“O negative.”
She entered the data, adding male gender, age range, and other identifiers she’d observed. Her shoulder rested against mine as she worked, as though the contact helped her think. Her warmth registered as something I hadn’t realized I craved until it was offered.
“Let’s try this,” she said, hitting enter.
The search ran for several seconds. Then a single result appeared: CV-587.
“Got something,” Maeve whispered, as though speaking too loudly might make the file vanish.
We both instinctively leaned closer, our bodies aligned from shoulder to elbow. Beneath the table, her hand foundmine—fingers lacing through mine with an intimacy that felt more significant than our previous physical encounters. I tightened my grip on her hand, using her as an anchor against whatever truths waited on the other side of this file.
The file opened to reveal a comprehensive physical assessment dated seven years ago. Height, weight, blood type, muscle density, and reflex measurements—all matching my current attributes.
“This was you,” Maeve said, her voice hushed. Her fingers clasped mine with painful intensity. “This is who you were before Reaper.”
I scanned the document, searching for anything that might spark recognition. My attention was locked on the designation at the top: RG-CV-587.
“RG,” Maeve said, stabbing her finger at the screen. “Those are your initials.”
The moment the letters registered, molten pain seared through my skull. A fragment broke through—myself strapped to a metal table, a clinical voice repeating: “Subject RG shows unusual resistance. Increase voltage for initial conditioning phase.”
I pressed my palms against my temples, a low hiss escaping through clenched teeth.
“Reaper?” Maeve’s movements were instant, her hand finding my arm, her grip steady and unexpectedly strong. She shifted closer until her body pressed against mine, offering silent support. Her concern provided a focal point beyond the pain—something real to anchor me in the present.
“RG,” I repeated, fighting through the stabbing discomfort. “It’s important.”
She stayed close, one hand on my arm, her body angled toward mine as though physically shielding me. Without releasing me, she scrolled further down with her free hand, then froze. “Here. Personnel intake form.”
The document loaded with agonizing delay, pixels slowly resolving into two words that split my reality into before and after:
RONAN GRAVES
Beneath it: “High-profile violent offender. Special skills in covert operations, interrogation techniques, and tactical assault. Proposed for Program Prima by Agent Brock. No prior military and intelligence experience. Violent and reckless individual. Potential. Maximum security risk.”
“Ronan Graves,” Maeve read, her voice vibrating with quiet intensity. She spoke it like a revelation—a sacred truth rather than merely two words. Her gaze met mine, studying my features as though searching for the man who had owned this name. “That’s your real name. That’s who you were before you became Reaper.”
I stared at the screen, those two words simultaneously foreign and deeply familiar. Like finding something I’d forgotten to miss.
“Ronan Graves,” I said, testing the shape of it in my mouth.
Pain exploded behind my eyes—white-hot and vicious, programming fighting to prevent reclamation of self. But beneath the agony rose something stronger—a savage satisfaction, the first true victory against what they built intomy mind. I embraced the pain and forced the words out again, louder.
“Ronan Graves.”
Each repetition drove blades through my skull, but with each utterance, the name settled more naturally on my tongue. Something fundamental shifted within me—foundations breaking apart only to reconstruct themselves in new patterns.
Maeve’s fingers closed around my wrist, her touch an anchor in the storm. Her other hand cupped my jaw, palm against my cheek in a gesture so gentle it threatened to unravel something I’d kept tightly bound. Her eyes shone with an emotion I was afraid to name.
“Again,” she urged, her voice soft but insistent. She leaned in until our foreheads nearly touched, creating a private sanctuary where this reclamation could unfold. “Say it again. I’m right here. You’re safe, Ronan.”
I met her gaze, something breaking open inside me—not shattering but expanding, making room for this recovered piece of myself. My hand rose to capture hers, pressing her palm more firmly against my face as though she alone could ground me through this resurrection.
“I am Ronan Graves,” I said, each syllable cutting through programming, through conditioning, through the walls built to cage whatever humanity survived their procedures.
The pain was blinding now, but I pushed through it, gripping Maeve’s hand against my face like a lifeline.
“My name,” I said again, feeling something critical shift in my mind with each repetition, “is Ronan Graves.”
