Perhaps a while ago, I may have reacted differently. Maybe not even that long ago, a month at most, or even only days after matching day. Even if, theoretically, I had the same context as I did now; knowledge of some conspiracy, the ideas, and the possibility of revolution, I wouldn't have reacted as I did now.

I tore out the page.

The act itself, if discovered, could easily be the death penalty  - it being a crime after all. Defacement of government and public property, especially with the type of intentions Scott and I surely had. Legal issues aside, the personal moral corruption should have been enough to make me pause. But I didn't.

With shaking hands, I folded it thrice over, before sliding it into the right-hand pocket of the coat I was wearing. Scott stared at me wordlessly, his constant unreadable gaze hinting at nothing of what he was thinking. Was he judging me? Had I made a mistake? But for once, I stood my ground, staring back with the same intensity he gave me. 

"A copier may have also worked," he said slowly, cautiously taking the book from me before closing the cover of the book gently. He gave a slight smile as he said this, continuing to watch me as he returned the book to the stack. I stood abruptly, an act which instantly caused my head to swarm as I tried to process what I had done, why I had done it, and what it meant for us.

"No," I said quietly, "They- the copier history is automatically added to file.. and we..."

I trailed off, thinking. Was that really why I had done it? In truth, I had done it without thinking, not putting a second thought before tarnishing the book in ways I never thought I could do. But yet, despite an aching side, foggy brain, and empty stomach, I had made a choice that may have saved us.

Or possibly done the very opposite, endangering us further.

Despite the risk to it, the action made me feel alive, more alive than a bullet to the side ever could. Although, with that being said, it's important to note that being shot still made me feel very much alive. But this was a different kind of alive, and alive which allowed me to make a decision.

"We need to return to the apartment," Scott said quietly after a few moments, the light casting across his face revealing the exhaustion presented with a narrowed eye and darkened features. He stood, a lot slower than typical, pushing his glasses up to the bridge of his nose before taking a deep sigh, looking at me with an expression impossible to put words to. Almost as if he himself didn't know, "Please,"

~ * ~

We had both agreed once we had cleaned ourselves up to meet in the foyer of the apartment, and I was once more thankful both for his patience and Jake's early working schedule. At first, I was panicked, not wanting to face him again, but I knew I had to go back eventually, clean myself up, try and put myself back together. If there was anything I was good at, it was pushing problems to the side whilst I dealt with another.

I now stood under the showerhead, steaming water fogging the bathroom and masking the large mirror entirely. When I had entered the apartment, I don't know what I had expected to return to. After leaving Jake with a knife in his hand and wearing only pants and a jacket, perhaps I anticipated the same chaos I had left when I returned.

But it wasn't. It was clean. For a moment I had thought I'd entered the wrong apartment. The kitchen was clean, the medical case had been stored back away, and best of all, there was no trace of Jake. I had to stop myself from immediately finding the closest surface to lay down on, instead of trying to focus on getting ready for work.

Although Jake had not been here, paranoia caused me to be extra cautious. Along with the door being locked, I borrowed a chair from the kitchen, wedging it underneath the handle. There was also a strange comfort in the fact that the scissors I had cut my hair with remained where I had left it. When I had unwrapped my wound, I felt sick at the yellowish puss which had oozed from it, coated with flaking dried blood.

Never before had a shower felt so nice. Being finally clean. I found my thoughts drifting, for once not concerned, just floating and gliding from one fragment of an idea to another. The rose scent from the soap had never smelled so good before. It was the same from back home, a smell that made me feel so safe, and unlike my latest experiences, it was a smell I welcomed.

Once I had dried I was faced with two problems. The first being my still painful and exposed bullet hole on my hip, and the second being my hair. Using the towel I had dried myself with, I wiped the steam from the mirror in order to see myself properly. It no longer oozed the sickly yellow substance, and the dried blood and washed off from the shower. What remained was a soon to continue bleeding void that still stung with pain. But now I was faced with redressing the wound.

I was surprised to find a small medical kit underneath the bathroom sink. Plasters, disinfectant wipes, and most importantly, bandages. Attempting to mimic how Scott had done it, something I had hardly given thought to at the time. Surely it was simply a matter of wrapping it around myself?

To my disappointment, it wasn't so simple. On my first attempt, the bandages were far too loose, and although more comfortable, quickly unraveled. Then it was too tight, pressing against the wound as well as restricting my breathing. It took me several attempts to get something even somewhat close to what I had it before, which would then proceed to catch on my clothes and come undone. It took me many more attempts to recreate something which still only vaguely replicated the intricate wrapping which I had before.

After getting dressed, trying and failing to comb out the unevenness of my now shoulder-length hair, I found myself feeling somewhat normal once more. Or, at the very least, the closest I had been to normal in what felt like a very long time. It felt good, refreshing, freeing, at least until I saw something which made it all disappear.

Just as I was leaving, begrudgingly remembering that I still had a job to get to, I noticed a note. The cream-colored paper lay neatly on the kitchen bench near the door. A note. Just a note. Innocuous at first, unthreatening in its harmless placement on the kitchen counter. I hardly even saw it, and it had only been on a final glance before I left the apartment that I had noticed it. I didn't want to read it, didn't know what he could possibly say to justify everything he had done. Against better judgment, I pocketed it, deciding that I would make the decision on whether or not to read it later.

But it was what it would say that made me the most nervous.

I'd never been one for coffee, but the heavy pull under my eyes made me wonder if perhaps I should begin drinking it, and maybe I might grow fond of the bitter taste. I tried to think of things like coffee and hot chocolate as I made my way down the elevator, pushing away thoughts on the possibilities that the note may entail. What it would say, and if I should even read it in the first place.

Stepping into the elevator, feeling the cabin taking me slowly down the building, I felt as though the letter which I had stuffed awkwardly beside the torn page was heavier than it should be. Was he sorry? Even if he was, more importantly, was it good enough? Could I yet again accept an apology from Jake Morris?

Was it even a question of could anymore? Should I accept an apology, if there was an apology at all?

I didn't have time to answer the question before the elevator doors opened, revealing the morning to once more be cold and miserable. I tried to grasp onto the minor normalcy which I somehow found myself experiencing earlier. This, unsurprisingly, failed to return.

"Jessica wasn't home," was the first thing Scott said when we met once more in the foyer. It was impossible to tell the tone of his voice and whether this required a sense of alarm, or if it was just miscellaneous small talk. It was good, however, as it gave me a distraction from what was eating me up.

"Is that a good or a bad thing?" I asked, knowing he wouldn't actually tell me regardless of the answer. He would just give me a look that told me I should know, that is if I wasn't a complete idiot. I don't even know how he expected me to be able to just know an answer, that not everybody could just so easily read people's expressions and know what they meant.

"Both- I suppose," having not expected an answer at all, I was not shocked when he did not elaborate. It was more than I expected and was more than he likely was going to say, and thus I decided not to pry any further.

Nothing notable happened on the way to the station, aside from the fact that Scott seemed to yawn every few seconds. Eventually, I found myself doing the same. I read somewhere once that if you see another person yawning, you'll start to yawn too. Something about cave people and instincts I think.

Sitting down at the train, which over the past weeks had slowly had more and more people in the morning, I realized how much the note was taking over my mind. Sitting in my pocket, a weight which brought so many questions. What could he possibly say to justify what he did? Or worse, did he refuse to justify it? Did he stand by it?

"Jake left me a note," I blurted out, realizing I needed to say something. Across from me, Scott lifted his head, blinking at me twice and shifting his glasses. The bandage on his eye was still there, but even with one eye, he seemed to give me an incredibly judgemental look.

"Don't read it," he muttered, leaning his head against the train window. He closed his eyes, his answer not satisfactory for what I was looking for. The note remained in my pocket, seemingly taunting me with its presence.

"But- what if-" I began, wondering what I could possibly be saying. Surely I had to read it? Wouldn't it at least give us some answers on why he had done what he did? Did it say anything about Charlie? Surely Scott wanted to know what it said just as much as I did.

"You asked me for my opinion, don't read it. Obviously, you can if you want but..." he kept his eyes closed, his head against the train window, propped up slightly by his arm. He continued, clearly annoyed, "but it would be a waste of time. Anything he could possibly say would mean absolutely nothing,"

I wanted to justify myself almost immediately. Start arguing about all the reasons why I was curious. Try and convince him how I was right and he was wrong and that it was completely understandable. But he was right. And strangely, I found myself remembering the note the therapist had left me. Curiosity killed the cat. Could I really just be working myself up over someone who has time and time again hurt me?

Just as I was coming to this conclusion, however, I remembered something.

Jake himself didn't even remember what had happened. He seemed shocked, and maybe because he was attempting to dismiss what he had done, but his reaction seemed to be that of genuine confusion. Surely the note would at least help me confirm the fact that he seemed to hold no knowledge of what he had done. Was there something else that Scott knew that I didn't?

"Do you hate him?" I asked, causing him to open his eye, staring at me as if I had said the most idiotic thing alive. But I wanted to know. With a sigh, he lifted up his head, having to adjust his glasses once more.

"He shot me," Scott said blankly, "- and you for that matter,"

"But do you hate him?" I could feel my throat tighten wondering the same thing. What if I was wrong? But seeing how he hurt Charlie, and what he had done. If he had done that to Charlie. How could I ever forgive him?

"Obviously," Scott said, closing his eyes once more, "Don't read that letter,"

For some reason the knowledge that Scott hated Jake made me feel justified. Although I wasn't sure if I hated Jake yet, the acceptance that I could felt right. That I was right to feel angry and frustrated with him. That I shouldn't accept any possible excuse he gave me. That my feelings towards him were valid.

So of course, the next logical decision was to read the note.

We can't do this back and forth anymore. I don't know what happened, but I can't remember anything. Whatever is going on, we need to sort this out together. We're not each other's villains. We're not each other's lovers. We don't even properly know each other. But whatever is going on, it involves me, and I deserve an explanation.

– Jake

I don't know why, but I had expected the letter to be more of an apology than this. Reading the letter, I was first confused, confused at how he could possibly be the one angry at me. Then I was annoyed, annoyed at him for not only believing he deserved an explanation but that he didn't apologize once.

What about Charlie? I had pushed it out of my mind so much until now, but was he even alive? I thought about the gunshot, the way Charlie fell to his knees. The more I thought about it, the more my heart began to ache and my mind began to swarm.

"I told you not to read it," Scott said, sitting up. Although his expression was mostly blank, there was what I could only seemingly describe as a pitiful frown, "You place far more trust into people than I ever could,"

"Yeah..." I managed to stammer out, knowing that if I said any more than it would only end badly. I carelessly shoved the note back into my pocket, not caring how badly I treated it. As Scott stood up, I realized we had already arrived at our stop, quickly getting to my feet. As I did so, however, I could feel the note grating at the back of my mind.

Scott was right, I put too much trust in him. But what scared me the most was that if this was how Jake reacted, what did that say about me? Perhaps, in many ways, I was just as bad as Jake Morrison. After all, wasn't that just exactly why the system paired us together in the first place?

Getting off the train and into the cold air, everything in my body seemed to hurt. Not just where I was shot, but leg and neck aches from not sleeping in a bed. Not to mention how tired I was, despite not being the one who had spent the whole day reading.

"Let's just," Scott paused, letting out a sigh, "get through today, then we'll work something out..."

I had a feeling he was saying this more for himself rather than me, but the fact he said that we'd work it out gave me some hope that I wasn't just tagging along. Not only that but that there was something we could actually do with this information.

"We could visit Jordan, it's this woman who used to work here-" I said, thinking, "Visit her office and ask her about it- I don't think we'd get a good answer from Noah, and asking Evan directly seems like a bad idea. After all, she used to work here- and um..."

I trailed off, unsure of whether or not it was a good idea. Scott stopped walking, looking at me for a moment, his expression once more unreadable, perhaps thinking over what I had said. After a few seconds, he continued walking.

"Alright," he said, not looking back. He never said anything more than was necessary, and although it would usually be disjointing, he hadn't disagreed. He hadn't even criticized my plan. And now all I could hope that it wasn't just from the lack of sleep that he had agreed to it.

There was a strange tension, perhaps made by the fact I'd gone directly against his advice. He had been right, of course, the note brought nothing but annoyance and frustration. But admitting to that would also be admitting to the fact that he had been right all along about Jake.

And then that begged the question – what did he think about me?

Finally arriving at our place of work, something which I had grown uncomfortably familiar with, I was struck with how empty it was. Only Evan sat at his desk, not even lifting his head as Scott and I walked in. Even as papers stirred from the airflow of an opened door, he remained fixed to his desk. Where Noah had once sat, a sheet covered his computer.

"Where's Noah?" I asked, feeling my heart sink at every possibility of his absence. Although he'd been blackmailed with the threat of the death of his daughter, there was no telling if his disappearance may have already been due to her very existence. If she was dead, which she surely would be if someone found out, we had no blackmail. If we had no blackmail, then there was no way he wouldn't tell anyone, especially if there was a chance he could save her. I tensed, glancing at Scott to see if he had some miraculous solution.

Scott Preston, despite likely coming to the same conclusion as me, remained as stoic as ever. He just looked tired, maybe a bit bored even as if Noah wasn't an integral part of whatever plan we had at this point. Whatever we were doing, which I didn't even really know how to describe at this point, relying on the silence of this man who is suddenly no longer here.

But he clearly knew what this meant. I needed to trust him more, especially given the fact that my inability to do so had already caused a few issues to arrive. Above all, however, he had asked me to trust him. And although at first, his actions seemed self-interested and indifferent, I trusted that he was just as anxious as I was.

But given I now knew the dire situation he was brushing off, I wondered what else he had been hiding? 

"Noah?" Evan echoed as if he too didn't recognize the name, lifting his head like we had startled him from a trance. There was an air of deception in everybody's words, and I started to feel as though I should be doing the same. He furrowed his brow as if deep in thought, before overplaying a look of recollection, "Oh right- Noah! He got transferred."

"Transferred?" I felt my stomach tighten, both for the fact I had questioned the response, as well as the possibilities that that word meant. Perhaps if I was someone else, I would have accepted it like Scott, pretend it didn't concern me. But I couldn't help this almost painful nagging at every question that swarmed my mind, "Transferred where?"

"Psych Institute," Evan said, grimacing, "Usually being a crime as psychotic as he was, but they can't afford to lose more of us, at least not till your trained up, especially now,"

"Why now?" Scott asked bluntly, his words sharp but intentional, yet continuing to hold a tone of mere mild interest, boredom. Evan glanced at him, almost appearing to glare at him. He shook his head as if to brush off the question. Everybody in this room knew the dangers of information, but the act continued to remain of ignorance. Casually, Scott added, "What could be going on now that's different? Aren't we just trouble-shooters?"

Scott had pushed it too far, and he knew it. The mischievous and far from pure intentions only betrayed by the slight twitch of his gaze and the suppression of a vitriolic grin. The question itself was beyond reckless, even for me, yet he somehow remained as confident and unassuming as before. I could feel my heart racing as Evan paused before running his fingers through his greasy hair, no longer attempting to hide the appearance of stress. Scott seemed too sleep-deprived to be making such risky assertions like this.

"March 3rd always brings bugs," Evan finally said, slowly and carefully, his eyes fixed on Scott who could no longer suppress the slight smirk which had crept onto his face. Nobody really believed that, especially with the delicacy that he said it. Scott had caused a shift in the mutual understanding in the room. Evan's words hung in the air, empty in their literal meaning, but seemingly understood.

If we truly were just ironing out bugs from the sorting system, then why would we have multiple people not only working on it, but such heavy deception in every action made. If it were bugs, then surely someone else would work on it once a week and then put their focus on something else. If we were just fixing bugs, then why were we so far away, in a dingy and rundown building, from the main source of the system?

They weren't trying to hide it. And that thought was even more terrifying.