"What the hell?" My voice echoed in the darkness of my empty apartment.
I glanced toward the windows, suddenly aware of my exposure—silhouetted against my screen, a perfect target framed in the glass. I rose from the couch and pulled the blinds closed with a sharp snap.
In the background, T. Rex crooned. Marc Bolan's voice curled out over"Cosmic Dancer"—a glitter-dusted lullaby about growing up too fast. I turned the volume up a notch, letting the crackling guitar and spacey strings try to drown out the hammering of my heart.
I opened a text to my sister, fingers trembling as I typed—nothing about research, warnings, or fear. I needed to change the subject. It was a stupid meme about inane faculty meetings I saved weeks ago.
I wanted it to be ordinary. It needed to be something that saidI'm fine, I'm normal, I'm not digging into anything dangerous.
Instead of being rational and ending my digging, I opened a private, encrypted workspace. Marissa had insisted I install it years ago during a phase when she'd become obsessed with digital privacy. I'd teased her then about paranoia. Now, I silently thanked her.
I named the folder "Asphodel Archive – 01" and saved it to an encrypted external drive. It might have been old-school, but it was harder to access remotely.
Outside, the rain intensified, drumming against the windows like impatient fingers. I made fresh coffee, moving through the kitchen with mechanical precision—grind, fill, brew—while my mind raced ahead.
Every researcher knows that resistance often indicates proximity to truth. When archives are suddenly restricted, documents vanish overnight, or sources go silent—you know you are closing in on something significant.
I returned to my laptop with a steaming mug. The screen remained innocuous, with my encrypted workspace showing only folder structures and file names.
My thoughts turned to Michael—his strength, certainty, and protective instinct that had sent him running toward danger while everyone else fled. What would he do in my position?
I already knew the answer. He wouldn't back down.
Neither would I.
Outside, the first hint of dawn breached the horizon. I'd nodded off.
A sudden metallic click jerked me awake. There was another sound—subtle, barely there. It wasn't the building settling or the pipes expanding. It was something else.
I stood and began to examine the apartment. At first, nothing seemed amiss. Then, I noticed it—a tiny smear on the inside doorknob, as if someone had touched it with greasy fingers. Hairline scratches clustered around the deadbolt, fresh enough that metal dust still clung to the surface.
"Fuck," I whispered, the word falling into the silence like a stone into the center of a pond.
I immediately began double-checking all locks and meticulously inspecting each window. They were all closed, but the kitchen window wasn't latched properly. Had I left it that way?
I'd opened it two days ago to let out smoke when I'd burned toast. Had I secured it afterward?
Logic said I was being paranoid. Instinct said otherwise. My mind linked the warning on my screen and the apparent tampering with my door.
I pulled a chef's knife from the kitchen drawer and slid it under the couch cushion. It wasn't rational, but my fears told me it was necessary.
I checked the deadbolt on the front door one more time. Secure. The chain, too. I quietly wedged a chair under the doorknob.
My phone showed 6:25 AM. It was a little early to call anyone but far too late to go back to sleep. Standing at my living room windows, I watched darkness gradually yield to dawn.
The rain was over, and my neighborhood had transformed from shadowy outlines to distinct shapes—parked cars, bare tree branches, and the roof of the building across the street. Everyone else's world continued its normal rotation while mine had tilted on its axis.
I could call the police and report a possible break-in attempt, but what evidence did I have? Scratches that could have been there for months. A window I might have left unlatched myself. They'd take a report and do nothing. Maybe they'd suggest I change my locks.
Another option was calling Michael. When the idea crept into my mind, it came with an ache of longing so intense it took my breath away. What would I say?I think someone tried to break into my apartment because I was researching the man who died in front of you?
The idea sounded unhinged. In my mind, I was researching on his behalf, but he didn't know that.
A final option was stopping. I could delete all of the research and pretend I'd never heard of Project Asphodel or Evelyn Shaw. I'd return to my lectures and committee meetings and the orderly progression of my academic career.
Marissa would never have stopped. She'd always pushed toward truth, especially when others tried to obscure it. Her voice whispered at the edges of my consciousness:What are you afraid of losing, Alex? Without me and without Michael, what's left that they can take?
I opened my encrypted workspace and began typing. By mid-morning, I'd been sitting with my back against the front door for almost an hour, laptop closed beside me. The rain had started again, gentle but persistent against the windows.
