She wakes strapped to a chair in a room of blinding white-with no name, no past, only 349, spoken by a voice too smooth to be human. Each time the machines dig into her mind, flashes break through the void: blood, a child's laugh, arms holding her tight. Memories she's not supposed to have.

They call it interference. She knows it's the truth trying to surface.

When the mask lowers again and cold floods her skull, the lights tremble like the room itself is bracing for impact. Just before everything snaps to black, one realization cuts through the fear-a truth she can't unhear or escape.

They're not repairing her. They're rewriting her.