Hours later, in the quiet of the hospital room, Scully sat propped up against her pillows, looking pale but alert. Her gaze was unfocused, her brow furrowed as she struggled to answer Mulder's questions, but her words were hesitant, fragmented. Every time he asked her about the facility—about the doctors, the procedures, or even just the layout—she shook her head slowly, her frustration clear.
"I don't... I don't remember much, Mulder," she admitted, her voice raw. "It's like trying to grab smoke. I can't hold onto anything solid."
Mulder clenched his jaw, glancing over his shoulder at Skinner, who stood by the door with a troubled expression. Both men were visibly rattled by how little they were able to piece together. It wasn't like Scully to struggle to recall details, let alone remember almost nothing of the past month.
Danny entered the room quietly, looking at them with a resigned expression. "Don't be surprised by the memory loss," he said. "The compounds they used on her—at the levels I found—are designed to induce not just sedation, but also targeted memory degradation. It's highly unlikely she'll ever fully remember what happened to her there. Her brain has basically walled off that time as a form of... protection."
Mulder looked back at Scully, his heart aching at how she seemed to be searching for answers but coming up with nothing but frustration. "There's really nothing you can do?" he asked Danny, a hint of desperation in his voice.
Danny shook his head. "Not for the memories. All we can do is help her recover physically. As for the mental impact… she may need time, support, and maybe even a specialized therapist."
Skinner folded his arms, his expression hard. "This isn't over. Even if we can't recover her memories, we can investigate what happened. We can shut them down."
Mulder nodded, his gaze fixed on Scully. "We'll find out what they did to you, Scully. Whatever it takes, we'll get justice for this."
Scully managed a faint, weary smile, her voice barely above a whisper. "I know you will."