IN THE NAME OF MEMORY

"Good and bad memories are the same, they can both hurt ."

As Forty-Four stepped out of the jet and took in the New York skyline, he felt an unfamiliar mix of nostalgia and purpose well up inside him. This was his city—the city he’d been taken from years ago, back when he was just a kid known by a different name, a different life. Now, after everything he’d been through, he was returning not as Forty-Four or Chike but as Jordan C., a name he’d taken in honor of Five. Five had been more than a teammate—he’d been a mentor, a brother, and a light in a place filled with darkness, the one who had shown him the meaning of loyalty, sacrifice, and friendship. Adopting his name felt like a way to keep his memory alive.

Jordan took in a deep breath, the crisp autumn air filled with the sounds of New York: distant sirens, honking horns, the murmur of voices, and the quiet hum of the ever-busy streets. The city was alive in a way he hadn’t experienced in years, and it hit him harder than he expected. It was as if he were reclaiming pieces of himself, fragments left behind when he’d first been taken away. Now, he wasn’t the same boy. He was someone who had seen life and death up close, who had fought and survived, who had chosen a new path.

He took a few steps across the tarmac, fingering the black card in his pocket—the card he had asked to be created for himself, marked with the name Jordan C. It was strange, to have a name that felt like his and not his at the same time. But as he ran his thumb over the golden edge, he felt a sense of calm. He was no longer just a number in the shadows. He had an identity now, a choice.

The car waiting for him was modest as he climbed in, instructing the driver to take him downtown, near his old neighborhood. As they moved through the streets, he watched the city pass by, letting memories flood in. The fire escapes, the crumbling bricks, the corner stores—all reminders of a life that felt both distant and strangely close.

He got out near an old diner he remembered from childhood. It hadn’t changed much: same neon sign flickering, same worn-out booths visible through the window. He slipped inside, his heart thudding as he took a seat at a corner booth, the same booth he’d once sat in with his mom. The waitress brought him a coffee without asking—she’d likely sensed the weariness in his expression—and he nodded in thanks, the familiarity of the moment comforting.

Jordan sipped his coffee slowly, reflecting. He was a componere now—a full-fledged member of the network known as PAX, responsible for making critical decisions and going for missions. Yet, this role felt heavier than he’d imagined. For so long, he’d been trained to think in missions, objectives, and targets. Now, with Five gone and a city full of reminders, he realized he was free to live not just as a shadow, but as someone who could choose his path.

As he sat there, he made a silent vow. He would honor Five’s memory not just by carrying his name but by making sure that Five’s sacrifice wasn’t in vain. He would use what he’d learned to continue living as much as he could.

Jordan finished his coffee, left a few bills on the table, and stood, glancing back at the diner one last time before stepping into the city that was his home and his future for now.

**FLASHBACK**

The fluorescent lights of the PAX headquarters cast a cold, sterile glow over the long corridors as Forty-Four walked down the hall, guided by two silent attendants in black uniforms. This was a moment he’d anticipated for years, the culmination of every training, every grueling test, and every close call. Today, he was stepping up as a componere. And while the gravity of the title settled heavily on him, he couldn’t deny the strange emptiness Five’s absence had left behind.

They stopped outside a sleek, unmarked door, and the lead attendant placed her hand on a scanner. The door unlocked with a soft hiss, revealing a room polished in black marble and glass. Several women in sharp, tailored black uniforms waited behind a counter, their expressions professional but welcoming.

“Good evening, Forty-Four,” one of them greeted him, gesturing to a leather chair across from the counter. “Please, have a seat.”

He took the seat, his gaze drifting over the room, catching a glimpse of his reflection in the polished surfaces. The woman across from him placed a tablet and a slim silver pen on the counter in front of him, her voice smooth and formal.

“As a componere, you’re now entitled to select a name,” she explained. “This name will be used as your identification, appearing on your official card. The card will act as your ID, and badge, and provide access to your account.”

Forty-Four looked down at the tablet. The screen displayed a blank line where his name would go, an invitation to choose an identity that wasn’t just a number. He felt the weight of the moment pressing on him, memories of his recent loss flooding his mind. Five, the one who had been a brother and friend, the one who had sacrificed everything. He wanted to carry that memory forward in a way that felt worthy.

He took a breath and steadied his hand before writing Jordan C., in honor of Five’s memory.

“Jordan C.,” he repeated, his voice low but resolute.

The woman nodded, entering his chosen name into the system with a few swift taps on her screen. Suddenly a little whirring sound was heard from under her counter which stopped as soon as it started. She retrieved a sleek black card from under it, its upper edge lined with a gold bar. She held it out to him, the name Jordan C. embossed in polished letters at the bottom. He took the card, the weight of it surprisingly significant in his hand.

“Mr. Jordan C.,” she said, using his new name with the same formality she’d reserved for all the other Componeres who had come before him. “The card will give you full access to your account. You’re also entitled to choose your next destination. Where would you like to go, and when?”

He didn’t hesitate. “New York,” he replied. “As soon as possible.”

The attendant nodded, tapping a few keys. “Understood. Your jet will be prepared immediately. Here are some documents detailing your new role, asset, and resources available in the city.” She slid a slim, sealed envelope across the counter, stamped with the insignia of PAX.

He slipped the envelope into his jacket pocket, which was provided for him this morning, feeling the weight of everything settles fully upon him.

One of the attendants, a calm woman with sharp eyes, gestured toward the door. “Please follow me to the jet, Mr. Jordan.”

He walked beside her in silence, the corridor he just passed feeling both familiar and strangely distant now that he bore a new name, a new identity. They Once again arrived at the top of the hospital where a helicopter took him and the attendant to a private hangar, where a sleek jet awaited, its engines already warming up.

As he climbed the steps, the woman paused, her voice softer, almost respectful. “Congratulations, Mr. Jordan C.”

Jordan nodded, stepping into the jet with one last glance at the headquarters behind him, knowing this chapter of his life was finally closed. He settled into his seat, gripping the black card and letting the reality of it all sink in. He was no longer just a number in the system; he was Jordan C., a man with a mission of his own choosing for now, heading home to the city that had shaped him as a boy

As the jet lifted into the night, the city lights of Mantahna faded beneath him, and the sky stretched open, carrying him toward New York, toward a future that was his to write or so he thought.