Chapter 17: The Locked Door Opens

She didn't remember the drive back to Saint Nerezza.

The road bent and blurred around her, headlights dragging through the fog like knives through gauze. Her knuckles whitened on the wheel. The phone sat dead in the passenger seat, no signal, no explanation, just that voice still echoing inside her skull—No, Dr. Nyraen, you're not.

She hit the gates at forty miles an hour, screeching to a halt just feet from the security booth. The guard looked up, startled—but didn't approach. One look at her face and he stepped back inside.

The gate buzzed open without a word.

Inside, the asylum was too quiet.

It always held a certain hush, but this was different. This was staged silence. Artificial. As if the building were pretending to sleep.

Kaelith stormed through the lobby. No nurses. No patients. Not even Lynelle at the east wing desk. Just emptiness.

And somewhere below her, Saevus.

She didn't run. She didn't need to.

Her footsteps rang out with surgical clarity, each one like a countdown.

The elevator refused her badge.

She keyed in override manually.

Still refused.

She turned, marched to the emergency stairwell, and took the stairs three at a time. By the time she reached the west wing, her lungs burned—but she didn't slow.

The moment she reached Cell 77—

She stopped.

The hallway was full of people.

Three guards. Two doctors. One woman in a red suit she didn't recognize—older, severe, clipboard tucked to her chest like a weapon. They stood outside Saevus's cell, not facing the door but angled like they were waiting for someone.

Kaelith.

The woman in red turned first.

"Dr. Nyraen," she said coolly.

Kaelith's eyes locked onto hers. "Who are you?"

"Dr. Vesra Thorne. Internal affairs. Division of Behavioral Audit."

Kaelith didn't move.

The woman smiled without warmth.

"You've been under preliminary observation for three weeks. Tonight was our trigger check."

"Excuse me?"

"We had to be sure."

"Of what?"

Dr. Thorne's eyes narrowed.

"That you were compromised."

Kaelith's hands curled into fists.

Behind her, one of the guards took a step forward.

She didn't turn.

"You have no jurisdiction here," she said quietly. "This is a state-sanctioned forensic facility. Not a testing ground."

Thorne's smile deepened.

"That's exactly what makes it the right place, Dr. Nyraen."

She stepped aside.

Revealing the door.

Cell 77.

The outer bolts were disengaged.

Kaelith moved forward—but a guard stepped into her path.

"No entry," he said. "Patient is under forced sedation protocol."

Her blood turned to ice.

"You sedated him?"

"Pending extraction," Thorne said smoothly. "We've received classified orders for long-term relocation. Out-of-state. Possibly out-of-country. For containment."

"You're lying."

"No," Thorne said. "You're unstable. That's what the files say. That's what the recordings show. You entered his cell during off-hours. Released restraints. Engaged in unapproved proximity."

Kaelith's voice dropped to a razor's edge. "He's my patient."

"He's your obsession."

The air snapped.

Kaelith didn't flinch.

She turned.

Walked away.

Let them believe they'd won.

She didn't go far. Just around the corner. Past the fire escape.

Then she pressed her palm to the wall.

Not just any wall.

That wall.

The one behind which she'd found the black boxes, the sealed archives, the forgotten files.

She remembered now.

The hallway curved inward. Sublevel W had its own spine.

And at its center, a vault.

She moved fast, her fingers trembling against the wall until she found the seam. The panel. The shift in pressure.

The wall clicked.

The hidden door opened.

Kaelith stepped inside.

This time, no darkness waited.

The lights glowed faintly.

The relic around her neck buzzed with energy.

At the end of the archive chamber stood the door.

The one she hadn't opened.

Last time, she'd been afraid.

Now she wasn't.

Now she was furious.

She moved to it.

No lock. Just a press plate, buried beneath the mural. The slit sun.

She laid her palm flat.

And the door opened with a sound like breath held too long.

Inside: a room that wasn't made of walls.

Stone. Fire pits. Symbols etched into the floor. A high ceiling that opened into darkness.

And in the center—

A pedestal.

Upon it:

A black file.

Unlabeled.

She approached, fingers numb, body buzzing.

Opened it.

Inside were photos.

Kaelith.

But not just as a child.

Older.

Teenager.

Even early twenties.

In robes.

In circles.

Leading chants.

Marked with blood.

Below it: a transcript.

Session Log A0—Ashema Recollection Procedure.

She read the first line.

Subject shows high retention of prior identity even under suppressive therapy. Memory erasure unlikely to be permanent. Recommendation: restructure belief system. Contingency: terminate Subject 77 to prevent reactivation.

She closed the file.

Not from denial.

From understanding.

They were going to kill him.

Because he remembered her.

And they were going to erase her again.

Unless she did something first.

Kaelith stepped out of the vault.

Back into the walls that thought they could contain her.

Her eyes burned.

And her voice—when she spoke—was not Kaelith's.

It was Ashema's.

"They've locked the wrong door."