His room inside the Pillar, with its silence broken only by the muffled chirping of birds and the rustling of branches outside the window, disappeared, leaving room for a silence he did not recognize. Then the hum of the refrigerator reminded him of home.

  As always, it took him a few seconds to realign his body with his mind. He took off his visor. His vision flickered for a moment as it adjusted to the different light of day. Evening was falling in Archivum; in the real world, it was just eight in the morning.

  He realized something was missing. The TV wasn't on. That was strange: his grandmother always kept it on at an excessively high volume. The thought had barely formed when a sharp pain shot through his temple.

  The Archivist had told him it was normal. That it would pass. That he would help him, with a kind of therapy, to restore order to his remaining memory.

  He sat up in bed. He thought he should do some research on the virus that had infected him: Erebos.

  He wondered why he hadn't done it before. Then he shook his head: he had probably already done it and simply didn't remember. A thought that irritated him more than he was willing to admit.

  He stood up and grabbed his cane, now a natural extension of his body. The smell of burnt coffee and sauce hit him as soon as he entered the kitchen, making him wrinkle his nose. The house was empty. His grandmother must have gone out.

  He ate a quick breakfast, then left, determined to go to OpenDesk: there he could do his research.

  The sun burned his skin and the air smelled of smog and hot asphalt. The indistinct voices of people mingled with the roar of cars stuck in traffic, horns, engines, familiar noises that did not demand anything from his memory: they were there, as they had always been, since he was a child.

  He walked, trying to keep his head clear, avoiding those thoughts that made the pain press against his temples. The headache weighed on him like a heavy blanket he couldn't shake off.

  Then he saw Bruno. He was walking towards him, his shirt too tight across his belly, his Bermuda shorts clinging to his plump thighs, a beach towel thrown over his shoulder. Behind him, as always, were his shadows: Peppe, tall and sluggish, with a vacant stare and lips too big for his face, and Giorgio, short and stocky, almost ape-like. All dressed for the beach, they walked down the street, taking up the whole width, as if getting out of their way was someone else's problem.

  Nico felt his stomach tighten. He lowered his gaze and hurried across the street, changing sidewalks, his cane tapping harder on the asphalt. He hoped he hadn't been noticed.

  “Hey, Captain Lame Leg, where are you going?”

  The voice reached him from behind, low and slurred. Nico closed his eyes for a moment, then sniffed in frustration.

  Bruno stood in front of him, occupying the sidewalk as if it were his own. His T-shirt stretched across his belly, his beach towel slipping from his shoulder.

  Behind him, Peppe and Giorgio completed the picture, spread out just enough to leave no space.

  “Hey, cripple.” Giorgio's voice was thin and nasal, almost a whistle. “You look gray.”

  Nico stopped, his shoulders stiff. His hand clenched around the cane; he felt the wood press against his palm, his knuckles turn white. He gave a slight nod of his head in greeting.

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  Peppe smirked. “Maybe he needs the sea,” he said.

  “Yeah,” Giorgio added. “We're going. Want to come with us?”

  They burst out laughing, a loud, smug laugh.

  Nico clenched his jaw. “Yes. Very funny.” His voice came out flat. “I'm crippled, pale, and puny. Now, if you don't mind, I'm busy.”

  Bruno laughed louder, a laugh that sought complicity. He leaned slightly toward him. “Oh, you're busy?” he asked, looking him up and down, then laughed.

  “What are you doing, meeting up with a girl? A cripple like you?”

  “If you walk with a cripple, you'll learn to limp!” croaked Peppe.

  Giorgio burst out laughing and, together with Peppe, they began to imitate two figures walking arm in arm, dragging their feet.

  Nico shook his head, sniffed, and stepped aside, taking advantage of a gap in the sidewalk. He resumed walking without turning around, his cane tapping on the asphalt, dry and regular.

  Bruno stood in front of him again. His crooked smile revealed his teeth, his eyes reduced to two shiny slits.

  " What are you doing, leaving?“ he said, not seeming to expect an answer, then added, ”We're not done with you yet."

  A sudden, violent pain shot through his head, causing him to clench his teeth, then it came: the weight of the sword, the ground beneath his feet, Gareth's rough voice telling him to strike from below. The pain in his temples exploded, but his body moved.

  Nico dodged to the side, shifting his weight onto his good leg. The stick slid forward, skimming the asphalt. Nico twisted his torso, loading the blow with his shoulder, and struck Bruno's leg behind the knee.

  The sharp sound that ensued was a distant echo of another self, another world, two sounds becoming one.

  Bruno lost his balance and fell forward, heavy and clumsy. The laughter died suddenly. For a moment, Nico stood motionless, his heart pounding in his chest, his hands trembling.

  Bruno lay on the ground, confused and humiliated. For the first time, he wasn't laughing.

  As Peppe and Giorgio rushed towards Bruno, still on the ground, muttering broken and confused phrases, a pain sharper than the others pierced his temple.

  Nico pulled back his stick and leaned on it. His good leg trembled slightly. He turned and started walking again.

  Only a few steps later, while he could still hear the distant and hesitant mutterings of Peppe and Giorgio prostrate next to Bruno, he realized he was holding his breath. He took a deep breath and smiled to himself with satisfaction.

  Nico entered OpenDesk with his hands still shaking from adrenaline. A breath of fresh air hit him like a welcome slap in the face after the sweltering heat of the street. The place smelled of coffee and hot plastic. The cold light from the monitors, reflected on the walls covered with screens and advertisements of all kinds, made him squint: so different from the warm sunlight. Several stations were occupied: some with headsets, OculGlass, GameSuit, everything necessary for those who wanted to immerse themselves in another reality.

  He paid for an hour. In the back room, several stations lined up with old monitors and worn keyboards. An elderly man nodded to him, then returned to staring at his monitor, slowly tapping on the keyboard. Nico sat down, leaning his cane against the table leg.

  When the computer was ready, after a moment's hesitation, he typed: “Erebos.”

  He opened a university PDF: a book on mythology. He shook his head and searched again: evocative but empty titles, “Erebos: the myth of darkness,”

  “Erebos: literary reflections.” Erebos, meaning “darkness,” is a figure present in Greek religious myths. An ancestral deity, son of Chaos.

  Nico leaned back in his chair and shook his head in frustration. Nothing about a computer virus.

  The headache throbbed. Frustration tightened his stomach like a knot. Nico got up, grabbed his cane, and left his seat.

  Outside, the morning light seemed too bright.

  He shook his head. He had looked for answers in the wrong place, and deep down he already knew it.