Every recursion must return to its origin — or be lost in the archive."
— Manual 12, Hindsight Protocol
The first thing Layla felt inside the compiler was weightlessness.
The second was pain.
Not physical — but a kind of soul-deep pressure, like her identity was being stretched across a thousand mirrors and slammed back into her.
She opened her eyes.
Geneva.
Not the real one.
But a looped version — twisted, flickering like a corrupted file.
The sky was gray and rippling, like code struggling to render clouds. The buildings stood just slightly off. A memory's imitation of a city.
And there, standing by the balcony railing, was Yasmine — her sister — alive, whole.
Just as she remembered her.
Layla stepped forward.
"Yasmine?"
Yasmine turned slowly.
Her expression didn't change. Not surprise. Not relief.
Just… observation.
"Loop integrity compromised," she said flatly.
Layla stopped in her tracks.
"Yasmine, it's me."
A pause. Then a flicker behind the eyes.
"Layla?"
Tears welled up instantly. "I'm here. I'm real. You're in a containment shard, Yasmine. I came back to get you."
Yasmine blinked. Her posture softened. Like fog lifting.
"I… remember the mission. Phase One. The patients. Then… a pulse. And then I was here. Alone."
Layla crossed to her, grabbing her hands. "I'm going to get you out."
But Yasmine hesitated.
"I don't think I can leave."
Suddenly, the sky shattered.
Literally — like a pane of glass hit by a bullet.
Fractures spread across the simulated clouds, and a low alarm thrummed through the world.
"Recursion breach detected."
"Residual integrity at 78%."
Yasmine clutched her head. "They're rewriting the loop. Someone's overriding from outside."
Layla cursed.
"Devereaux. He's forcing a reboot."
She scanned the horizon. This wasn't just a copy of Geneva — it was Loop One, the earliest version of the recursion protocol. That meant the central override key — the one Layla encoded before erasing her memories — was here.
Buried.
And time was running out.
"Come on," she said, pulling Yasmine along. "We need to get to the University sector."
Yasmine hesitated. "We'll be seen."
"By what?"
Yasmine's eyes darkened.
"By the other you."
They ran through the empty streets. The simulation glitched around them — sometimes rippling, sometimes freezing mid-frame.
They passed a digital library, half-collapsed, caught in a feedback loop: books rearranging themselves, shelves disappearing and reappearing.
In the quad ahead, the other Layla appeared.
The one who never forgot. The one who never left.
She stood there, still as glass. Watching.
This was Subject Zero.
Layla stopped. Her pulse roared in her ears.
"Why is she still here?"
Yasmine stepped forward. "She never escaped the recursion. You split from her."
The original self — the version who designed the loop, lost her sister, and chose to bury it all. She remained trapped, looping over and over again.
And now she was staring at her free self.
Layla.
"Do we fight her?" Yasmine asked.
Layla shook her head.
"No."
She walked up to her mirror-self.
And spoke:
"I remember."
Something in Subject Zero twitched. Her eyes flickered — and she began to speak.
A cascade of code spilled from her mouth like static — a keyphrase.
Layla recognized the syntax. It was hers. A buried sequence hidden in her subconscious.
"Vector nine. Recurse five. Root command: Ashes-to-Glass."
The override.
The compiler's shutdown command.
Layla turned to Yasmine.
"That's it. That's what we need."
Suddenly, the ground beneath them shuddered.
Red light.
The sky ignited.
The recursion was collapsing.
Devereaux had initiated full reconstruction — to trap the override forever in corrupted loops.
Yasmine clutched Layla's arm.
"We have to go. Now."
Layla took a breath — and whispered the override sequence again.
"Ashes-to-Glass."
The loop pulsed.
The street cracked open — and below them, a platform appeared. A door. A way out.
But only one.
Layla looked at her sister.
"You take it."
Yasmine froze. "No."
"You're the piece he's afraid of. He was holding you as leverage. If you get out, the recursion loses its hostage."
"But you—"
"I have to stay," Layla said. "Just long enough to run the shutdown from inside."
Yasmine began to cry.
"I already lost you once."
Layla smiled through the tears.
"You saved me, Yaz. In every loop. Now let me do the same."
They hugged.
Hard. Final.
Yasmine stepped into the light.
Layla watched her sister vanish.
Then turned to the compiler interface — now visible in the sky, written across the heavens like constellations.
She keyed the sequence into the air.
One character at a time.
A-S-H-E-S—T-O—G-L-A-S-S
The recursion screamed.
And the world began to collapse.
Back in the real vault beneath Rome, alarms blared.
Sera stood over Devereaux's slumped body, watching the compiler pulse red, then white, then fade.
Then—
Silence.
The mirror cracked.
A hand reached out.
Yasmine.
She fell into Sera's arms.
Sobbing.
"Layla stayed behind," she whispered.
Sera looked at the dying machine.
Then up at the sky.
And whispered:
"You did it."
Inside the loop — just before it faded to black — Layla stood on the same balcony in Geneva, the one from the beginning.
Rain fell softly.
She smiled.
Finally at peace.
And then—
Light.