Page 123 of Fractured Devotion
My blood goes cold.
I rewind and replay. I boost the gain and isolate the track.
“Celestia… wake up.”
It’s not just a prompt. It’s a command. A key.
Someone embedded a wake phrase in her trauma loop, which means the data on this drive—the one I stole, the one Rourke wants—contains more than memory scripts. It contains active controls and behavioral overrides.
Someone didn’t just watch her.
They programmed her.
I quickly transfer the files, then I eject the drive and slide it into my pocket.
After, I stare at the wall for a long, long time, listening to the hum of the Echo tech that still runs somewhere under the foundation of this building.
Control isn’t about who holds the leash.
It’s about who owns the trigger word.
And tonight, I think I finally heard it.
Time to figure out what Rourke really wants, and whether he already knows what’s on this drive.
The windows have begun to fog slightly with the first brush of dawn. A pale wash of silver peels over the rooftops outside, catching in the cracked blinds like the start of something unforgivable.
I move toward the bedroom door.
But I don’t enter. I just listen.
Her breathing is steady. She’s still asleep.
But I know better now. Sleep doesn’t mean safety. Not when the ghosts speak through frequencies no one else hears.
I could warn her.
I could tell her what I found. The phrase. And the way her name has been weaponized since childhood.
But I don’t.
Not yet.
Because telling her means admitting what I know, what I’ve always known, even before the files and the whispers.
That she was made for this.
And I was made to break her open.
I return to the couch and sit in silence. I press my hand to the carved wound on my chest and trace the letter she left me.
C.
Celeste.
Celestia.
It doesn’t matter what name they used.
