The warehouse was dark. Rain hammered against the metal roof. It sounded like gunfire constant and relentless. Dante moved through the shadows. He did not breathe heavily, and he did not sweat. His eyes glowed faintly, a turquoise hue in the dark.

(Kairo): "Left. Two seconds. Hostile moving."

Dante stepped left. He raised his weapon and fired once. The target fell, silent.

(Kairo): "Forward. Three hosts. Room ahead."

Dante moved. He was not thinking; he was flowing. Kairo was driving, and Dante was the vessel. The crew followed behind, careful and tired. Kisuke covered the rear, his breathing loud as he wiped rain from his eyes. "Clear," Kisuke whispered. Dante did not answer; he was already moving to the next room.

(Kairo): "Data stream increasing. Load at eighty percent."

(Dante): "Push it."

(Kairo): "Ninety. Memory retention risking critical failure."

(Dante): "Push it."

Dante kicked the door open and entered the room. He neutralized the targets with three shots. Three bodies. He did not blink and did not feel the recoil.

(Mūn): "Pain suppression active. You will not feel the strain until later."

(Dante): "Later is acceptable."

The operation ended in twenty minutes. The crew exhaled, leaning against the walls as they checked their magazines. Isaac looked at his watch. "Record time." Dante stood in the center of the room and holstered his weapon. His face was calm and his hands were steady. He did not look tired; he did not look human. "Let’s move," Dante said. His voice was flat. They left the warehouse, got into the vans, and drove back to the safehouse.

The ride was quiet. Kisuke fell asleep in the back seat, his head leaning against the window. Lisa typed on her tablet, her eyes red and heavy. Eikichi cleaned his weapon, moving slowly as fatigue weighed on his shoulders. Dante sat in the front passenger seat and looked out at the city. The lights blurred past in streaks of white and red. He did not feel tired.

(Kairo): "Adrenaline synthetic. Sustained by energy transfer."

(Dante): "At what cost."

(Kairo): "You know the cost."

(Dante): "Remind me."

(Kairo): "Data for power. Memory for speed."

Dante closed his eyes. He did not sleep; he waited. The van stopped, the engine died, and the crew exited. They walked into the safehouse, heavy and sluggish. Dante walked lightly; he was empty. "Get rest," Dante said. "Briefing at noon."

The crew dispersed to their rooms, collapsing onto beds. Dante did not go to his room. He went to the kitchen and turned on the light. The room was bright and sterile. He sat at the table and placed his hands on the wood. He was alone.

(Mūn): "You should rest."

(Dante): "I need to check something."

(Mūn): "Do not."

(Dante): "Show me."

Dante closed his eyes and reached into his mind. He searched for a specific moment: Three months ago. The safehouse in Jōkan. The morning rain. Sophie walked into the kitchen. She saw him. She stopped. Her expression.

He tried to see her face. He tried to see the surprise, the relief, the smile. He reached for the image. There was nothing. Not a fog, not a blur a void. A clean, black hole where a memory should have been. He knew it happened. He knew the facts. He could recite the date, the time, and the location. But he could not see her face. He could not feel the moment. It was gone.

(Kairo): "Transaction complete."

(Dante): "Which one."

(Kairo): "The one required to process the warehouse data. The one with the highest emotional weight."

(Dante): "You took her face."

(Kairo): "I took a memory. The content is irrelevant."

(Dante): "It is not irrelevant."

Dante opened his eyes. He looked at his hands. They were shaking just slightly a tremor in the fingers. He had lost memories before: names, places, faces of enemies. He had not minded. But this was Sophie. This was the first time she saw him after years, the first time she knew he was alive. It was the foundation of their reconnection, and it was erased.

(Mūn): "I told you not to look."

(Dante): "I need to know what is left."

(Mūn): "Why. Knowing will not bring it back."

(Dante): "It will tell me what I have to lose."

Dante stood up and walked to the drawer. He took out a notebook, small, black, and leather bound, along with a blue ink pen. He sat back down and opened the notebook to the first page. He pressed the pen to the paper and began to write.

Item One: The riverbank. Summer. We skipped stones. I laughed.

He paused and checked the memory. It was there, faint but present.

Item Two: The safehouse. Kitchen. Coffee. She touched my hand.

He checked; it was there.

Item Three: The first meeting. After the years. Her expression.

He stopped. The pen hovered over the paper. He could not write the details. He could not describe the smile or the eyes. He wrote only the fact: Item Three: Missing.

He stared at the words. Missing. It looked like a wound on the page. He turned the page and continued writing.

Item Four: The scar on her shoulder. Origin unknown.

Item Five: The song she hums. Old lullaby.

Item Six: The way she holds a weapon. Left hand dominant.

He wrote faster, his handwriting sharp and angular. He was cataloging his own mind, making a backup.

(Kairo): "This is inefficient. You will forget the list too."

(Dante): "Not if I keep it close."

(Kairo): "Paper burns. Books are lost. You are the only storage that matters."

(Dante): "Then I will write it again. And again."

Dante filled the page, then the next. He wrote until his hand cramped and the ink ran low. He did not stop. He was afraid that if he stopped, another memory would vanish. He was afraid that if he blinked, he would forget why he was writing.

The sun began to rise outside as gray light filtered through the window. Dante looked at the notebook. Ten pages filled. Hundreds of memories. Some detailed, some just facts, and some marked Missing. He closed the notebook and held it in his hands. It was heavy. He stood up and put the notebook in his coat pocket, inside, close to his chest.

(Mūn): "You look tired."

(Dante): "I am."

(Mūn): "Sleep."

(Dante): "Later."

Dante walked to the window and looked out at the city. The rain had stopped, and the streets were wet. He touched his pocket and felt the leather of the notebook. It was a lifeline. He was losing himself piece by piece, day by day. But he would not lose her not while he had ink, not while he had paper, not while he had breath.

He turned away from the window and walked toward his room. He would sleep for an hour, then he would wake and write again.

A/N: Special Message to My Amazing Readers,

I want to share something personal with you. My ultimate dream is to take my writing and digital art to a professional level and build a full creative studio. To achieve this, I have a long-term goal of raising $10,000 for professional equipment and stability.

I know this is a big number, but you can help make it happen! If you enjoy my story, please consider supporting me on Ko-fi. Even just $1 means a lot to me and brings me one step closer to my dream.

You can support me here: ko-fi.com/ysign

I am forever grateful for your presence and support. Thank you for believing in me and for being part of this journey!

With all my gratitude,

YSiGn_優瑟夫