Monroe's heels clicked once against the tile, sharp as a gunshot. “Which one?” she asked, her voice cold and brittle.
"Subject 32."
Monroe’s nostrils flared. “Protocol three? Only?”
Sybil nodded miserably. “Likely an undiagnosed heart defect. The stress of the... deviation... accelerated?—"
“Save it,” Monroe cut her off with a flick of her hand. Her voice went low, dangerous. “What’s the point of your protocols if the subjects crumble under pressure?"
Sybil's voice broke. "Then why are you—? Why are you pushing them beyond protocol? They’re not ready."
Monroe stepped closer, lowering her voice to a hiss. "Because the people funding this want results. They want them yesterday."
Bray Maddox stood beside Dr. Vance, built like a boulder, with thick, rough hands, and a permanent scowl etched deep into his face. Former military. Some said special forces; others said psychological operations. No one knew for sure—his file had more black lines than text. He hadn’t spoken to anyone outside the program in twenty-five years.
He wore a plain black long-sleeve shirt, tactical pants, and boots that never stopped creaking. Monroe's pet rat leaned against the wall and shot Rook a grin full of cheap amusement. "Hey, Rook, you know what a protocol is? Or you need flashcards again, buddy?"
Rook drooled a little for show. Bray laughed like it was the funniest thing he’d seen all week.
Monroe didn’t even glance at the exchange. She pointed at Rook like he was an appliance. “Go with Mr. Maddox. Pick up the body. Then you dump it two miles east, in the creek. Anchor it. I don’t want it floating back like last time.”
"Yes, ma’am," Rook said, slurring the words with a slack smile.
Bray slung an arm over his shoulders like they were best friends. "Come on, genius. Let's go play undertaker."
The body was waiting for them, zipped up in a black bag and slumped on a stretcher. Bray whistled as they loaded it into the back of the truck, tossing in a couple of heavy chains like it was garbage day.
As Rook drove away from the facility, he watched Bray in the rearview mirror. When Bray closed the exit doors, Rook disappeared into the mist of the deep forest, part of the nature preserve, his mind churning. He knew every patrol route, every camera blind spot. He’d built the burial area himself over years, hauling stones by hand, marking the hidden trail so only he could find it.
At the burial site, Rook worked quickly, silently. He laid the young man down with care, smoothing the black bag flat like a blanket. Beside it was the heavy chain. Then he dug, deep and sure, until the earth swallowed the broken body.
Rook knelt at the fresh grave, pressing one hand against the dirt. "You are not forgotten," he whispered. "You will not decompose in an icy river to be fed on by predators. I will remember. I swear."
Above him, the wind shivered through the trees like a warning. But Rook just wiped his hands on his pants, slapped the stupid look back on his face, and jogged to the truck. Upon his return to the facility, no one noticed a thing.
Hours ago, he transmitted the full report to Gideon's hidden servers. He kept his expression blank. Hands at his sides. Face unreadable. Just as his father had trained him.
Monroe thought she was advancing—sleeker, sharper, cleaner. But she’d twisted Gideon's original mission into something grotesque. Where Gideon had fought to free broken minds, Monroe stripped minds clean to build perfect soldiers. New armor. New slogans. Same machine.
Rook said nothing as Monroe launched into her briefing, her voice slicing through the sterile hum of the lab. But his mind was elsewhere, years back, to the truths his father had burned into him.
The facility hadn't always existed. Gideon Ward built it from scratch. He wanted a cure. A real second chance. Until Donna Monroe, slick, smiling in a dark, windowless room, was asked a single question: "Can loyalty be implanted?"
She said yes.
And they handed her everything. Money. Land. Freedom. A black site, wiped from every record, buried under "trauma rehabilitation grants." What started as healing had turned into control.
Gideon recruited Sybil Vance for her memory work. Maddox for his brutality.
Charlotte Everhart found the first bodies and the first mistakes. When it came apart, Gideon took the fall. They called him a monster—a serial killer. Monroe was brought on. And the subjects kept coming—prisoners, runaways, the lost and discarded.
Rook hadn't just watched Monroe's betrayal. He'd documented every step—photos, confessions, failures—collected like a man preparing for judgment day.
He remembered living with his father in the Holloway Motel, two rooms, peeling wallpaper, a secret family hidden from the world. Lessons carved into long nights. Discipline. Patience. Purpose. Then he lived with his mother and inside the gray prison after his father’s conviction.
He wore ignorance like a mask. Played the fool. Listened. Learned. Memorized.
Gideon taught him how to dismantle the machine from within. Quietly. Completely. And with his impending death, he’d left him one final directive: "When the vultures circle, let themget close. Let them think they’ve inherited something. Then burn it. Burn it all."
