The moment they breached the upper vault of Sub-Level 9, Jae-Won felt it—a pull in the air, like static before a lightning strike. The stairwell above them opened into an old control wing, bathed in flickering white light and layered dust that clung to every terminal and vent. It felt abandoned, but too perfectly preserved.
Kael wiped his blade clean, his breath shallow. "This area shouldn't even exist on the schematics."
Jae-Won stepped forward, his eyes narrowing. The glitch buzzed faintly at his fingertips, responding to something deeper within the structure.
"Do you feel that?" he muttered.
Kael nodded. "It's like...the walls are watching."
They didn't have time to ponder. As they moved deeper, an auto-lock snapped behind them. The blast doors sealed. A siren chirped once and fell silent. A voice echoed from above—old, feminine, and fractured like a recording damaged by time:
> "Chrono Relay Initialized. Welcome back... Operator J-WN-23."
Kael turned sharply. "That's you."
Jae-Won's pulse pounded in his ears. "I've never been here before."
But the glitch disagreed. His vision fuzzed. Lines of data scrolled over his inner vision—system prompts, mission logs, half-erased sequences. He saw fragments of himself in combat training, signing encrypted orders, standing beside a girl with white hair in a lab coat.
He stumbled.
Kael caught him by the shoulder. "Focus. We're not alone."
From the side hall, a door hissed open. Out stepped a figure—white coat, short hair, a small device strapped to her wrist like a gauntlet. Her gaze met Jae-Won's.
"You survived," she said. Her voice wasn't surprised. Just...tired.
Jae-Won stared. The glitch flared, not in defense but in recognition.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"Name's Serin," she said. "And you weren't supposed to come back."
Kael stepped between them. "Explain."
Serin ignored him. Her eyes locked on Jae-Won. "They reset everything. The timeline, your memory, the program. But something broke. You glitched. That's why you're still here. Why we're both still here."
She stepped forward, holding out a device. Holographic strands flared to life—logs, timelines, and looping failures.
"You're not just a victim, Jae-Won. You're the fulcrum. They tried to erase you from every version, but the glitch gave you an anchor. You slipped through the cracks of their perfect system."
Jae-Won stared at the loops: his face, dying again and again. Sometimes in flames. Sometimes alone. Sometimes betrayed.
Serin lowered the projection. "And now you're remembering."
"Why are you helping me?" he asked.
She hesitated, a flicker of something raw in her expression. "Because I couldn't save you the first time. But maybe I can help you break it this time."
Before Kael could speak, the room dimmed. The control lights flickered, then turned red.
> "Protocol breach detected. Erasers inbound."
Serin's face hardened. She tossed a baton-sized node to Kael. "EMP spike. If they reach us, use it. Aim for the neck."
Jae-Won clenched his fists. The glitch throbbed like a heartbeat in his palm.
For the first time, he knew two things for certain:
He had been erased.
And now, he was rewriting the code.
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