The next morning, the eerie echoes of last night's disturbance still cling to my mind like wisps of a half-remembered nightmare. For a moment, I'm disoriented, the unfamiliar contours of my quarters emerging slowly from the gloom. Then, the events of the previous day rush back in a dizzying torrent—the journey to the facility, the introductions, the haunting, inexplicable sound that shattered the stillness of the night.

A lingering unease prickles at the back of my neck, but I push it aside. I'm here for a reason, and I won't let a few frayed nerves distract me now. Time to greet the day and whatever it may hold. I slip into my lab coat, its crisp white fabric a comforting weight on my shoulders, and step out into the empty corridor.

As I retrace the way to the communal dining area, guided more by faint smells of coffee and savory meats, my mind wanders to the facility's name: Avernus. In Roman mythology, Avernus was a crater believed to be the entrance to the underworld, where the dead could communicate with the living. The name seems fitting for a facility dedicated to delving into the deepest, darkest recesses of the human mind. But there's also something unsettling about it, as if we're tempting fate by invoking the name of a portal to the realm of the dead.

I can't help but think of my personal underworld, the traumatic memories that have haunted me for years—the accident that shattered my life and left me grasping for a way to put the pieces back together. It's what drew me to this field, to the promise of a breakthrough that could free people like me from the grip of our darkest experiences. I refuse to believe that something as incredible, as essential as the mind, can be as fragile as fine porcelain, shattered by a single blow. Shock, pain, grief, injury—if the body can withstand these insults, rebounding even stronger in some instances, surely the mind must be capable of the same? Why should something as intangible, as inanimate, as memory hold such considerable sway over someone's life, latching onto it like a lamprey intent on sucking it dry?

But confronting memory, even for healing, is daunting. It's like standing at the edge of Avernus, staring into the abyss, and wondering if the secrets hidden within are worth the risk of unleashing them. I straighten my shoulders, steadying myself. I can't let my fears hold me back, not when so much is at stake. The work we're doing here could change countless lives for the better, including my own.

After a quick breakfast of bagels and coffee, we head to a viewing room where the first test subject, James, is being prepped for his session. A former soldier, James has a haunted look in his eyes—a result of the PTSD that brought him here. Dr. Marcus explains the procedure, his voice calm and authoritative, but I notice the slight tremor in his hand as he adjusts the equipment.

"Now, you'll feel a slight tingling sensation as we begin," Dr. Marcus says, his gaze flicking to me for reassurance. I nod, offering a small smile to James, a feeble attempt to mask my apprehension.

As the experiment unfolds, I watch James's face contort in pain, his memories vividly projected on the special screen before us. The room resonates with the hum of machines and sporadic beeps from monitors, a symphony of scientific endeavor that masks the underlying horror of what we witness. The air is thick with tension, blending the sterile scent of disinfectant with the acrid tang of sweat and fear.

On the screen, fragmented scenes from James's military service flicker into view, each more vivid and harrowing than the last. First, a battlefield materializes—James huddled behind sandbags, gunfire echoing sharply around him in the confined space. His eyes dart nervously, sweat glistening on his forehead as tension builds, breath coming in short, ragged gasps. The scene feels so realistic I can almost feel the sun's heat on my skin and taste dust and smoke in my throat.

Abruptly, a nightmare sequence unfolds before our eyes. James wakes in a cold sweat, hands trembling in the stark, claustrophobic room with sheets tangled around his legs like chains. The scene shifts to an ambush, chaos erupting as his unit comes under a sudden attack. Explosions rock the screen, their intensity threatening to shake the lab's walls. Flashes of light are blinding, colors over-saturated and garish, heightening disorientation and panic.

A solemn funeral scene grips the room next, soldiers somberly saluting while a flag-draped coffin lowers into the ground. James stands motionless, his face a mask of grief and survivor's guilt. Silence pervades, broken only by fabric rustling as the flag is folded and soft sobs from those left behind.

These scenes unfold with intense realism, each causing visible distress as James relives his trauma. His hands grip the chair's armrests tightly, knuckles white with the force, jaw clenched to maintain composure. Veins pulse in his neck and muscles tense beneath his skin, his pain raw and uncensored.

Dr. Marcus watches closely, brow furrowed with concern as he adjusts equipment to stabilize James's emotional response. His movements are precise and methodical, yet tension lingers in his shoulders and around his eyes, grappling with the weight of what unfolds. The room remains tense, the weight of James's memories palpable amid the experiment's scientific precision.

As I observe, unease creeps in—a sense that in our pursuit of knowledge, we've crossed a line. The images feel too real, too visceral to be mere projections. It's as if we've tapped into something primal, something that should have stayed buried in the human psyche. Ethical questions arise about the costs to those volunteering for such experiments, overshadowing any potential benefits.

The room feels increasingly claustrophobic, walls closing in as James's trauma weighs heavily. My heart races, palms slick with sweat, as I struggle to maintain composure and focus.