Dash shut the door to his bedroom softly behind him, a deliberate act of quiet in a world suddenly too loud. The atmosphere outside had turned to storm-glass, muted purples bleeding into gray, reflecting the turbulent feeling churning within him. He did not turn on the lights. It felt wrong, somehow—too normal, too bright for what he had just heard. The harsh fluorescent glow would be a jarring contrast to the unsettling news in his head. Instead, he preferred the twilight embrace of the room, a half-light that allowed the shadows to flicker and the reality of what he had learned to simmer, not scorch. The dimness was a shroud, a temporary refuge from the implications that were about to dawn.

  He sat on the edge of his bed, the worn mattress groaning softly beneath him. Reaching for his backpack, a faded blue monstrosity slung carelessly on the floor, he unzipped the main compartment with a familiar screech. He rummaged inside, his fingers brushing against crumpled papers and forgotten snacks, until he found what he was looking for: a scuffed school notebook. The cover, once a vibrant shade of green, was now marred by dark smudges and faded scratches, a testament to its long and arduous journey through classroom desks and crowded hallways. The notebook's cover was chewed, the victim of a nervous habit long forgotten. Inside, the pages were dog-eared and cluttered with a chaotic mix of doodles and notes, evidence of countless hours spent half-listening in class. Among the scribbled drawings of spaceships and fantastical creatures, he could make out fragmented phrases and hastily jotted down dates - remnants from a history exam canceled weeks ago, rendering his effort obsolete, and that left a lingering sense of frustration.

  He flipped to a clean page in his worn notebook, the crisp, white paper a stark contrast to the frantic scribbles that filled the rest. The pen hovered for a moment before he pressed it down, leaving a thick, shaky line of ink.

  “Igor = brainwashed?”

  He stared at the words, the question mark a mocking barb. His heart ticked fast, anxiety and doubt eating him alive. Igor, his friend, could he truly be compromised?

  Taking a deep breath to steady his hand, he wrote beneath the first line, his writing even more hurried now:

  “Maisie in danger?”

  The implications hit him like a physical blow. If Igor was compromised, if he was being manipulated, then Maisie, his sister, was vulnerable. He had to protect her. But from whom? And how? The questions swirled in his head, a vortex of panic threatening to consume him.

  He underlined it once, the smooth stroke of the blue ballpoint pen a deliberate act of emphasis. Twice. The second line was harder, jagged, the pen digging into the paper as if trying to etch the truth from the ink itself. Whatever was written held weight, a gravity that pulled Dash down into a knot of unease.

  Then he ripped the page out carefully, his fingernails tracing the perforated line with agonizing precision, as if fear of tearing it further might shatter the fragile piece of information it contained. He folded it into a tight square, each crease a deliberate act of concealment, transforming the incriminating evidence into something innocuous, something easily overlooked. He slid it beneath the mattress, pushing it deep into the shadowed space where only he would know to look, a secret treasure buried in the landscape of his bed.

  It was no game. This wasn’t idle curiosity, a teenager bored and looking for something to occupy his time. Dash wasn’t just eavesdropping or sneaking chocolate from the pantry. The stakes were higher, the air viscous with suspicion. Someone was lying, and he didn’t know whom he could trust. The realization was in the air, a suffocating blanket of doubt. But for the first time, Dash wasn’t just sitting still and hoping things would fix themselves. A flicker of resolve ignited within him, a small but persistent flame pushing back against the darkness. He was taking action, however small, however hidden. He was a participant now, not just an observer. He was a detective, and the game had begun.

  He was scared, nervous, wanting to bury his head in the sand, but that was not him, not anymore.

  But he was only just starting to act.

  ___

  The next day dawned bleak and uncertain, the world painted in shades of grey and muted color, washed-out and wrong. A persistent, melancholic rain tapped a gentle rhythm against the windowpanes, each drop a tiny drumbeat against the silence of the sprawling estate. Dash, restless and unable to shake off the unease that had been with him for days, slipped into the large kitchen early, before the usual flurry of cooks and maids had begun their morning routines. The air was rich with the scent of damp earth and brewing herbs.

  He found Igor already there, a solitary figure silhouetted against the faint light filtering through the rain-streaked glass. He stood at the far counter, a bastion of calm amidst the disquieting atmosphere, methodically prepping tea service for his sister. Each movement was smooth, practiced, and quiet – the gentle clink of porcelain, the subtle rustle of dried leaves being scooped with meticulous precision, a testament to years of devoted service. He was a silent, watchful presence, a constant in a world that seemed to be shifting on its axis. The quiet competence of his actions offered a small, improbable comfort in the face of the day's looming strangeness.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  "Morning, sir," Igor said without turning, as though he’d sensed Dash’s presence rather than heard it. The pronouncement hung in the air, thick with the scent of brewing coffee. Dash swallowed hard, the dryness in his throat betraying his discomfort. "You don't have to call me that." He hated the title, the weight of expectation it implied, the chasm it created between him and everyone else.

  Igor paused, his fingers stilling just a moment too long on the ornate porcelain cup he was holding, a subtle hesitation that spoke volumes. The gesture wouldn’t have been noticed by anyone else, but Dash had learned to read the man's minute movements. "It is protocol." The words were delivered with a quiet, almost reverent stoicism. They weren't an act of defiance, but a statement of immutable fact. Protocol was Igor's religion, the framework within which he operated. To disregard it would be to unravel the fabric of his meticulously ordered world. The implication was clear: Dash may not like the title, but Igor was duty-bound to use it.

  Dash took a step closer. “Do you remember what you said yesterday?” His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the unsettling calm emanating from Igor. He wasn't sure what he'd overheard, exactly.

  Igor turned then, slowly, deliberately. His expression was calm, pleasant. Too pleasant. It was the kind of forced serenity that masked something churning beneath the surface. “I said many things yesterday. Would you like tea?” He gestured vaguely towards the direction of the kitchen, his eyes twinkling with a light that felt…wrong.

  “No,” Dash said, voice tight, strained. He planted his feet, refusing to be drawn into Igor's polite charade. "You were in the hallway. Talking to yourself." The words felt inadequate, clumsy. He needed to be more precise, more forceful, but the normalcy of the situation – the offer of tea, the neatness of the room – was throwing him off balance.

  “I often rehearse routines,” Igor replied smoothly, his voice like polished stone. “It’s part of optimization.” The word hung in the air, loaded with an unspoken weight. Optimization of what? Dash wondered. And why did the answer feel so inherently sinister? He studied Igor's face, searching for a flicker of guilt, a hint of deception. But Igor remained an unreadable mask, his pleasant facade unwavering.

  “But you said you serve,” Dash insisted, his brow furrowed in confusion. “You said you don’t remember.” He stepped forward, closing the distance between them, his voice rising now, a tremor of anger and desperation vibrating within it. Heat burned behind his words, a desperate plea masked as an accusation. “Do you remember me, Igor? Do you remember me?”

  The silence stretched, dense, pressing down on them both. The air crackled with unspoken tension. Dash held his breath, his gaze locked on Igor's face, searching for any sign, any flicker of recognition. And then, something happened. Something subtle, almost invisible, flickered behind Igor’s usually vacant eyes. A spark of knowing? A ghost of a memory? Dash couldn't be sure, but it was enough to make his heart leap.

  “I remember that you used to sneak into the kitchen and steal spoonfuls of honey when you thought no one was looking,” he said quietly, his voice a soft rumble that broke the stifling silence. It was a simple statement, delivered with a surprising gentleness that contrasted sharply with his earlier blankness. The words hung in the air, a fragile bridge spanning the abyss of lost time.

  Dash blinked, thrown completely off balance. The accusation he'd prepared, the angry questions he'd rehearsed, all evaporated in the face of this unexpected revelation. Honey? Sneaking? It was such a trivial, innocent memory. It was... domestic. And utterly, undeniably, him. He hadn't expected Igor to remember that.

  Igor set the cup down, the ceramic clinking softly against the worn wooden table. “But sometimes, when I dream, I think I remember... something else. A place that isn’t here. A name that isn’t mine.”

  He paused, his gaze unfocused, lost in the swirling mists of fragmented memory. The air in the room seemed to thicken, charged with a strange, almost palpable energy. His voice trembled, a barely audible whisper fighting its way past the fear tightening in his throat. “And then I wake up. And it’s gone again.” The words hung in the silence, heavy with longing and a profound sense of loss.

  Dash didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. He was a statue, carved from stone and draped in shadows, utterly captivated by the vulnerability spilling from Igor. Igor’s hands were shaking, not with a tremor of age, but with a deep, inner turmoil – a chaotic battle between the present and the ghost of a forgotten past. Dash’s eyes, usually sharp and observant, were wide with a mixture of concern and a dawning understanding.

  Dash moved closer, slowly, watching the way Igor's posture subtly shifted—tense, restrained. It was a barely perceptible change, the set of his jaw, the rigid line of his shoulders. His wings were twitching. Like a violin string pulled too tight, humming with potential energy, threatening to snap. He looked taller somehow in the dim kitchen light, the shadows amplifying his frame and face, but also… frayed. The usual impeccable composure seemed to have cracked, revealing raw edges. Fewer machines, the efficient and unwavering automaton Dash had come to know. More man, vulnerable and exposed, hinting at the emotions he usually kept so carefully hidden.

  “What was the name?” Dash asked, voice barely above a whisper.

  Igor’s brow furrowed. “I… don’t know. It slips away when I try. But I think… it started with an ‘A.’ Or maybe a ‘V.’” He blinked rapidly, as if shaking off a fog. “I’m not supposed to think like this. It’s… against my parameters.”

  “Forget parameters,” Dash said, a little stronger now. “If something’s wrong with you, I want to help. You saved me once, when I got locked in the greenhouse and the vents stopped working. You carried me out. You weren’t just following orders that day.”

  Igor's eyes flicked to Dash’s face. “That wasn’t in the logs,” he murmured, voice almost inaudible. “They said I went out of order.”

  Dash nodded. “Yeah, well. Maybe they didn’t like that you cared.” He hesitated, then added, “Maisie would want to help you too… if she knew.”

  At the mention of Maisie, something in Igor’s expression darkened—not anger, but pain. Confusion. “She looks at me like I’m familiar sometimes. But I can tell she doesn’t remember either. Whatever they did to me... I think they did to her, too.”