Nero came to with a sound caught halfway between a gasp and a choke, his lungs burning as though he'd been held underwater and released only at the last moment.
His back pressed against something unexpectedly soft, soft enough to break his fall yet firm enough to remind him that whatever he'd landed on wasn't comforting. His fingers curled instinctively around the surface beneath him and the sensation sent a ripple of confusion through his already fuzzy awareness.
Paper.
He opened his eyes.
A dim, steady glow illuminated the small circular chamber around him and cast gentle shadows that seemed to cling to the walls rather than retreat from the light. Those walls weren't metal, stone, or composite plating like the rest of the Archive. They were layered entirely with sheets of paper that were pinned and taped in uneven rows. Some pages drooped loosely with their corners curling like wilted leaves. Others overlapped in chaotic stacks, as though added hastily and desperately without any concern for order.
Nero pushed himself upright and breathed carefully.
Drawings covered every visible surface he could see.
They were crude. Childlike. Made with the uncertain, trembling strokes of someone new to the process, someone still learning how to shape thoughts into lines.
Stick figures filled many of the pages with some standing alone and others enclosed within cylinders and boxes. Repeated shapes appeared again and again and grew more erratic the longer he stared, as if the artist's confidence had eroded over time.
His throat tightened.
For once, he didn't call out. No frantic shout for Helia. No panic-stricken demand for answers. The silence felt different here, heavy but not hostile.
He stood slowly and approached the nearest wall. One drawing stopped him cold.
It showed a small boy inside a containment pod with lines shaky and the corner of the page smudged where the artist's hand must have trembled. The next drawing showed the pod cracked. The one after that depicted the boy outside of it, broken and incomplete with limbs uneven and unfinished.
Nero swallowed hard. "These are..."
"Memories."
The voice came from behind him.
Nero turned sharply.
A boy stood near the center of the room, small and barefoot with his posture tentative. He wasn't cracked or fragmented. There were no distortions clinging to his form. He was simply young, perhaps eight years old, whole in a way Nero hadn't expected.
Fear fluttered in Nero's chest, but he didn't let it take control this time.
"Are you him?" Nero asked quietly. "The boy I saw before?"
The child shook his head. "Only one part."
Nero exhaled slowly. "Which part?"
"The beginning," the boy whispered. "Before everything hurt."
The room seemed to contract subtly, not physically but in a way that made Nero keenly aware he wasn't welcome there and couldn't stay for long.
He took a careful step closer. "What is this place?"
"My room," the boy replied. "The one they made for me."
Nero glanced around at the walls of paper. "Why fill it with these?"
The boy's eyes softened. "So I wouldn't forget myself."
Something twisted painfully in Nero's chest. Sympathy, maybe. Or grief. The line between the two felt thin here.
"Do you remember everything?" Nero asked gently.
"Only the parts that stayed," the boy answered. "The rest was taken."
The tension in the air shifted.
Guilt stirred inside Nero, deep and complicated and difficult to place. He lowered himself to the floor and chose not to stand over the child.
"You said I have something that belongs to you," he said quietly.
The boy studied him for a long moment. There was no anger in his gaze. No resentment. Only a quiet sadness that felt heavier than either.
"You carry my core," he said. "The one that didn't work for me."
"I didn't know," Nero replied, his voice tight. "I didn't even know it wasn't mine."
"I know," the boy said softly while pointing in a direction. "But the others don't understand that."
Nero followed the boy's gaze to another section of the wall.
There were dozens of drawings there with two figures instead of one. A smaller boy and a taller one. Sometimes they held hands. Sometimes they sat beside each other. Sometimes they simply stood close but not touching.
"What are these?" Nero asked, barely above a whisper.
"A future I wanted," the boy said. "A brother."
Nero's breath caught. "Brother?"
"Someone to grow with," the boy murmured. "Not someone to replace me. Someone to stand beside me."
Emotion burned behind Nero's eyes.
"I didn't choose to replace you," he said, his voice trembling. "I didn't even know you existed."
"I know," the boy replied. "That's why I'm not angry."
Silence settled between them, heavy but gentle, as though the room itself were listening.
Then the boy's expression changed.
"You need to understand something," he said.
Nero tensed. "What?"
The paper walls rustled softly.
"He's coming."
Nero stiffened. "Who?"
Before the boy could answer, the room shuddered violently. The drawings rippled as though struck by an unseen wind. Sheets peeled from the walls and lifted into the air like snow caught in a rising storm.
The boy stepped backward with fear flickering across his face. "Hide," he whispered. "He can't see you while I'm here."
"Who?!" Nero demanded.
But the boy didn't answer.
He faded, not in a flash or distortion but like a drawing erased by trembling fingers.
The temperature dropped.
A tall shadow entered the room with footsteps calm and unhurried.
The figure from before.
This time, Nero didn't freeze. He didn't retreat.
He planted his feet and faced him. "You're everywhere," Nero said. "Every time I learn something, you appear."
The figure regarded him silently. "Because your truth and I are closer than you think."
"I don't want protection," Nero snapped. "I want answers."
Something shifted in the figure's expression, recognition perhaps.
"You are beginning," he said softly, "to sound like him."
Nero's heart pounded. "Like who?"
The paper walls split violently.
Helia burst into the room breathless with her weapon raised.
"NERO! Get away from him!"
She dragged Nero behind her with fury blazing in her eyes. "You don't get to manipulate him."
"This is not manipulation," the figure replied calmly. "This is preparation."
"It's trauma," Helia shot back. "And I'm done watching you drown him in it."
A mechanical tremor echoed.
Behind the figure, a corrupted C-Unit crawled into view with fractured eyes locking onto Nero.
Helia tightened her grip. "We run. Now."
For the first time, Nero took the first step. He didn't fall or freeze. He grabbed Helia's hand first.
"Let's go."
They ran. Behind them, the figure's voice followed softly.
"Your first choice," he murmured. "Remember it."