The debrief room was cold—clean-cut concrete and brushed steel, stripped of all its usual UI warmth.
A single rectangular table sat under harsh overhead light, casting elongated shadows across the sleek floor. Even the air felt taut, like it knew something was wrong.
Evelyn stood at the head of the table, her tailored grey coat buttoned to the throat, hair twisted into a tight knot that hadn't moved all day. Her face was impassive, the lines beneath her eyes more visible than usual, but she held herself like a wire drawn tight—vigilant and waiting to snap.
Vespera arrived first, dressed in her standard tactical black, the coattails of her long jacket whispering behind her. Her arms were crossed as she leaned against the wall, legs casually crossed at the ankles, but the flick of her sharp eyes from screen to screen betrayed a restless, calculating mind.
Elias slipped in after her, silver-white hair slightly disheveled from being caught in the wind. His attire was utilitarian—a grey vest over a slim black shirt, gloves hanging from one hand, a data drive in the other. He looked calm, but his brows furrowed at the pulse scan projected at the center of the room.
Quinn entered next, his short blond hair tousled like he hadn't slept, field jacket open over a black tee. He gave Ari a nod as she followed close behind, her dark hoodie spotted with fresh grime, sleeves rolled to her elbows. A bandage wrapped tight around her forearm, but she didn't flinch when she leaned against Quinn's chair.
Lucian and Rowan came last.
Lucian wore a dark, fitted shirt under an open jacket, his eyes slightly shadowed beneath messy, damp hair. He walked with hands in pockets, eyes locked ahead—but Rowan noticed his jaw, tense and rigid, like he was holding his breath beneath the surface. Rowan moved alongside him, gaze sharp and attentive, clothes still slightly disheveled from earlier, though his expression was all business.
Evelyn didn't wait for greetings.
"Seventeen minutes ago," she said, her voice cutting clean through the quiet, "another resonance ping registered. Inner perimeter. Sector B, corridor five."
The central table lit up with a projection of the pulse data—a circular shockwave pattern, jagged at first, then evening out into three repeating bands.
"Same pattern as the Epsilon site," Vespera said flatly.
"Same curvature. But this time, the pulse looped. Twice," Evelyn replied. She tapped a sequence into her interface, and another screen flared to life—two waveforms layered in perfect sync, with a ghost-like third hovering beneath them.
"That third one," Elias said, narrowing his eyes, "doesn't have a timestamp."
Quinn leaned forward, squinting. "It says zero across the board. That's... impossible."
"We pulled it from the raw signal log," Evelyn said. "The system logged it as 00:00:00.00. It has no beginning. No origin tag."
"Meaning?" Ari asked, arms folded, brow creased.
Vespera turned her head. "Meaning it came from nowhere. Or everywhere. A recursive pulse with no start point."
Lucian stayed silent.
Rowan stared at the data, pulse accelerating. "It's trying to stabilize."
Evelyn nodded once. "Or it's trying to restart something that shouldn't have ever run."
A beat passed.
"What about visual anomalies?" Elias asked.
Quinn brought up a feed—surveillance footage of the corridor seconds before the spike. At first, it was empty.
Then, frame by frame, a figure appeared.
Rowan.
Standing still. Eyes fixed on the camera. Expression blank.
"That never happened," Rowan said quietly.
"We know," Evelyn answered.
Ari exhaled. "That's not just a rift. That's a shadow. A memory bleeding through."
"It's more than that," Elias muttered. "It's self-repeating. The system tried to auto-correct the frame but failed. It left the image intact because the match was over 99%."
Rowan looked toward Lucian.
Lucian didn't move. Didn't blink.
The lights flickered overhead.
Everyone went still.
A second later, all auxiliary monitors buzzed—each one flashing static for a heartbeat, then returning to normal.
Quinn's face darkened. "That wasn't external interference. That was internal bleed. The system's confused. It's reading multiple versions of the same moment."
Evelyn's jaw set. "I want lockdown on all outer zones. Surveillance on sector anomalies. And no one moves alone. Not until we know what we're looking at."
Vespera nodded once and left without a word. Elias followed.
Ari squeezed Quinn's shoulder before she turned and exited. Quinn lingered just a moment longer, eyes briefly landing on Rowan, then followed.
Lucian and Rowan remained seated.
Evelyn waited until the room emptied. Then:
"You saw something before. In the reflection."
Lucian's hands were clenched under the table. "It wasn't me. Not exactly."
Rowan turned sharply toward him.
Lucian looked up, finally meeting his gaze. "It was like... a version of me. But wrong. Smiling. And bleeding."
"Did it speak?" Evelyn asked.
"No. But I knew what it wanted."
Rowan's voice was quiet. "What?"
Lucian stared at the empty screen.
"You."
Evelyn folded her arms slowly. "The system's flagged something called the Mercer Loop. It's showing up in buried fragments of the Veil archive."
Rowan didn't breathe for a second.
Lucian went pale.
Evelyn didn't move.
"Whatever this is," she said, "it's circling back to both of you. Again and again. And I think it's getting closer to completing whatever it started."
The silence that followed wasn't just heavy.
It was breaking.
And somewhere in the humming walls of the facility, a buried line of code repeated a message only the system could hear:
ANCHOR UNSTABLE. LOOP PERSISTENT.
RECURSION IN PROGRESS.
---
The hum of the facility faded behind them as Rowan and Lucian walked side by side down the corridor. Neither spoke.
The hall lights cast long shadows, breaking across their faces in intervals. Rowan's fingers twitched at his side, his eyes flicking occasionally to Lucian's face—drawn tight with something unreadable.
Each footstep echoed too loud.
As they turned the corner, they passed one of the mirrored junction panels embedded in the wall. Rowan glanced up.
And froze.
In the reflection, Lucian had stopped walking.
But beside him, the real Lucian kept moving.
Rowan turned his head sharply, heart in his throat.
Nothing. Just their reflections, matching pace.
They entered their shared quarters. The door sealed behind them with a hiss.
Lucian dropped his jacket over the back of the chair, running a hand through his hair. He didn't look at Rowan.
Rowan lingered in the doorway, then crossed to the console. His fingers hovered above the interface, hesitating.
"Why does it always look at me?"
Lucian's gaze flicked toward him. "Because you're the only constant."
Rowan turned. "What does that mean?"
Lucian exhaled. "I don't know how to explain it. But I feel it. Like we've been here before. Like everything's circling back."
Rowan stared at him for a long beat, then slowly activated the console.
He pulled up mission logs—audio only.
One was dated two weeks ago. Site Theta. Routine sweep. He remembered that day clearly—he and Lucian had returned early after nothing showed.
But when he played the log, static filtered through.
Then a voice.
His own.
"Don't let it find me again. Not this time."
Rowan's blood ran cold.
Lucian turned toward him, sharp. "What was that?"
Rowan played it again. Static. Silence.
The voice was gone.
"It was me," Rowan said, breath shallow. "But I never said that."
Lucian crossed to him. "You don't think maybe—"
"No," Rowan said, firmer than before. "I'd remember."
Lucian stood beside him, shoulder brushing his.
"Then something else is remembering for you."
They didn't speak after that. Not right away.
But something unspoken tightened between them—a thread stretched too far.
Outside the window, the sky cracked with distant thunder. And beneath the hum of the walls, the system whispered to itself again:
RECURSION LOOP: MAINTAINING COHERENCE. VARIANT CONFLICT DETECTED. OBSERVER NODE AWAKE.
---
They didn't say much after that. Just quiet looks. A shared understanding that there were no clean answers tonight.
Rowan shut off the console, the display fading into black. He turned toward Lucian, who stood unmoving, gaze still fixed on the empty screen.
"Let's just... rest," Rowan said softly.
Lucian hesitated, then nodded.
They moved through the routine without speaking—boots kicked off, jackets hung, lights dimmed. The atmosphere in their quarters was muted now, insulated from the world beyond.
When Rowan pulled back the covers, he glanced up. "You staying?"
Lucian met his gaze. "If you want me to."
Rowan didn't answer. He just shifted to the far side of the bed and made space.
Lucian slid in beside him.
They lay facing each other in the low light. For a moment, neither moved.
Then Rowan reached out.
Lucian didn't hesitate. He pulled Rowan into his arms, one hand resting against the back of his neck, the other curling protectively around his waist. Rowan pressed his forehead to Lucian's chest, eyes closed, listening to the quiet thrum of his heartbeat.
Lucian's fingers threaded through Rowan's hair, slow and grounding.
"We're okay," he murmured. "Just for tonight."
Rowan nodded against his chest. "Just for tonight."
Outside, the storm faded into a light drizzle.
And inside, two bodies pressed together in silence, trying to hold still the pieces of a world already beginning to come undone.