Page 135 of Fractured Devotion
I want to watch it burn.
I see Alec twice in the hallway before either of us speaks.
The first time, he’s walking out of a post-op debrief, his face drawn. He doesn’t stop when he sees me. He just gives me a tight nod and keeps going.
The second time, I’m walking to the archives wing, and he’s leaning against the doorframe of Reyes’ office with his arms crossed, staring through me like I’m a ghost he can’t quite place.
“Celeste,” he finally says.
I stop.
He looks tired. And not just from work. It appears to be from carrying too many things he doesn’t have names for.
“You’ve been avoiding everyone,” he says.
“I’ve been working.”
“That’s not the same thing,” he says.
I offer no rebuttal. He steps closer.
“Reyes is worried. So is Mara. And me.”
“I’m not a patient,” I say, my voice sharper than intended.
“No. You’re someone who thinks she can bury trauma in code and call it therapy.”
That lands harder than I expect.
I fold my arms. “You’re not wrong. But I’m not ready for comfort. I’m ready for answers.”
He watches me long enough that I start to shift under his gaze.
“I have something,” he says. “But you’re not going to like it.”
My stomach knots. “What kind of something?”
“Recovered metadata. Reyes decrypted a portion of the initial Echo framework—early builds. There’s evidence of memory-loop trials predating Kade.”
I stiffen. “How far back?”
“Too far. And too targeted.”
We’re both silent for a moment.
“Project Celestia?” I ask.
He nods slowly. “It’s not just a name. It’s a category.”
I blink.
“I need to see it.”
“I’ll show you. But… there’s more.”
He opens a secured tablet from under his coat and navigates to a file directory.
One of the video logs has a timestamp from nearly twenty years ago. The file name is distorted and partially redacted. But the subject ID isn’t.
