Chapter 2 Jonah
Chapter Two: Jonah
I'm sandwiched between two guards who haven't said a word since they pulled me out of the interrogation room.
No explanation. No destination. Just zip ties replacing the chains and a black bag over my head that smells like the last three people who wore it didn't make it to wherever they were going.
Fun.
I try keeping track of the turns. Left, right, right, left. Then I lose it because one of the guards shifts and his elbow digs into my ribs, and suddenly I'm back in a white room with Jagger Harrison's voice in my ear, calm and precise, asking questions that peeled me apart layer by layer.
Shake it off. Focus on the present. The hum of the engine. The scratch of the bag against my nose. The fact that I'm still breathing, which is more than I expected after that little interrogation.
The van stops. Doors open. Hands grab me, haul me out, and I stumble on legs that haven't worked properly in three years.
"Easy there, big guy," I mutter. "Buy me dinner first."
No response. Shocking.
The ground under my feet changes from concrete to something smoother. Tile, maybe. Then carpet. We go up stairs, through a door, and finally the bag comes off.
I blink against the light, eyes watering, and find myself standing in what looks like a very expensive apartment. High ceilings. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a city I don't recognize. Furniture that probably costs more than every possession I've ever owned combined.
And Jagger Harrison, standing by the window with his hands clasped behind his back like some kind of Bond villain waiting for his moment.
"You can leave," he says to the guards. Not looking at them. Looking at me.
They go. The door clicks shut. And then it's just us.
"Nice place," I say, because silence has never been my friend. "Very minimalist murder dungeon. I like what you've done with the lack of personality."
His expression doesn't change. "Sit down."
"Where? On the couch that costs more than my college education? I might get poor person residue on it."
"Sit. Down."
I sit. The couch is exactly as uncomfortable as it looks, hard as fuck with those stupid designer pillows with frills on them.
The stuffing is probably pebbles from some ocean that has ‘don’t touch the pebbles’ on a sign, that’s how hard it is.
I attempt to sink into it anyway, letting my body remember what it feels like to not be chained to a chair.
Jagger doesn't move from his position by the window. The light behind him turns him into a silhouette, which is probably intentional. Everything about this man is intentional.
"This is my private residence," he says. "You're here because I've taken you off the official record."
"Off the record." I let that sink in. "So no one knows I'm here."
"Correct."
"And if I scream, no one comes running."
"Also correct."
"Cool. Great. Love that for me." I look around the apartment, cataloging exits out of habit. Two doors I can see, probably more I can't. Windows that definitely don't open. "So what's the play here? You torture me in comfort? Waterboard me with expensive champagne?"
Something flickers across his face. Annoyance, maybe. Or amusement. Hard to tell with a man whose emotional range seems to span from 'cold' to 'slightly less cold.'
"I'm not going to torture you."
"That's what all the best torturers say."
"I'm going to study you." He finally moves, crossing to a chair across from me and sitting with the kind of controlled grace that makes me want to trip him just to see what happens. "Your memories are returning. I need to understand the process. Monitor what surfaces and when."
"So I'm a science experiment. That's... actually kind of an improvement from 'disposable asset,' so I'll take it."
His jaw tics and his hand clenches. Good. I got a reaction.
"You'll have access to this floor," he continues, ignoring my commentary. "The kitchen is stocked. There's a library through that door. The bathroom has been supplied with necessities. You will not attempt to leave. You will not attempt to contact anyone outside this building. You will not—"
"Let me guess. Touch your stuff, eat your food, breathe your air without written permission in triplicate? What if I want to sniff the toilet after you sit, your majesty?"
"You will not," he says, slower, like he's talking to a particularly stupid child, "test my patience. I've kept you alive because you might be useful. That can change."
"Noted. So no toilet sniffing." I lean back into the uncomfortable couch, spreading my arms along the back like I own the place. "What do I call you? Captor? Keeper? Daddy? Ohhh, no, you look like you prefer something a bit warmer. Dada?"
The look he gives me could freeze lava.
"I'm kidding. Mostly." I grin, and it feels like wearing a face that doesn't quite fit anymore. "Relax, Harrison. If you're going to keep me as a pet project, the least you can do is develop a sense of humor."
"I have a sense of humor."
"Do you? Because your face suggests otherwise. Very 'I've never laughed and I'm not about to start' energy."
He stands abruptly. For a second I think he's going to hit me, and I brace for it, but instead he just walks toward the kitchen.
"There's food in the refrigerator," he says without turning around. "Help yourself. Don't make a mess."
"What if I'm a messy eater? What if I get crumbs everywhere? Will you have me executed for crimes against interior design?"
He pauses at the doorway. Turns his head just enough that I can see his profile.
"Get some rest, Jonah. Tomorrow we start testing your memory triggers."
"Sounds like a great first date. Should I wear something nice?"
He leaves without responding.
I sit on the expensive couch in the expensive apartment, alone for the first time in three years without guards or cameras or chains, and I laugh.
It's not a good laugh. It's the kind that bubbles up when you're not sure if you're going to survive the next twenty-four hours and you've decided that if you're going to die, you might as well die annoying.
I explore, because that's what I do. What I've always done. Even when the smart move is to sit still and wait, my brain won't let me.
The living room is aggressively neutral.
Gray couch. Black coffee table. White walls.
It's like someone read a manual on interior design and followed every instruction without understanding any of them.
There's art on the walls, but it's the kind of art that says, 'I have money' rather than 'I have taste.
' Abstract shapes in muted colors. Boring as fuck.
The library is better. Massive oak shelves, packed with actual books that look actually read. I run my fingers along the spines—philosophy, psychology, military history, a surprising amount of fiction. Some of the covers are cracked, pages worn soft from repeated handling.
So the robot does have a soul. Or at least a reading habit. Same thing, maybe. Perhaps some light military history after a good bout of torture.
I pull out a book at random. Dostoevsky. Crime and Punishment.
Figures.
There's a handwritten note tucked inside the front cover. The handwriting is precise, angular, definitely Jagger's:
"The question is not whether we are guilty, but whether we can bear the weight of our guilt."
Jesus Christ. The man annotates his existential literature. That's either deeply pretentious or deeply sad. Possibly both.
I put the book back and keep exploring.
The kitchen is stocked like someone's preparing for a siege. Enough food for weeks. High-quality everything, but nothing processed, nothing fun. No cookies. No chips. No evidence that anyone who lives here has ever experienced joy.
The bathroom attached to my bedroom is nicer than any place I've lived since college. Marble counters. Rainfall shower. Products lined up in perfect rows, labels facing out.
I pick up a bottle of shampoo and turn the label sideways, just to see what happens.
Nothing happens. Because Jagger Harrison isn't watching me.
Or is he?
I glance around for cameras. Can't find any, which either means there aren't any, or means they're very well hidden. Knowing what I know about The Silent, I'm betting on the latter.
"Hope you're enjoying the show," I say to the empty room. "The next performance will feature me trying to figure out how to work your fancy shower. It's going to be riveting."
No response. Of course.
I take the shower anyway. The water is perfect—hot enough to sting, pressure strong enough to feel like absolution. I stand under the spray until my skin turns pink and my mind goes quiet, and for exactly three minutes, I'm not a broken asset or a captive or a dead man walking.
I'm just a guy taking a shower.
Then the water starts to cool, and reality comes crashing back.
I dry off with towels softer than anything I've touched in years, put on the generic clothes left in the closet.
Everything in my size, everything in muted colors, everything exactly what you'd dress a prisoner in if you wanted them to forget they were a prisoner. Then, I finally collapse on the bed.
The mattress is too soft. After three years of detention center bunks, my body doesn't know what to do with comfort.
I lie there and stare at the ceiling and wait for sleep that doesn't come.
The memories surface the longer I lay there.
They come in fragments now. Sharper than before.
I'll be staring at the ceiling and suddenly I'm somewhere else.
A room with fluorescent lights, the smell of antiseptic, a voice asking questions I can't quite hear.
Then it's gone, and I'm back in Jagger’s guest bedroom, sweating through sheets that are probably woven with baby hair.
I get up around three a.m. and wander through the place again.
No photos line the halls. Rolling my eyes and walking to the kitchen, I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and close the door.
"Couldn't sleep?"