The house creaked. Then—a sound behind her. The front door clicked softly. She froze and turned.
There, resting against the threshold, was a folded piece of paper. No footsteps. No silhouette. Just silence.
She picked it up with trembling hands. Blocky, all-caps lettering at the top:BLACK SITE 7 – CASCADE PROGRAM.Beneath it, in smaller, precise handwriting:
I’ll be in touch. —E
Charlotte stared at it, the paper vibrating in her grip with a tremor she couldn’t control. Quickly, she sent a picture of the note to Ethan, Brad, Noah and Graham with the text, Elias just provided this.
She turned to Bailey. Speaking in a hoarse whisper, she asked, “You ready?”
Bailey’s tail wagged once. Silent. Waiting. Charlotte nodded. Her chest was cracked open, but something stronger leaked through the fractures.
It isn’t over. It’s finally beginning.
She moved to the stairs, eyes glistening. A tear slipped down her cheek, landing on Bailey’s fur. Her voice broke as shewhispered into the darkness, “Please hold on, Alex. Just a little longer. We will find you.”
The sterile buzzof Med Bay 2 was shattered by the sound of Alex convulsing. Dr. Sybil Vance was already gloved up and bent over him, shouting for more cold packs and a crash cart as bile and blood splattered across the sheets. His body arched violently, his hands shaking so hard, the IV connection in his neck tore loose, spraying saline and blood across the floor.
“Hold him down!” she cried.
Two orderlies scrambled to restrain his limbs, one of them already calling out vital signs visible on the monitor. “Temp spiking to 104, BP plummeting, pulse erratic.” His skin was flushed red, his chest rising and falling like a man being drowned from the inside.
Sybil moved quickly—high-flow oxygen, pressure bags around the fresh saline pumping into him, an ice wrap for his core. But she couldn’t stabilize him. Whatever Monroe injected into his spine, it was attacking him systemically now. Violently.
The doors to the med bay burst open. Monroe strolled in, unfazed, her heels clicking on the tile like she had all the time in the world.
“You gave him something new,” Vance snapped, not even looking up from where she was suctioning blood from Alex’s mouth and nose.
Monroe folded her arms. “He’s stronger than we thought. That means it’s working.”
Vance spun toward her. “He’s dying. His body’s rejecting the compound. It’s not a correctional flush—it’s a dissolution. His immune system is collapsing.”
Monroe arched a brow, calm as ever. “That’s unfortunate.”
Vance stared at her, then looked toward the cabinet. “Tell me what you gave him.”
Monroe said nothing.
Vance strode over, yanked open the cold storage drawer, and there it was. A single vial, half-used, still chilling. Fluorescent yellow. Label: X-23-R.
Her stomach dropped. “This isn’t even cleared for animal trials,” Sybil said, her voice suddenly hoarse. “You injected this into his spinal canal?”
Monroe’s tone was casual. “We had to accelerate data collection. The window for neural rewrite tightens the longer the subject resists. Marcel’s brain is a high-functioning anomaly. Perfect for live testing.”
Sybil’s face went white. “This is the first trial,” she whispered.
Monroe didn’t blink. “Correct.”
Sybil pointed to Alex, now barely alive, gurgling through clenched teeth as foam bubbled at his lips. “You’re killing him.”
“I’m measuring response,” Monroe said. “If he survives, the data is invaluable.”
“You can’t use this on the others,” Sybil said, her voice rising. “I won’t allow it.”
Monroe’s gaze darkened. “This facility doesn’t operate under your ethics. Remember why you’re here, Doctor. You're here because you’re medically useful. Not because you’re righteous.”
Sybil stepped forward, voice trembling with fury. “You’re using people as petri dishes. This isn’t science. This is homicide.”
