Miles turned his laptop around, with the screen facing us. "They're fighting back."
My stomach plummeted as I registered what I was seeing. It was a document with official-looking letterhead—allegedly leaked from a private security contractor with ties to Reeves-Halvorsen. At first glance, it appeared to be a standard operational brief, but the section heading halfway down the page made my blood run cold:Priority Elimination Targets.
And there, listed at number seven: Miles McCabe, PsyD.
"No," I whispered.
"Where did you find this?" Michael's voice was tight and controlled.
Miles reached around to point at the screen. "It appeared on a whistleblower forum. Someone claiming to be a contractor specializing in digital security posted it as a countermeasure to our leak. Said they wanted to level the playing field."
Marcus leaned over the screen. "Who else is on there?"
"Evelyn's at the top." Miles scrolled through the document. "Then, a journalist who's been investigating Reeves-Halvorsen for years. There's some Pentagon official I don't recognize. Next, a few tech specialists. Then, me."
I had to ask the question. "Why you?"
Miles laughed. "Maybe because I've been documenting psychological trauma in veterans who participated in black ops programs. Three of my patients worked on projects I now know were adjacent to Asphodel, and I've been asking questions since Michael came back from Tahiti."
I stared at Miles's name on the list. This was how it had started with Marissa—her name on a list and her life reduced to an entry in a database. The system had marked her for removal, and within days, she was gone. I wouldn't—couldn't—watch another person I cared about be erased.
Michael took the laptop and studied the document. "This could be misinformation. Maybe it's a fear tactic."
"Does it matter?" Miles's voice cracked. "Whether the list is real or not, they've painted a target on my back for every contractor and true believer in the system."
Marcus voiced his conclusion. "They're trying to fracture us and make us panic."
Miles snapped back at him. "It's fucking working."
I refreshed my screen, scanning for new developments. "The list is spreading. People are reposting it alongside the Asphodel files."
Miles stood, pacing in the confined space. "Maybe we should never have done this. We've awakened something we can't control."
"No." My words were firm and resolute. "The monster was already awake and feeding. We only turned on the lights."
A fresh notification chimed on my laptop—another secure message. This one was from a human rights lawyer who'd previously represented whistleblowers.
This confirms everything my clients have alleged for years. Standing by for verification protocols.
A small smile painted itself on my face. "It's working. People who can do something are taking notice."
Michael moved behind me again. I reached up and laced my fingers briefly through his. We didn't speak.
At that moment, I believed—just for a breath—that we'd done something that mattered.
The fragile reassurance of that thought shattered when Michael's head snapped toward the window, body suddenly tense. He raised a hand for silence, head tilted as if straining to hear something beneath the storm's fury.
I heard it, too—faint but unmistakable. It was a mechanical buzz, like a lawnmower running at a distance.
The mechanical buzz grew more distinct, rising above the storm's fury like an insect penetrating the cabin's fragile shell.
Michael identified the noise. "Drone. Everyone down."
He crossed to the lantern and extinguished it with a decisive twist. Marcus followed suit with his flashlight. Miles closed the blinds over the windows. Within seconds, the cabin plunged into darkness.
Michael pointed at me. "Close that."
I snapped my laptop shut as Miles shoved his phone into his pocket.
