“We need to try a different approach entirely,” I said, standing. I stretched, muscles bunched tight from hours of inactivity. The movement narrowed the space between us, our bodies aligning as though following some invisible current.
Maeve stared at the laptop, then exhaled slowly. “One more drive. Then we rethink.”
I connected the fourth drive to the port. This one had a different security architecture—not necessarily higher-level, just constructed differently. The drive whirred to life, files appearing on screen with a different organization than the previous three.
“What’s this?” I clicked on a folder that caught my attention :“Medical Assessment.”
These files used an entirely different naming convention—each beginning with “CV” followed by numbers.
“CV-587, CV-342, CV-901…” Maeve read aloud, her voice shifting from frustration to focus. Her entire posture changed as she leaned toward the screen, the hunter scenting prey.
I opened a random file. The document contained detailed medical data—blood panels, psychological profiles, and physical capability assessments.
“Intake assessments,” Maeve said, scrolling through pages of clinical notations. Her voice carried the edge of someone seeing a pattern emerge from chaos. She leaned closer, her hair falling forward to brush my arm, releasing the faint scent of my shampoo on her skin—a detail that registered with disproportionate intensity.
I checked the timestamps. “These are initial evaluations—before conditioning.”
“So the CV numbers are assigned when subjects first enter the program.”
I nodded, scanning the folder structure. In a subfolder labeled “Administrative,” one document captured my attention: “Subject Designation Protocols.pdf”
“Here,” I said, opening it. My arm crossed hers as I reached for the touchpad, and I registered her caught breath at the brief contact—her reaction triggering my own. “This might explain the naming system.”
The document loaded—an internal procedures guide. Maeve leaned in, her shoulder pressing against mine as we examined the text. The contact grounded me somehow, a fixed point in the darkness.
“Three-tier naming system,” she read, her voice quickening. “Intake: Original initials plus Physical Assessment Code—that’s the CV numbers. Clinical Viability.”
“Conditioning phase: designation plus numerical sequence,” I continued, something cold settling in my chest.
“JD,” Maeve said, striking the table with her palm. “Just Directive. That’s what you were when I found you. JD-2741.”
“And operational: Field designation only.” Reaper. Not even a person anymore—just a function.
Maeve sat back, her expression transforming as the implications hit. “They erase your identity in stages. Even in their files.”
The revelation hit like a fist to the solar plexus. JD-2741 was never meant to be an identity at all—merely a transitional designation between the person I was and the weapon they had created.
“We’ve been searching wrong,” Maeve said, her fingers already moving across the keyboard with renewed purpose. Her fingers brushed against mine as she worked, the contact lingering a beat longer than functionality required. “We need to cross-reference the CV numbers with the JD designations.”
“We need to find who I was,” I said, the words emerging from some place deeper than conscious thought.
Maeve nodded, determination replacing defeat. Her eyes met mine, filled with fierce protection that created an unfamiliar pressure in my chest. “Let’s find your name.”
We tried several approaches, but the cross-referencing algorithms failed one after another.
“This isn’t working,” Maeve muttered, frustration bleeding back into her voice. The screen’s glow transformedher features, hollowing her cheekbones and turning her eyes to midnight.
She bit her lower lip, thinking. The sight drew my attention, the memory of those lips against mine momentarily more compelling than our search.
Her expression suddenly shifted. “What if we search by what we know about you physically?”
“Meaning?”
“Height, blood type, distinguishing marks—they would have documented everything during intake.” She shifted toward me, energy returning to her movements as the possibility took shape. She fixed me with a gaze so intent it felt like hands on my skin. “How tall are you?”
“Six-foot-three,” I answered, watching her fingers fly across the keyboard.
“Blood type?”
