"Rein Me In"

The industrial estate behind Tottenham Hale looked washed out in the light of late February: pale concrete under a pale sky, the pale sun hitting the factory shutters and being absorbed into their pale metal surfaces. The wind carried the smell of cold dust and diesel as it rattled loose signage and made the puddles tremble.

Taylor walked quickly, her scarf wrapped tight and her notebook tucked into her coat pocket. She checked the address again: it was one converted warehouse amongst many, with no identifying sign; just a buzzer and a peeling sticker that read Unit 4B.

She pressed the button once. A crackle, then Olivia’s voice: “Come in.”

The door clicked as the lock released. Taylor pushed it open and stepped inside. The warmth hit her first: a dry, electric warmth from too many machines running at once; then the smells of coffee, solder, dust and something faintly metallic. The open space was cluttered but organised, with cables running across the floor like veins.

Sam sat at a long table covered in laptops, old phones and tangled wires. He didn’t look up when she entered. Olivia stood near the window, arms folded, watching the light shift across Taylor’s face.

“You’re late,” Sam said.

Taylor took off her scarf. “No. I’m bang on time.”

Olivia smiled faintly. “She’s right.”

Sam didn’t argue, but continued to concentrate on typing, his fingers tapping nimbly on the keyboard.

Taylor placed the old phone on the table. Sam hit the enter key with one last flourish and turned to look. Not at Taylor; at the phone.

“You brought it,” he said.

“You asked,” Taylor replied.

Olivia stepped closer, her movements calm and deliberate. “Is this the only device?”

“For now,” Taylor said.

Sam picked it up, turning it over with the care of someone handling something fragile. The weak sunlight from the high windows reflected from the scratched plastic facia, giving it an ebon sheen.

He connected it to a cable without asking permission.

Taylor watched him. “You think it’s safe?”

“No,” Sam said. “But that’s not the point.”

Olivia leaned against the table. “Play it.”

Sam swiped the screen: Rain. Night. The reservoir path. The woman walking. Familiar pace, posture and half-turn at the end.

Taylor watched Olivia instead of the screen and noticed that she didn’t blink once.

When the clip ended, Sam released a held breath. “It’s not a recording.”

Taylor nodded. “I know.”

Olivia looked at her. “Then why bring it to us?”

“Because you can tell me what it is.”

Sam unplugged the phone, set it down and rubbed his eyes. “It’s a reconstruction. Behavioural. Predictive.”

Taylor didn’t give anything away. “Yes.”

Olivia took another step closer. “But it’s not just prediction. It’s instruction.”

Taylor tilted her head. “Meaning?”

Olivia tapped the table lightly. “Someone is building a version of her. Not visually. Behaviourally.”

Sam added, “And they’re using old data to do it.”

Taylor watched them both. “Whose data?”

Sam hesitated, though Olivia didn’t.

“The first one,” she said.

Taylor nodded once. “Lille.”

Sam looked up sharply. “You know her name.”

Taylor didn’t answer, watching both of their faces for a reaction. A gust of wind rattled the warehouse windows. Dust drifted from a high beam. The sunlight rippled across the floor.

Sam leaned back in his chair. “This isn’t a continuation.”

Taylor frowned. “Then what?”

“It’s a correction,” Sam said.

Olivia added, “They’re trying to finish what they started.”

Taylor felt something tighten in her chest. “With her.”

Olivia nodded. “Yes.”

Sam tapped the phone. “And now they’re using Raye.”

Taylor didn’t look surprised. “She fits the pattern.”

Olivia watched her carefully. “You sound certain.”

Taylor met her gaze. “I am.”

Sam stood abruptly, pacing a short, tight line between the table and the wall. “We need the rest of the material.”

Taylor shook her head. “I’m assured there is no rest.”

Sam stopped. “There’s always more.”

Olivia stepped between them, calm but firm. “We don’t need everything. We just need enough.”

Taylor raised an eyebrow. “Enough for what?”

Olivia’s voice was soft. “To see who’s pulling the strings.”

Sam added, “And to cut them.”

Taylor watched them both, noting their precision and certainty, their quiet urgency.

“You’re already in this,” she said.

Olivia nodded. “So are you.”

Taylor made no attempt to deny it. The wind eased. The sunlight became more diffused. The warehouse felt suddenly smaller.

Sam unplugged the phone and slid it back across the table. “Bring us anything else you find.”

Taylor picked it up. “If there is anything else.”

Olivia moved even closer, her voice low. “There will be.”

Taylor wrapped her scarf around her neck. “Tomorrow?”

Sam nodded. “Tomorrow.”

Olivia added, “Same time.”

Taylor paused at the door, hand on the frame. “You’re not telling me everything.”

Olivia smiled; a small, knowing quirk of her lips. “No one is.”

Taylor stepped out into the cold air of late winter, the door clicking shut behind her. The last remnants of the day’s light broke into splinters on the pavement. The wind caught her scarf as she wound it round her neck, as if to pull her forwards.