Chapter 2: Whispering Scraps

👉 Previous decision: You chose Option A – Secretly attempt to sneak a written coded note out of the secure floor during his next shift.

The sterile hum of the Severance Floor settled around me as I stepped through the biometric scanner. My palms felt dry. This morning, I had taped a tiny piece of paper, folded into a minute square, inside the collar band of my uniform shirt. It was my only way past the daily checks.

The scanner beeped, a familiar sound. It registered my face, my retina, the microchip embedded in my wrist. Everything clicked green. No alarms.

I walked to my workstation, the usual tension in my shoulders. My day would involve managing digital crises, crafting narratives, burying truths – all of which I would forget by 5:00 PM. But today, I carried a secret.

During my lunch break, I excused myself to the staff restroom. The room was empty. I peeled back my collar, my fingers trembling slightly as I retrieved the note. I unfolded it carefully.

It was just a string of seemingly random numbers and letters. A cipher. I had developed it weeks ago, a personal project to stave off boredom, never imagining I’d use it like this.

I found a discarded napkin and a pen in my pocket, the kind Apex Celebrity Media supplied for general use. I scribbled down a few lines, a coded message: “DEVON HART. MEDICAL. VAULT.” Then, I re-taped the original note, plus the new one, back into my collar. This was my proof, my breadcrumb trail.

Later, Julian Kincaid, my senior VP and friend, stopped by my desk. He stood close, his smile wide.

“How are things, Ethan? Settling in well?” he asked.

“Great, Julian. No issues,” I said, meeting his gaze. My heart pounded against my ribs.

He leaned in closer. “Remember, you’re on the cutting edge here. This is the future of celebrity management. Discretion is paramount.”

“I understand,” I replied, forcing a nod. His eyes, usually warm, seemed to hold a sharp edge today.

I could feel the two small lumps of paper pressing against my skin. They were physical anchors against the coming blankness. Devon Hart. The pop icon who had “retired” quietly, years ago. What did Apex have on him? The blood-stained hospital admission record I’d found yesterday flashed in my mind.

That night, after the neurological wipe, I found the two notes, exactly where I’d left them. My cipher revealed nothing new, but the fact I’d smuggled them out confirmed the memory wipe was real, and that my past self had risked everything to start this.

The second note, the one I had written to myself during my shift, was a stark reminder. It simply said: “Devon Hart. Sub-Basement 4. Apex Records Vault. Clara Halloway is a friend.” The name, Clara Halloway, was new.

Now I had a target.

➡️ Read CHAPTER 4 to continue the story