Chapter 3 Research

  “This is what’s going to happen,” I say, locking eyes with her. “You’re going to give me money and point me to the nearest internet café so I can update my memory.”

  Diane scoffs. “What are you, a robot?”

  “Do it,” I snap. I don’t blink. I don’t smile. I mean it.

  For a second, something flickers across her face: annoyance, maybe, or uncertainty. Then she sighs and pulls out her wallet. Before she can even open it, I snatch it out of her hand.

  “Seriously?” she growls, already regretting not shooting me when she had the chance.

  I ignore her. I flip through the contents and find what I’m looking for: her ESPer Association ID. I hold it up to the light, study the holographic shimmer, the embedded code, and the smug little photo of her in a lab-coat-style jacket. So she is telling the truth… at least partially.

  “What’s the lab coat for?”

  I hand the card back.

  “None of your business.”

  She takes it, reluctantly, with a begrudging look like she’s weighing the cost of letting me live another day.

  I pocket the wallet. “Thanks for your donation.”

  “You’re such a jerk,” she mutters under her breath.

  “Good. That means I’m not being manipulated.”

  She rolls her eyes and points vaguely to the east. “There’s a NetSpace Café a couple blocks from here, past the intersection. But if you want the cheapest, there’s a sketchy one behind the old train station.”

  “Pass. Just tell me where I can find the nearest.”

  “Already did.”

  “Great. I’ll call you.”

  Diane raises a brow. “You have my number?”

  “I just called you, didn’t I?”

  “…Creep.”

  “...”

  “Don’t call me on that number again,” she adds, “I’ll send you a different number.”

  I don’t respond. I turn and walk out the door.

  The sunlight stabs at my eyes. The neighborhood looks like it’s been frozen in time with peeling paint, cracked sidewalks, and a stray dog eyeing me like I owe it something.

  I flag down a cab.

  The driver eyes me through the smudged window. “Where to?”

  “I need the third nearest internet café in the city.”

  He blinks at me. “The third?”

  “Yes,” I say. “Not the closest. Not the second closest. The third.”

  “...Weird flex, but okay.”

  He shrugs and starts driving.

  As the car pulls away, I watch the decaying streets blur past the window.

  I don’t trust Diane.

  Family or not, trust is earned… and right now, everything about her screams complication. Threat. Hidden agendas. And if I’m going to rebuild who I am, find the journal, and survive this world, I need unfiltered and unbiased access to information. I need to learn the wider picture.

  And if there’s really an organization on the works, I’m betting they’re watching the obvious spots. Like the nearest café. Or the one she wanted me to go to.

  Which is exactly why I asked for the third.

  The cab drops me off on a cracked street corner where everything looks like it’s given up but hasn’t quite died yet. Faded neon signage buzzes above the storefront: NetBurn Café. The E flickers.

  I step inside. The air smells like burnt coffee and stale energy drinks. A sleepy attendant behind the counter doesn’t even look up as I slide a few bills across the counter.

  “One hour,” I say.

  “Cubicle six,” he mutters, tapping something on his console. A light clicks on above a row of half-functional machines, each separated by low plastic dividers that barely give the illusion of privacy.

  I sit, crack my knuckles, and log into the dusty terminal.

  Let’s begin.

  Step one: Who the hell is Gavin Goodman?

  I search the name. The results come fast… almost too fast. Social media accounts. Articles. Academic scores. News headlines. But it’s all… scattered.

  I click the top social media link. The profile loads. My photo stares back at me: same face, smug expression, and less wear-and-tear around the eyes. I try to log in, but of course, I don’t know the password. No memory, no access.

  Still, I scroll. The posts are public, or at least some of them. There’s not much personality. It’s like watching someone I’ve never met trying very hard to look normal. It feels… curated and hollow.

  There are no recent posts. The timeline dries up two years ago.

  Weird.

  I switch gears. ESPer Academy.

  It’s a prestigious institution, supposedly the best of the best for young ESPers learning to weaponize their brains for the greater good. I remember none of it, but my fingers move across the keys like they’ve done this before.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  I dig deeper. Forums. News clippings. Archived student records.

  Bingo.

  My name appears again. Gavin Goodman. Top of the class. Exceptionally high scores in telepathic combat theory, reality-bending control, and psychospatial navigation. There's even a picture of me: hair slicked back with a confident smirk, Academy-issued blazer. A prodigy. It's unbelievable, considering what I read from the letter.

  And then the headlines take a nosedive.

  “Top ESPer Student Under Investigation for Misconduct.”

  “Violent Altercation Leaves Two Hospitalized—Goodman Suspended.”

  “Sexual Assault Allegations Rock Elite Academy.”

  My gut knots. I sit back and run a hand through my hair.

  So this is what Crazy Gavin meant. The version of me in the letter had given me a warning. “Don’t believe everything you read.” Yeah. But this isn’t just reading. This is… a trail of breadcrumbs soaked in gasoline.

  The way I see it, there are three Gavins:

  Amnesiac Gavin — me, right now. Clueless, cautious, trying to piece together a shattered mirror with bloody fingers.

  Crazy Gavin — the letter-writer, the version of me who seemed aware of the fiction, the meta, the cracks in reality.

  Jerk/Past Gavin — the one in the news. The one people hated. The one who threw it all away.

  I glance down at myself. Black leather jacket, silver chains, tattoos curling out from beneath my sleeves like ink-stained snakes. I look like a warning sign.

  “No wonder… I ended up like this…”

  I scroll more, try to trace my downfall. The trail ended abruptly two years ago. Just vanishes. No more posts. No sightings. No new records.

  That’s when I find it, a vague mention, a buried thread on an old conspiracy forum.

  “G.G. reportedly approached by an unregistered entity. Witnesses claim memory-alteration tech may have been involved.”

  “Disappeared after alleged recruitment into classified project. Possibly linked to rogue ESPer faction.”

  My stomach flips.

  The timelines match. That’s when everything stops. Right around the time I was “recruited.” Right around the time my life got scrubbed.

  I lean back in the plastic chair and close my eyes. My mind’s racing, connections forming. Patterns taking shape.

  I was erased.

  No… not erased. Rewritten.

  I don’t waste time. Once I’ve scraped what I can about my past, I dig into what really matters now—answers. Explanations. Something that might make sense of all this.

  Amnesia.

  Search results flood the screen. Medical sites. Forums. Personal accounts. There are different types: retrograde, dissociative, and trauma-induced. Most of them involve memory loss tied to emotional shock or neurological damage. I scroll through symptoms. Disorientation. Gaps in identity. A feeling of watching your own life through a foggy glass.

  Yep. Check, check, and check.

  But nothing about instinctively knowing how to fight, or how to read people, or type like your fingers remember what your brain doesn’t.

  Next, I try the term that was scrawled in bold letters on the cover of the file Crazy Gavin left behind.

  Project G.O.D.

  Nothing.

  I refine the search. Add terms. Go deep. Click through sketchy forums and old academic papers. Still nothing. It’s either classified or it doesn’t exist. Not on the public net, anyway.

  I throw in Gavin Goodman, just in case something new pops up.

  Same stuff.

  News headlines. Scattered mentions of a kid who had everything, lost it all. The articles don’t say why, not clearly. They focus on the crimes. Petty theft. Vandalism. Assault. It’s like someone went out of their way to frame the fall, but not the full story.

  There’s nothing about a journal.

  Nothing that hints at Crazy Gavin’s version of events. Which means if I want it, I’ll have to look for it. Like, actually look in the real world. Not just the net.

  Great.

  I try a new angle.

  Diane Goodman, my so-called sister.

  The first hit isn’t an ESPer profile or a government record.

  It’s a dating site.

  I stare at the screen.

  There she is. Profile pic: smiling, confident, hair tied back, lab coat draped over her shoulders. Same woman who pointed me to the café like she was doing me a favor while mentally filing a report.

  Her bio says she’s “career-driven, open to new experiences, fluent in three languages, and terrible at cooking.”

  I sigh and sit back.

  It’s peculiar, not having access to your memories, but knowing the meaning of things. Words. Concepts. That vague, automatic understanding. Like I know what a “dating profile” is, and what it’s for, even if I’ve never used one. It’s like my head's full of definitions, but none of them are personal.

  It’s like living inside a glossary of someone else's life.

  And it’s honestly getting annoying.

  I go back to Crazy Gavin’s letter in my head. One phrase sticks out. A strange one.

  “And you—we—are a Gag Character,” he said.

  I type it out. Search “Gag Character”.

  Definitions pop up.

  “A gag character is a type of fictional character used for comic relief or exaggerated traits. Often lacking depth, they exist to serve a joke or running theme, usually without much development or consequence. They break the rules, get away with absurd behavior, and often reset back to default after each scene.”

  Huh.

  I stare at that for a while. Let it marinate.

  Is that what Crazy Gavin meant? That we don’t matter? That we’re just jokes wearing human skin? That none of this is real? Or was it a metaphor? A symbol for how our lives are being scripted by something or someone else?

  I lean forward, elbows on the sticky plastic desk, fingers steepled.

  I don’t trust the letter.

  But I can’t ignore it either.

  Because if there’s even a sliver of truth in it… Then I’m not just some guy with amnesia. I’m a character in a story I didn’t write, stuck playing a role I never agreed to.

  And somewhere out there, the real script—the journal, the truth, the why—is still waiting.

  The glow of the screen starts to burn behind my eyes, but I don’t stop. The world outside the café could be on fire and I wouldn’t notice, not until the smoke reached my lungs.

  I need to know more.

  So I shift focus and search: “ESP in humans.”

  Dozens of articles pop up. Scientific journals. Debate threads. School lectures. Half of them feel like snake oil—"Unlock Your Psychic Potential Today!"—but some of it seems legit. I sort through the garbage and land on something promising:

  “Understanding ESP: A Visual Introduction | Professor Explains”

  It’s a video. Twenty-three minutes. Posted by someone simply called Professor—a clean-cut guy, maybe my age, with that kind of smooth charisma that makes you trust what he’s saying, even before he proves it.

  I hit play.

  “Let’s begin with the basics,” he says, gesturing to a virtual whiteboard behind him. “Extrasensory Perception, or ESP, refers to any cognitive ability that surpasses normal human limitation. The first documented cases date back to the 1800s—coinciding with the first recorded appearances of dungeon rifts.”

  Dungeon rifts. That phrase slaps something deep in my brain. Not a memory. More like a shadow of one. Something old. Dangerous.

  “Along with these rifts came cryptids—hostile, anomalous entities we still don’t fully understand. The emergence of ESP was humanity’s subconscious response to these threats. Roughly 5% of the population were born with it.”

  Visuals float behind him: charts, animated sequences, and dramatized reenactments of rift appearances. People screaming. Cities in flames. Then children glowing faintly with unseen power.

  “At first, ESP was basic. Superhuman strength, speed, and heightened cognition. But over time, the abilities started becoming… thematic.”

  The screen shows a girl forming music notes from thin air, each one detonating like a bomb. A boy bends shadows into blades. Another creates clones of himself from mirrors.

  “The phenomenon evolved. Patterns began emerging. Abilities weren’t random—they had meaning. Personality, belief, intent. That’s when researchers proposed the ESP Naming Theory.”

  He turns back to the camera.

  “The theory suggests that if a young ESPer—typically under sixteen—believes their power has a particular name or concept, that belief shapes its evolution. It becomes more refined, focused. Trainable.”

  I pause the video. That’s… wild.

  But it makes sense. Almost too much sense. My fingers twitch. What did I name my ESP, if I had one? Did I call it something stupid? Something vague?

  I hit play again.

  “However,” the Professor says, his tone sharp now, “naming your ESP without clarity or vision can limit its growth. Vague concepts lead to erratic evolution. You may end up with power that’s unfocused, dangerous, or even self-destructive.”

  That lands hard, like a warning meant just for me.

  I glance down at my hands.

  No memory. No idea what power I might have. But apparently, that didn’t stop me from making a decision years ago… one that might’ve shaped everything about me.

  What name did I give it?

  I don’t even know what it was. Or is.

  The Professor’s face fades from the screen as the video ends. I stare at the blank playback window.

  And then I do something probably stupid.

  I pay for another hour.

  Maybe it’s desperation. Maybe it’s instinct. But something in my gut tells me that if I’m going to understand what happened—what I am—it starts with the ESP. With the naming. With what kind of power I thought I had… before everything fell apart.

  So I keep digging. Keep watching. Keep reading.

  I’m running on fumes, but I can’t stop now.

  Because the past isn’t just behind me.

  It’s hunting me.