#The Whisper in the Code
#005
Asher stood frozen in the derelict stairwell, Eden's last words ringing in his ears.
"You're not just a dealer, Asher. You're the one they're afraid of."
The silence after felt suffocating. Dust hung in the air like ash. Even the city outside seemed to hold its breath.
He shook it off.
"You're not making sense," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "Afraid of what?"
Eden's eyes gleamed, still dazed from the transfer. "The Archive. You triggered something they buried deep. Your name wasn't supposed to resurface, but the trade did it. Someone's watching you now."
"I'm always watched. Comes with the job."
"No, this is different," she whispered. "They're not after your trades. They're after your memory."
Asher's heart skipped.
She wasn't lying. The pain in her voice, the urgency—it wasn't rehearsed. But how could she know this? Why would the Archive care about a forgotten memory?
"You're not supposed to remember the fire, are you?" Eden asked suddenly.
Asher blinked. His hand went instinctively to his temple.
"I—" He paused. "No."
"And yet it came back," she said. "In pieces. That's how it starts."
He backed away from her, pulse racing. "You need rest."
"I need you to listen."
A crackle interrupted them. His wrist console buzzed—static, jagged.
> "Interference detected." "Memory trace activated." Source: Unlisted.
He killed the feed instantly.
"See?" Eden whispered. "They're already trying to re-suppress it."
"No. Someone's just sniffing my signals," he said, but even he didn't believe it.
Eden stood now, swaying slightly. Her balance was shot, her body weak, but her voice carried something Asher hadn't heard in a long time.
Faith.
"Your soul isn't hollow, Asher," she said. "You've just buried it under so many trades, you don't even feel it beating."
He clenched his fists. "What do you want from me?"
"I want you to remember," she said.
The room dimmed. Somewhere outside, sirens blared—sharp, urgent.
He turned toward the narrow window. Blue drones zipped by in formation. Not patrol. Sweepers.
They weren't just looking for someone.
They were looking for him.
"Stay here," he told her. "Don't connect to anything. If they trace your signal, they'll wipe you."
"Asher, wait—"
But he was already gone, coat fluttering behind him like a ghost.
---
Down on the street, Ether buzzed like a hive. Bliss advertisements screamed from every wall. People moved in herds, faces numb, eyes glassy. The city didn't feel alive—it felt automated.
Asher blended in, slipping through the crowd, but his mind raced.
Someone in the Archive had flagged him. Why now? Why not after his hundredth trade? What made this one different?
He turned a corner and ducked into a broken-down train station. The lights flickered. Vagrants lined the benches, trading memories like cigarette burns.
One old woman stared at him.
"Trader," she said hoarsely. "You carry the Devil's weight."
He froze. "What?"
But she was already turning away, mumbling nonsense into the shadows.
His console buzzed again.
> New Message: Unknown Sender "Find the boy. Or lose the truth."
There was no ID. No reply channel. Just static.
He stood there for a long moment, staring at the words.
Find the boy?
"What boy?" he whispered.
And then it hit him. The memory. The hand slipping from his grip. The scream.
That wasn't just a random flashback.
It was a retrieval.
Not a memory.
His.
Asher turned, bolted from the station, and raced into the downpour. The rain didn't bother him. The fear didn't slow him.
For the first time in years, Asher Vale wasn't running from something.
He was running toward it.