What Remains Of Us (Yang Tersisa dari Kita)

The silence in Ava's apartment was deafening when she returned that evening. Her fingers fumbled for the light switch, but the moment illumination hit the room, she realized something was off. The frames on the wall had shifted ever so slightly. Her notebook was no longer on the couch where she'd left it.

Someone had been here.

She backed toward the door instinctively, but then her eyes fell on the kitchen counter. A cup of chamomile tea—still steaming.

Ava's breath caught.

Her phone buzzed.

Blocked number.

She didn't answer.

Instead, she scanned the room, moving with quiet steps toward her bedroom. She opened the closet, every cell in her body on high alert.

Empty.

Or so she thought.

Something fell with a thud behind her. She spun around.

Nothing.

Except for a new piece of paper tucked under her pillow.

It was printed in crisp black ink: "The truth is not what you remember."

Ava sat on the edge of the bed, hands trembling. She didn't know whether to feel fear or frustration. The deeper she dug into Ben's past, the more distorted the truth became.

That night, she couldn't sleep.

Instead, she pulled up the contents of the flash drive again. She scoured every folder, every buried image, and document.

There was one file she hadn't dared to open.

"Endgame_Protocol.mov"

She clicked it.

The screen flickered. A grainy video played. Ben appeared—sitting in what looked like a dark, padded room. He looked thinner, worn. His voice cracked as he spoke.

"If you're watching this, I'm already too deep into it. I might not even be me anymore."

Ava blinked.

Ben continued. "The Cassandra file—it's not just data. It's a map. A code. They used me to unlock it. But it wasn't supposed to exist. The original Cassandra protocol was erased by the agency years ago, or so they claimed. But fragments survived—in memories. In people."

Ava leaned forward.

Ben's voice dropped. "They found a way to implant fabricated memories into operatives. To test decision-making under false beliefs. That's what Project Cassandra really was. They used us. Me. You. Caroline."

Ava's heart sank.

Caroline?

Was she part of this?

Ben looked straight into the camera. "If you're still with her, leave. She's not who she used to be."

The screen cut to static.

Ava shut the laptop, her hands covering her face.

What was real anymore?

She left the apartment before dawn.

Her destination was clear now: the abandoned psychiatric hospital just outside the city—the one Ben had mentioned in his early journals. The place where Cassandra began.

As she drove through the foggy highways, Ava tried to reconcile the truth. If her own memories had been manipulated, then what of her love for Ben? Was it real? Was he real?

She reached the hospital by sunrise.

The building loomed like a forgotten skeleton of the past—gray, crumbling, and yet eerily intact. A broken sign read: WILLOW CREEK INSTITUTE.

Ava parked and walked through the rusted gates.

The air smelled of mildew and wet stone.

Inside, the halls echoed with the soft crunch of her boots. Her flashlight cut through the darkness. Shadows danced on peeling wallpaper.

Then she found it: a padded room. Number 108.

The same room from Ben's video.

She stepped inside.

The bed was stripped bare. The walls had claw marks. And in the corner—a mirror.

But it wasn't a mirror.

It was a window.

Behind it, a small control room. Monitors. Old files. Tapes.

Ava pushed the door open. Dust scattered.

She found a journal. It bore the agency's seal.

Page after page detailed tests. Names. Assignments.

And then she saw her own name.

Ava Mitchell. Subject 7. Emotion Calibration. Cassandra Phase II.

"No..." she whispered.

Everything she thought she knew had been designed.

Even her grief.

Even Ben.

She stumbled back, nausea rising. The room tilted. The air turned colder.

Then the door slammed shut.

She wasn't alone.

A voice whispered from the intercom above: "Welcome back, Ava. Let's begin again."

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