Resurgence

Chapter One

A naked man lay strapped to an operating table. The cold gnawed at his bones, biting through the thin sanitary sheet that separated him and the steel beneath. The air, tinged with a pungent aroma resembling sweat and stale bodily fluids, teased memories just beyond his reach. Memories of how he had ended up here, in this sterile cell with its too-bright lights and walls that echoed the deafening silence around him. Only fragments remained, slipping through his mind like smoke. He knew his name, the cadence of his voice, but nothing more. Silas. He repeated it, Silas. Silas. Silas, as if the repetition might anchor him, help him remember who he was—or at least keep him from losing what little he had left.

The harsh lights buzzed overhead, the sound slicing through the eerie quiet of the room, along with the squeaking leather straps that dug into his skin with relentless pressure. Silas tugged at the restraints, testing their strength, but they held firm. Military grade. He noted. He wasn't sure how he knew, but he was certain he was right. Panic flared at the edges of his mind, but he forced it down, smothering it with a practiced control he hadn't realized he held. He wouldn't let it take hold. He needed to focus.

A door hissed open in the distance, momentarily disturbing the fixed stillness with a loud rush of cold air. Hair follicles stood straight as the breeze licked his damp skin. The screech of sneakers on tile echoed as a figure approached. At first, she was just a silhouette, blurred by the harsh lights behind her. But as she drew closer, details began to sharpen, her features slowly coming into focus. Long hair, dark as midnight, was pulled into a neat bun at the top of her head, the fluorescent lights casting a deep purple sheen across the strands. Narrow rectangular glasses rested on the bridge of her nose as she stared at him with sharp, clinical interest.

"What is your name?" Her voice was more command than question. Silas's mouth seemed to move to answer beyond his will, a reflex he fought against until a cough forced the words back down.

"Please, don't make this harder than it needs to be. You're safe. This is routine. We're here to help you."

The words were anything but reassuring, delivered in a tone so practiced it sounded like she was reading from a script.

"What is your name?" she demanded again, this time with more force. His mouth betrayed him as he ground out the answer.

"Silas."

"Age." There was no inquiry in her approach now, only extraction.

"31."

She nodded, jotting something down on the clipboard clutched to her chest. He caught a glimpse of her nametag: N. Quinn.

Neuromancer Quinn. The realization hit harder than he was prepared for, like a bag of bricks dropped onto his chest. He had been cleansed. His memories, erased. His past, wiped clean. Bile rose in his throat at the thought of the world around him familiar to his own life, save for him. Quinn's soft voice cut through his spiraling thoughts.

"Mr. Kane?" Her face dipped closer to his, brows scrunched in inquisitiveness. Silas felt the tickle of her breath against his cheek as she tilted her head to the side and spoke. "Mr. Kane, what are you thinking about right now?"

Silas wanted to respond, felt the pressure to answer, but no words came. His gaze locked on the faint reflection of himself in her glasses. He couldn't speak. If he did, he knew she would move, and he'd lose this fleeting, intimate glimpse of the man he used to be. Images shot through his mind in a rapid blur, too fast to grasp. They flashed like streaks of color, shifting and changing before he could make sense of any of them. Shapes, faces, moments—all gone before he could hold onto a single thread, leaving nothing but a tangled mess of confusion in their wake.