Chapter 3

"Handle them?" Dax’s voice was a low, dangerous vibration against my ear. He shifted, his chest pressing into my shoulder, cutting off any exit. "You almost got your brain fried because you were too busy staring at me. You're a memory thief, Voss. Not a soldier. Shut up and listen."

I glared up at him. His breath was hot on my cheek. Too close. He smelled like ozone and old leather—the kind of scent that screamed trouble.

"I don't take orders from guys who break into my apartment and steal my childhood," I spat.

"I didn't steal them. The contract did because you were too stubborn to sign." He didn't let go. Instead, he dragged my wrist toward the center of the alley, where blood from our skirmish was still steaming on the pavement. "Look at the mark. It's pulsing. We're out of time."

I looked down. The jagged ink on my forearm was glowing a bruised, sickly purple. It wasn't a tattoo; it was a parasite. Every time it flared, a needle of pain shot up my arm. A flash of something—a birthday cake, a lullaby, the smell of rain—vanished. Just gone.

"If we don't lock this pact now, the curse doesn't just eat your memories," Dax whispered, his grip tightening. "It eats *you*. And since we're linked, I go down with the ship. I'm not dying for a girl who can't even remember her own mother's face."

"You bastard."

I tried to kick his shin. He anticipated it, stepping in and slamming me harder against the wall. The air left my lungs in a rush. He didn't pull away. He stayed there, his body a heavy weight pinning me down, his eyes searching mine with an intensity that felt like a physical touch.

"Say it," he commanded. "Say you'll do it. Seven nights. You help me track the killers, you read the locked memories, and I'll find a way to break this thing without erasing your soul."

"And if I say no?"

"Then we both burn. Together."

I hated him. I loathed the way he controlled the air, the way he knew exactly how much pressure to apply to make me submit. Then the mark flared. A sudden, terrifying blank spot opened in my mind. I couldn't remember the color of my own front door.

"Fine!" I yelled. "Fine, you arrogant prick!"

Dax didn't smile. He pulled a jagged obsidian blade from his coat and sliced a thin line across his own palm. He didn't even flinch. In one swift motion, he grabbed my hand and dragged the blade across my skin.

"Scream if you want," he muttered, "but don't pull away."

He slammed his bloody palm against mine.

Heat. Instant and violent. It wasn't just skin on skin; it felt like a circuit had slammed shut. A surge of raw, electric energy ripped through my veins, forcing my head back against the brick. I gasped, my fingers curling around his hand, gripping him for dear life as the world blurred.

"Focus, Mara!" he roared. "Don't let go!"

Images hit me—not mine. A rain-slicked street. A scream. The feeling of a cold blade sliding into ribs. And then, a face. My face. But I wasn't the one holding the knife. I was the one being watched.

As the blood dried, the glow settled into an ominous thrum. I was tethered. I could feel his heartbeat—a steady, rhythmic thud that felt far too loud in the silence.

"Great," I breathed, sliding down the wall until I hit the pavement. "I'm officially hitched to a nightmare."

Dax stood over me, wiping his hand on a handkerchief. "Welcome to the team. Now, let's see what the contract wants."

The mark on my arm flared white. A name seared into my mind like a brand: *Elias Vale*.

"Who the hell is Elias Vale?"

"A mid-level archivist for the Memory Bureau," Dax said, his voice turning cold. "And according to the link, he's going to be dead by midnight."

"What? How do you know that?"

"The contract predicts the spill. It's showing us the next crime scene. And there's a kicker, Voss."

"What kicker?"

He stopped and looked back at me, a grim shadow on his face. "The memory residue at the scene? It's going to be yours. The witness will see your face. Your eyes. Your fingerprints on the weapon."

I froze. "Impossible. I'm standing right here!"

"Exactly. Which means someone is wearing your skin, or someone is rewriting the past in real-time. If we don't get to Vale, you're not just a thief anymore. You're a murderer."

I scrambled up, heart hammering. "We have to save him!"

"Save him?" Dax scoffed, grabbing my shoulder and shoving me toward the street. "In this city, the dead don't want to be saved. They want to be heard. Move."

We tore through Veyra, the air thick with synthetic rain and fried oil. Dax led me to the Old District, where buildings leaned like drunken giants.

"Vale's place," he said, pointing to a crumbling tenement. "He's a hoarder. Lives in the attic with a thousand stolen memories. Perfect place for a hit."

We didn't even hit the door before a wet, choking sound echoed from above. Then, a heavy thud.

I bolted. I didn't wait for Dax. My boots clattered on rotting wood as I burst through the attic door just as the last breath left Elias Vale's lungs.

He was slumped over a desk of brass clockwork and faded photos. A single, clean puncture wound sat over his heart. No struggle. No blood. Just a dead man and a room full of ticking clocks.

"Too late," Dax muttered. He didn't look at the body. He looked at the desk.

I approached, hands shaking. My fingers hovered over a gold-plated pocket watch clutched in Vale's cold grip. I could feel it—the last ten seconds of a life, trapped in the metal.

I closed my eyes and touched the watch.

*Flash.*

I saw the room. I saw Vale looking up in terror. And then, I saw myself. Not me, but a version of me—wearing a dress I'd never owned, smiling a smile like a razor blade—leaning down and whispering into his ear before the strike.

I yanked my hand back, gasping. "That wasn't me! Dax, I swear!"

"I know," Dax said. His voice was flat. He was staring at the watch, which was now vibrating in the dead man's hand.

Then, the watch spoke.

It wasn't a recording. It was a voice—high-pitched, innocent, sounding like a six-year-old child—bleeding out of the gold casing.

"She wasn't the first," the child whispered, the malice making my skin crawl.

I looked at Dax, blood running cold. "What the hell is that?"

The watch face cracked. A new image flickered onto the glass—a photograph of a girl. It was me.

But the date stamped beneath the photo was from twenty years before I was even born.