing as trauma. Only unfinished rewrites.”
“The body resists. But the mind, if properly cut, will comply.”
Reyes swears and steps away, and I close the document before I vomit.
Celeste wasn’t just studied. She was authored.
We sit in silence. The hum of the terminal is the only sound.
“I don’t think we should tell her yet,” Reyes says calmly.
I nod. “Not until we know more. Not until we have something solid to bring her. Real names and real proof.”
Because what we’ve seen doesn’t answer anything yet.
It just proves how deep the rot goes.
Reyes doesn’t speak for a while, and when he finally breaks the silence, he asks, “You think she suspects this already?”
I shake my head. “She’s circling the truth, but this?” I motion to the screen. “This would crush most people.”
“Celeste isn’t most people,” Reyes points out.
“No, she’s not,” I agree. “But she’s also not unbreakable. Everyone has a fault line.”
I close the last of the logs and unplug the drive. We wipe the terminal session clean and leave no traces. There’s no way to know who else might be watching, and paranoia isn’t optional anymore.
We walk back to my office in silence, passing interns and staff who nod respectfully, oblivious to what we’ve just seen. I can’t meet their eyes.
Back inside, Reyes locks the door behind him and sits down heavily.
