Chapter 31

“What’s on your mind?” Mr. Hels asked.

The two walked down the street when a car whooshed past them. Just then, another one sped out from around the corner, but they passed each other perfectly without colliding.

The cars were self-driving, controlled by an AI system that managed the entire city’s transportation computations. Even in the most complex traffic conditions, accidents almost never happened. This technology had been widespread even before the aliens appeared, and it remained so now.

Horne said nothing, unsure how to respond.

If Mr. Hels had all those once connected to the military confined to the Red Light District, then his own approach to Horne was probably for a similar purpose, just expressed differently.

Or perhaps because of Horne’s special status, he had set up an even bigger trap.

In any case, given the current situation, Horne was already confined to the Red Light District by him.

At that thought, Horne halted his steps.

“What’s wrong?” Mr. Hels turned his head and asked him.

Horne stood calmly for a moment before saying, “Nothing, my leg just hurts a bit.”

Mr. Hels took two steps back toward him and reached out a hand, asking softly, “How about I carry you on my back, then?”

Horne immediately retreated a step, his tone cold. “No need.”

Mr. Hels chuckled. “Being stubborn isn’t a good habit.” Even as he said that, he withdrew his hand.

Looking at those hands being pulled back, Horne felt his heart sink.

They arrived at a private medical studio, where the doctor was said to be Loch City’s best psychologist and brain neuroscientist.

“Hello, Dr. Siselen.”

As the automatic door slid open, Siselen happened to walk out—an elderly man who looked seventy or eighty, without the slightest hunch, his white hair curled behind his ears, wearing a white coat.

Siselen smiled at them and extended his hand in a welcoming gesture.

First came the routine questioning, then basic physical checks. It wasn’t until Horne took off his clothes that Mr. Hels saw the new wounds on his body, along with bandages still seeping blood, and his expression darkened.

“Heart rate normal, blood pressure slightly low, skin conductance and cortisol levels normal.

“Emotional response subdued.

“Personality leaning toward choleric temperament.

“Perceptual pressure scale indicates excessive stress.

“Mr. Horne, please relax a bit.”

When Horne emerged from the examination room, Mr. Hels sat on the sofa outside. Horne remained aloof. “If you have things to do, don’t waste time here.”

Mr. Hels propped his head up and said indifferently, “I never waste time.”

Siselen had Horne sit on a single sofa that reclined halfway down. Only then did Horne notice the wall-to-wall bookshelves filled with books.

The sofa was very soft; as soon as he lay back, he sank right in. But the dense array of instruments beside it made Horne’s hand unconsciously grip the armrest leather, producing several clear creaking sounds.

It felt just like the times he had returned from the battlefield, injured and heading into surgery. If not for the faint scent of green plants in the room, he might have been even more tense.

“Before we begin, I’d like to ask you a few questions,” Siselen said. He turned his head. “Mr. Hels, you can wait in the lounge.”

“It’s fine,” Horne interjected. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and said, “Let him stay here.”

“Very well.”

Siselen asked Horne what memory meant to him.

Horne was stunned for a long while before slowly opening his eyes. His lips touched lightly, and after a long silence, he said, “It means knowing who I am.”

“If those memories carry unbearable suffering, and forgetting them could bring a better life and more joy, would you still choose to recall them?” Siselen’s voice was aged, gentle, flowing—like one who had seen the ways of the world and finally found peace. If not for the overly formal wording that felt out of place.

Horne slowed his breathing and said softly, “Some memories are indeed trivial, but others shaped who I am.”

Back when the pain had been unbearable, he had truly wanted to lose his memory, to become a carefree fool. Later, someone told him: It’s these experiences that let you know who you are, and how difficult and resolute the path had been.

Horne watched as Siselen placed a transparent helmet device at an angle above his head and adjusted its position left and right.

Horne continued, “I once thought about a question: If memories could be sold, who would I be?”

“What do you think?” Siselen asked.

“I think I’d be anyone. I am everyone, and everyone is me.” Horne paused before adding, “Forgetting one’s own existence is humanity’s greatest dilemma.”

Siselen smiled mildly. He twisted the instrument’s switch on, set the mode on the screen. With his back to Horne, his attention on the device, his words came across as distracted. “If you’ve studied Heidegger, you’ve likely explored Nietzsche’s ideas too. You should know he believed the strong can forget at the right moments, while the weak are always bound by memory.”

Horne’s first reaction wasn’t rebuttal but surprise.

Siselen didn’t pursue the topic. Instead, he finished the setup, wrote “cognitive function normal” in the medical record, turned back, and said, “Alright, Mr. Horne, the test is over. Now please close your eyes. Next, you might hear various sounds, smell relaxing scents, or even recall unpleasant memories. No matter what happens…”

Horne didn’t know when he fell asleep—or even if he had. First came a distant stillness, then a plunge into the deep sea. Something tugged at his nerves. In that half-dreaming, half-waking state, countless images assaulted him—images shrouded in thick fog. Touching them brought only endless pain.

He gradually clenched his fists tight, gritted his teeth, a whimper escaping his throat as his whole body trembled.

Mr. Hels had been sitting on the sofa observing, but then he stood and walked over.

Horne’s breathing grew rapid. He couldn’t make out the images in the darkness, only felt the emotions—waves of stabbing pain, like his heart was being carved out.

Such agony, like his heart pierced through. Unhealed wounds burned like fire, neither living nor dying in peace.

Horne dry-heaved several times, completely losing control as tears began to stream down.

Suddenly, a hand grasped his.

In that instant, it was as if all the pain found an anchor. Horne gripped that hand with all his strength. He felt his veins pulsing wildly, the firm grip in return, the familiar warmth and gentle strokes.

Then his stomach contracted violently again. Horne cried out in agony, abruptly opened his eyes, sat bolt upright, doubled over, and dry-heaved uncontrollably, desperate to vomit out all his innards.

A hand gently stroked his back. A familiar voice, laced with worry and anxiety, murmured endlessly in his ear. “It’s okay, it’s okay. Nothing happened. You’re safe. It’s alright.”

Mr. Hels looked unwell. He half-squatted, patting Horne’s back while frowning at Siselen. “Let’s stop here for today.”

“No need.” Horne coughed twice, took several sharp breaths to calm his racing heart, took the tissue Siselen handed him, wiped his face casually, and lay back down. “I’m fine. We can continue.”

Siselen glanced at Mr. Hels, who held both of Horne’s hands and said softly, “You’re in a lot of pain.”

With his eyes closed, tears still flowing, Horne said, “As long as I’m not dead, we continue. I have to remember.”

“No need to rush so much…”

“Continue!” Horne frowned, cutting him off.

He could see fragmented shadows, but touching them brought only tearing sensations and nothing more. He felt he could see clearly.

Mr. Hels closed his eyes briefly, a flicker of pain crossing his face.

Han Ya was right. Even if he tried to lock Horne in an illusory utopia, he would still crash to his death against the cage for the sake of freedom.

Before the next wave of intense pain hit, Horne choked out, “Hels.”

“What is it?” Mr. Hels replied instantly.

Horne’s brows knitted tightly, his voice weak and breathless. “Don’t… don’t let go of me first.”

Mr. Hels gripped his hand tighter and said softly, “I won’t let go.”

Their hands intertwined, fingers locked so tightly that fingertips turned white, digging into each other’s flesh and veins. Mr. Hels half-knelt by the sofa. Soon, his other hand covered the back of Horne’s.

He closed his eyes, head buried between his arms, as if in prayer.

This state lasted another ten minutes before Siselen shut off the instrument. “Continuing further might damage the brain nerves. Let’s stop and rest.”

The moment he relaxed, Horne struggled up from the sofa and stumbled into the bathroom, vomiting violently.

His stomach had been nearly empty to begin with, leaving him even more hollowed out. Horne washed his face and stared at his bloodshot eyes in the mirror. After a long while, he slowly composed himself and turned to leave.

His hand hovered over the sensor door, not yet touching it, when faint voices from outside drifted in.

Siselen’s voice carried a hint of amusement. “What’s wrong? You don’t look so good yourself.”

Mr. Hels scoffed lightly and said slowly, “Sigh, is there a cure for this illness where watching someone else suffer makes you suffer too?”

Siselen replied, “That’s empathy.”

Mr. Hels sighed. “I don’t want to empathize. I just want to know if there’s any way to transfer his pain to me.”

Siselen’s answer was formulaic. “Human technology can’t achieve that.”

Horne’s hand, suspended in midair, paused and slowly clenched into a fist.

A moment later, Horne emerged from the bathroom. He leaned on the sofa to rest, sipping hot water in small gulps.

Siselen organized the files and said to Horne, “Your condition isn’t suited for rushing things.”

Horne lifted his head.

Siselen explained that it was a stress response from the body—accelerated heart rate, dilated pupils, tense muscles sweating, pale skin—all triggered by the hypothalamus, pituitary, adrenal axis, and sympathetic nervous system working together.

“It’s a psychological trauma.”

“Psychological trauma?” Horne didn’t understand.

“Yes. You haven’t lost your memory,” Siselen continued. “You simply don’t want to remember.”

Horne held the hot water cup in one hand, his expression growing more puzzled. He asked dubiously, “In this state of mine, you think I don’t want to remember myself?”

His last words came out louder. Mr. Hels reached for his hand again, thumb gently rubbing his skin to signal calm.

“It’s okay, take it slow, alright?” Mr. Hels said.

Horne leaned back, closed his eyes, said nothing, and let the warmth soothe him.

He had only guessed it might be aftereffects from long-term cryogenic hibernation pod sleep.

Siselen sat in the chair, rechecked Horne’s files, and nodded slightly. “Yes, you might believe you want to recall, but your body isn’t expressing that. Vomiting is a common psychological rejection response. When facing certain events, people usually have direct emotional reactions like anger, fear, or sadness. However, your rationality suppresses those emotions, while your body tries to expel the ‘unclean’ content from your brain and body. Unable to vent through emotions, the pressure releases as physical reactions like nausea and vomiting.”

Horne was silent for a long time before asking, “So you mean I haven’t forgotten—it’s that I’ve blocked it myself.”

“Yes. Perhaps those memories bring the same feelings as your earlier reaction. Your brain deemed you unable to bear it, so it chose physiological responses to protect you. Over time, be careful of occasional dissociative states. You might develop another personality to protect yourself, with severity depending on your personality integration ability.”

If that was the case, Horne thought his brain underestimated him too much.

Siselen continued, “So you’ll find that you remember most things. Even skills and knowledge learned during the amnesia period remain in your mind. It’s just that you’re unwilling to recall the related people and events.”

“But I… I have to remember.” Horne’s hand clenched hard. Only then did he realize it still rested in Mr. Hels’s hand. He felt a bit awkward, unsure whether to pull away or keep it there.

In the end, he didn’t move. That warmth reassured him.

Siselen said, “That’s why I say there’s no need to rush. Memory recovery has a trigger point. When you encounter it, the memories will naturally return.”

“What would the trigger point be?”