You get a text from Cortez.

Beep.

The sound cuts through the haze, sharp and familiar.

Mariana stirs as the trance breaks, mumbling something soft in Portuguese. It’s late. Too late for a social call.

“Work,” you mutter, already pushing off the bed. “Stay here. I’ll check.”

You grab your pants off the floor, tug them on, and head for the living room.

The PocketWatch is still in the wall port from earlier. A soft green blink. Unread.

You tap the screen.

Cortez: Sorry about the test. Had to be sure. Responsible for people now. Can’t take chances.

You stare at it. Long enough for your reflection to ghost across the glass. You don't remember. The emotions are still there. Loyalty, grief, something like love. But the memories? Gone. Locked away somewhere you can’t reach.

Another message drops in.

Cortez: Need to talk in person. Come to Houston Sunday. Where Shanie’s buried.

Shanie.

A third follows almost immediately:

Cortez: Looking forward to seeing you again.

You exhale through your teeth, rubbing the back of your neck.

You’re not you anymore. You built layers. Walls. A name that isn’t yours. Ryan Gallagher. Farm boy from Minnesota. Clean, manageable, safe.

But Cortez doesn’t care about Ryan.

He’s calling for the one who crawled out of hell beside him.

And that’s who you’ll have to bring to Houston.

You scrub a hand over your face.

Yeah. This is why you don’t think with your dick. You’re a moron.

Sunday. Whatever happens…

You glance back toward the bedroom. Mariana’s still there. Curled in your sheets. Breathing slow. Hair wild across the pillow.

You can make this work. You have to.

You stand there a while, staring at the green glow of the screen before you make your way back to the bedroom.

Mariana’s where you left her, curled on her side, sheets tangled at her waist, the steady rise and fall of her breath filling the dark.

You slide back under the covers carefully, the mattress dipping with your weight. She stirs, half‑asleep, instinctively seeking you out. Her arm drapes over your chest, her face nuzzling the hollow of your shoulder, seeking your warmth.

“Work?” she mumbles, voice thick with sleep.

“Yeah,” you whisper.

She hums faintly — a sound that says she’s too tired to care — and drifts back under.

You stare at the ceiling, listening to the soft rhythm of her breathing, letting it pull the edge off the thoughts clawing at you.

For a few minutes, you let yourself pretend Sunday isn’t coming.

Just this. Her. The dark. Quiet.

You have to.

The house is cold when you wake up.

It’s quiet. The battery hum from the garage, the faint whistle of wind against the siding, the kind of silence that makes you feel like the house is holding its breath with you.

Mariana’s still there.

She hasn’t moved since you pulled the blanket over her last night. Curled on her side, hair in her face, one bare arm slung across the sheets. There’s a faint bruise on her shoulder — a purple echo of last night — and for a second you think about touching it.

You don’t.

Instead, you pull the blanket up over it, like that somehow erases the fact you put it there, and stand there longer than you should before leaving her to her sleep.

Sweatpants. Shirt. Garage.

Your shoulder twinges when you roll it. Still sore. Not surprising. Even with everything they did to you, you’re still made of meat, real-world tendons and ligaments that don’t care what a VR sim says a body should be able to do.

Push‑ups first. Testing the angles. Sit‑ups. Shoulder rolls until the faint stiffness becomes a tolerable burn.

Then the barbell. Lighter than you want, heavier than you should. Presses. Controlled, listening for the joint’s complaints. It doesn’t give, just protests.

By the time you’re done, you’re drenched, heartbeat steady, shoulder holding. Good enough. It’ll need to be.

You towel off on the way back inside.

Still no movement from the bedroom.

Breakfast is quick. Cold cereal and the cold realization you’ve been spoiled by Mariana’s cooking. But she’s still in your bed, and you can’t bring yourself to wake her. Understandably exhausted, considering.

Your PocketWatch blinks green in the wall port. Work.

You grab it, pocket your keys, and step out.

The house creaks as you lock it behind you, like it’s exhaling into the quiet.