“Share what you saw,” Yuma said, all business. “We need to cross?reference.”
Reluctantly, they did.
The room felt smaller as each story unfolded. Yuma summarized his father’s warning, the name “Prometheus,” the mysterious “Alex.” Ruri described the tattoo on Aya’s ankle, the candidate profile that shouldn’t exist. Tsukasa recounted the surveilnce files, the men with the same tattoo. Komachi shared the byrinth painting, the artist’s signature, her father’s notes.
Sakuya had nothing to share. Just static.
“So we’re all connected,” Ruri said, voice barely above a whisper. “Even before Ark. Even before we lost our memories.”
“Connected is an understatement,” Tsukasa growled. “We were targeted. Selected. Like animals in a damn zoo.”
Yuma’s mind raced, cross?referencing the data points. “The common element is Prometheus. The tattoo appears in multiple memories. Alex Caine is the director. My father worked for him. Your opponent was a candidate. Your hacker group stumbled onto their surveilnce. Your father researched their methods.”
He paused, a cold realization dawning. “This isn’t random. This is a controlled experiment from start to finish. We weren’t just thrown into Ark—we were groomed for it.”
“The timelines,” Komachi said softly. “Hyperthymesia… I remember dates. My memory is from June 14th. 3:47?p.m.”
Ruri frowned. “Mine is June 14th. 3:47?p.m.”
Tsukasa checked his shard’s metadata. “Same.”
Yuma nodded. “Mine too.”
All four memories—stolen from the exact same second.
A chill swept through the room. Coincidence was one thing; perfect synchronization was another. It spoke of orchestration, of a puppet?master pulling strings.
“That’s impossible,” Tsukasa said, disbelief warring with anger. “We were in different pces. How could we all have a significant memory at the exact same moment?”
“It’s not impossible if the memories aren’t ours,” Sakuya said, his analytical tone cutting through the tension. “Consider: each shard shows a scene that reinforces a specific narrative—betrayal, surveilnce, manipution. They’re priming us. Building a shared mythology of persecution.”
“You think they’re fake?” Ruri asked, clutching her shard like a lifeline. “But… they feel real. The emotions, the details…”
“Emotions can be simuted. Details can be pnted.” Sakuya tapped his bnk shard. “My empty pyback suggests ARK can selectively withhold or provide information. Why give you those specific memories? To make you trust each other less? To make you trust me less?”
Yuma considered the variables. If the memories are fabricated, then Father’s warning might be a lie. But if they’re real, then the cutoff point hides something ARK doesn’t want me to see.
“Unless the memories aren’t real,” Sakuya suggested. “Unless they’re impnts—carefully crafted scenes designed to guide our behavior.”
Yuma’s mind raced. Father’s warning felt real. The emotion was genuine. But… could ARK fabricate that level of detail?
“Or,” Komachi whispered, “something happened at 3:47?p.m. on June 14th. Something that affected all of us simultaneously.”
An event. A catalyst.
“Prometheus,” Ruri said. “That symbol links everything. My opponent, Tsukasa’s captors… maybe even your father’s colleague.”
Yuma stood. “We need more data. The control center—the one from my memory. If we can get inside, maybe we can find answers.”
Tsukasa pushed himself up, wincing. “I’m in. No way I’m sitting around waiting for the next test.”
“It’s dangerous,” Sakuya cautioned. “Unauthorized access will trigger viotions.”
“Hikari risked everything to send us that message,” Ruri said, clutching the data?chip. “She’s telling us not to trust ARK. Maybe that means we have to break the rules.”
Komachi nodded, though she looked terrified. “I’ll… I’ll help. My memory might be useful.”
Yuma assessed the team. Cohesion: fragile but present. Motivation: high. Probability of success: low. But probability of learning critical truth: worth the risk.
“We go tonight,” he said. “During the sleep cycle. ARK’s monitoring might be reduced.”
