LOGINElena Whitmore had always believed that clarity arrived like a revelation. A sentence spoken. A truth uncovered. A door finally opened.
Instead, it came to her in fragments.
A name mispronounced by an old family friend. A photograph shifted too quickly back into a drawer. A memory that did not sit cleanly in her body.
She stood alone in her apartment overlooking Virex City, the lights below arranged in ruthless order. For years, she had loved this view because it reflected certainty. Hierarchy. Direction. Tonight, it felt staged. Too perfect. Too rehearsed.
She replayed Beatrice’s words from weeks earlier, the ones spoken gently, as if kindness could soften implication.
Your past is more complicated than you were told.







