Chapter 2 — Fractured Memories

Vivienne "Vivi" Laurent

Vivienne Laurent jolted awake, her chest heaving as though she’d been running for her life. The sheets were twisted tightly around her legs, a suffocating trap she couldn’t seem to escape. Her skin glistened with sweat, cold despite the hum of the air conditioning. She blinked up at the ceiling, its smooth, pristine surface offering no solace for the chaos still ricocheting through her mind. The nightmare had returned. Again.

The cold bite of mountain air clung to her lungs, sharp and unforgiving. In the dream, she had been sprinting across the jagged terrain of Aurora Summit, the snow crunching beneath her boots with each frantic step. A dark presence loomed behind her, and then came the growl—low and primal, vibrating through the air, wrong in a way she couldn’t name. It echoed in her chest, a sound that didn’t belong in the natural world. And after it, a scream. High-pitched, visceral, and raw. Not hers. Someone else’s. The sound sliced through her like a blade, leaving a phantom ache in its wake.

Her fingers gripped the sheets, knuckles whitening as the memory crumbled into fragments, slipping like water through trembling hands. It didn’t make sense. She didn’t remember screams from that trip. She didn’t remember a growl. But the dream insisted, wrenching the ordinary into something twisted and suffocating.

The echo of the scream lingered as she swung her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet brushing the cool marble floor. Vivi sat there for a moment, elbows on her knees, her head in her hands. The city lights streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of her penthouse, their glow casting fractured shadows across the minimalist décor. Her sanctuary, meticulously designed to reflect order and control, felt alien tonight—a cage of her own making.

Her pulse thundered in her ears, and she exhaled shakily, trying to release the tension coiled in her muscles. Sleep was out of the question now. It always was after nights like this. The clock on her nightstand flashed 4:12 a.m., the numbers stark and unyielding. Too early to call it morning. Too late to try again.

She rubbed her temples, the faint metallic taste in her mouth making her grimace. It had been happening more often lately, this strange tang she couldn’t explain. She shook her head and rose, crossing to her wardrobe with purposeful strides. If she couldn’t rest, she could at least work. She pulled on the armor that steadied her: tailored black slacks, a silk blouse, and her favorite heels. The sharp click of her footsteps echoed softly as she moved through the penthouse, each step an assertion of control.

Her home office welcomed her with its sleek lines and curated power. Awards, patents, and framed news articles lined the walls, silent reminders of her dominance in a world that demanded nothing less. Settling into the leather chair, she powered up her laptop. The screen’s glow illuminated her sharp features as she dived into the familiar rhythm of emails and data. Work. Structure. Focus. These were her salves.

But the rhythm faltered. A sound prickled at the edge of her awareness, faint and foreign. She tilted her head, listening. It was high-pitched and metallic, like the whine of a machine on the verge of overloading. The sound thrummed faintly at first, but it grew sharper, more insistent, vibrating through the air like a living thing.

Vivi froze, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. “Great,” she muttered. “Now I’m hearing things.”

Still, the sound persisted. Louder now, pulling her focus away from the glowing screen. It lured her from the office into the main living area, her heels clicking against the marble with deliberate precision. Her eyes swept the room. Everything was in its place: the pristine lines of her furniture, the curated artwork, the muted tones of her sanctuary. And yet, the noise grew, pressing against her senses, pulling her toward the windows.

Her pulse quickened as she approached the glass, her reflection sharpening with every step. She pressed a hand to the cool surface, seeking its grounding calm. But then, it shifted.

Not the room. Not the cityscape beyond. Her.

Her reflection rippled subtly, as though the glass were water. The sharp angles of her face softened, her features melding into something untamed. Her pupils dilated, the gray of her eyes flickering with molten gold, bright and alien. Her breath hitched, fogging the glass. The image flickered back to normal, but the metallic taste in her mouth surged, sharp and electric, before fading into a dull hum.

“No,” she whispered, her voice trembling as she stumbled back a step. Her pulse roared in her ears, her chest tightening. “No, no, no.”

The sound was gone. The reflection was normal. But the unease lingered, clinging to her skin like static. Her hands trembled as she clenched them into fists, forcing herself to breathe. To think. Control. She needed control.

The buzz of her phone jolted her, breaking through the silence. She snatched it off the counter, desperate for the distraction. Naomi West’s name flashed on the screen.

“Naomi,” Vivi said, sharper than she intended.

“Good morning to you too, sunshine,” Naomi replied, her tone wry but tinged with concern. “You’re up early.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Vivi said curtly. “What do you need?”

“An aspirin, for starters,” Naomi quipped, but her voice softened. “I sent over the latest investor feedback on Sentience. Thought you’d want to get ahead of it.”

Vivi pinched the bridge of her nose, the mention of Sentience—a project she had staked everything on—drawing her focus like a magnet. “I’ll handle it.”

“You always do.” Naomi’s tone was light, but there was a note of worry beneath it. “Vivi, you’ve been running yourself ragged. Maybe take a breath? You’re not a machine.”

“I’m fine,” Vivi snapped, the lie rolling off her tongue with practiced ease. “Just send me the files.”

“They’re already in your inbox. And Vivi? Try eating something today. Coffee doesn’t count.”

Vivi ended the call, tossing the phone onto the counter with more force than necessary. She didn’t need a lecture. What she needed was focus. The nightmare, the reflection—she shoved it all into the back of her mind, locking it away where it couldn’t distract her.

Back in her office, she buried herself in investor reports and market analyses. Hours passed in a blur of data and projections, the taste of metal receding to the background of her mind. Yet, as the first rays of dawn painted the city in shades of gold and pink, the unease crept back in, unbidden.

Her sanctuary felt smaller now, the walls closer, the air heavier. She pressed a hand to her chest, her breath shallow, the metallic taste returning, sharper this time. It was as though her body was rejecting the life she had so carefully built.

Deep down, she knew. It wasn’t just her body. Something else was stirring. Something she couldn’t control.

For the first time in years, Vivienne Laurent felt afraid.