Six months ago. Three hours and a half after the "incident" was discovered

  Mark sat on the floor by the window. He hadn’t taken off his shoes, hadn’t changed, hadn’t washed. He didn’t know how long it had been since he got home. He hadn’t moved. His eyes were fixed somewhere past the glass, but nothing registered. The sunlight cut through the blinds, too bright, too sharp. It made the numbness worse. Even discomfort was muted. He just didn’t feel.

  A nearly empty bottle of bourbon rested near his leg. He’d started drinking on the drive back from the liquor store, straight from the bottle, desperate to blunt the edges. Didn’t care about the risk. Didn’t care about anything. Just needed something to chase away the image still burned into his mind.

  In his hand, Strobe’s recorder. Grey, impersonal, cheap plastic with a red button.

  Most of the recordings were dull: logs, orders, reminders. Their boring tone clashed hard against the memory of that blood-slicked room. Mark had clung to the routine in those voices, trying to convince himself maybe he’d imagined it all. But his body knew better. It remembered too much.

  His palms were damp. He trembled without knowing. He hit play again.

  “Subject acquired. High potential. Clean reaction. Lead came from an informant, identity unconfirmed. Initial contact was unstable but effective. I want to move to experimental phase 'Birth' immediately. No reason to delay.”

  At the sound of Strobe’s voice, Mark’s gut clenched. The reaction came before thought. For a second he felt like the ground shifted, but he stayed still. Breath shallow. Hands clenched. Holding on.

  He skipped ahead without thinking. Pressed play.

  “Subject: female. Estimated age, around thirty. Height: 175. Weight: about 60. No ID. Biomaterial collected. Further data pending. That’s all for now.”

  “That’s all for now,” he whispered. His voice didn’t sound right. Wrecked. Throat raw. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. He made a slow, silent sip from the bottle.

  He skipped again. Fingers numb, clumsy.

  “Experiment launched. Something’s wrong. No response. No metrics are moving. Observation ongoing.”

  “Mutation is unstable. Appears in bursts. No visible changes except for eye color, now bright yellow. Body temp fluctuates. Catalysts amplify symptoms, but there’s no progress. Samples disintegrate on contact with air. Special equipment ordered. Waiting on delivery.”

  “Equipment won’t arrive. Vehicle vanished in the woods. Van found empty. Driver unconscious under a pine. No memory. Subject’s condition worsening. Administering stabilizer.”

  “Stabilizer failed to improve condition, but allowed for sample collection. Samples holding. Mutation type still unknown. More time needed. Side effects: subject remains aggressive even under heavy sedation. Spontaneous limb mutations observed. Physical contact impossible. Intelligence uncertain.”

  Mark felt panic rising. Heart racing. Fingers tingling. The room started to tilt.

  Next recording hit harder.

  “Have to accept it. Experiment failed. Subject scheduled for disposal. Mistakes will be reviewed later. Mirran objects. But he doesn’t decide anything anymore.”

  The name struck like lightning. Mirran. Someone he trusted. It knocked the air from his lungs.

  “Decision made. Termination tomorrow. There was an incident yesterday. Some lunatic cornered me outside my house, claimed the subject was a person. Said she deserved to live. That she was innocent. Psycho. Security should pull camera footage. Find the leak.”

  Click.

  Silence.

  It fell like a hammer. Heavy. Absolute.

  Mark threw the recorder. It hit the floor and bounced. He grabbed his hair, pulled until it hurt, pain blooming sharp at his temples. Sweat ran down his spine, cold and sticky.

  He grabbed the bottle. Finished it. It scorched going down. Eyes burned. He didn’t wipe the tears.

  He stayed there. Wide open. Raw. Exposed. No way back.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  "Fuck you," he whispered. Didn’t know who he meant.

  Strobe.

  Mirran.

  Himself.

  All of it.

  **********************************************************************************************************

  Seven days after the "incident"

  They met in the park, by the pond, in a gazebo tucked away from the paths. No one around, just wind in the trees and the faint buzz of city life in the distance.

  Mark sat on the wooden bench, hands wrapped around a paper coffee cup that had gone cold. Mirran stood nearby, facing the water. He hadn’t turned around once.

  “Cut the warm-up, Mirran,” Mark said, breaking the silence. His voice came out sharper than intended, raw around the edges. “I know this wasn’t research. There were experiments, on dual-natured subjects. You dragged me into this shit. You knew what was happening with Subject Y-05 and said nothing. Why the hell did you bring me in at all?”

  Mirran’s fingers clenched around his own cup, and it cracked.

  “Mark, I swear, I thought it wouldn’t go that far… I didn’t know,”

  “Don’t lie to me.” Mark didn’t raise his voice, but the tension in it cut like wire. “You always know more than you say. Who even are you? What else are you hiding?”

  Mirran finally turned to face him.

  Mark froze.

  Those weren’t human eyes anymore, with sharp yellow irises and slit pupils. His cheekbones had darkened with mottled spots, and his skin was shifting.

  Mark shot to his feet, almost dropping the coffee.

  “You’re fucking kidding me. You too? All this time?”

  Mirran looked up again. His voice cracked, but his stare didn’t.

  “Because I love you. Always have. Since college. And I was sure if I told you, you’d walk away. That you’d never look at me the same.”

  The air dropped, soundless, still.

  Mark didn’t move. A chill crept up his spine, spread across his shoulders. The kind that says you’ve just crossed into a space you don’t have the map for.

  He’d suspected, maybe once or twice. But never like this. Not now. Not with everything else collapsing — Strobe’s recorder, the lab, the truth.

  “Mark, say something,” Mirran’s voice was almost a whisper. “Yell at me. Hate me. Just don’t walk away like that.”

  “Don’t.”

  Mark cut him off, quiet but breaking.

  “Just stop. I can’t. Not right now. Not with this kind of bullshit.”

  He turned and walked away fast, not looking back. Behind him, Mirran let out a short, bitter breath.

  “Yeah, fuck you too,” he muttered, too quiet for Mark to hear or maybe loud enough he hoped he would.

  At home, Mark headed for the bathroom like a man stepping into a ritual.

  As if water might wash off what words had done. Mark turned on the tap and washed his hands — for too long. As if trying to scrub off a touch. Then he stopped.

  And realized he didn't want to. His fingers still remembered the warmth.

  And that pissed him off.

  Because he wasn't supposed to miss it.

  He was supposed to be angry.

  But he missed it anyway.

  ***************************************************************

  Two weeks had passed since the "incident"

  Mark sat in front of the monitor, staring at the same line of the report for the third time. The letters blurred. The meaning slipped away. Since his talk with Mirran, his thoughts scattered like shrapnel.

  "Mind if I hide from the end of the world in here?" came a voice behind him.

  Mark turned. Evan.

  Disheveled red hair, high cheekbones, deep shadows under his eyes. That same smile—too kind, or too misplaced. A muted charcoal suit, no insignia, nothing flashy. It fit perfectly, carried the weight of quiet authority. Every move he made was precise, unhurried. Even now, with the walls closing in.

  "If you're talking about our project, it’s not the end of the world," Mark muttered. "It’s the beginning of one."

  "Exactly," Evan sighed, stepping inside and nudging the door shut behind him. "Word is, they’re pulling the plug. Funding's dried up. Bio-scanners haven’t been delivered in months. Half the cameras—just props. Server room burned down that night, and no one's rebuilding it. Accounts for "Birth"? Frozen. Pray we get our last paychecks."

  He perched on the edge of Mark’s desk, one leg swinging lazily.

  "So, what’s your plan now?" Mark asked, pushing aside a cup of cold coffee.

  "No clue. I only got this job because the last head of security went... sideways."

  Mark nodded. The last guy had cracked even before the shit hit the fan. Just stopped showing up. They found him at his parents' place—robe on, paper cutouts of dragons arranged in a perfect circle around him. Muttering in gibberish. Completely gone.

  "Too many coincidences," Mark muttered.

  "Coincidence is just a pattern people are afraid to admit exists," Evan said. "And I’m not eager to be unemployed again. After the "Kraken" fallout, getting hired here was a miracle. If this collapses—I’m nothing."

  "Don’t be dramatic."

  "Says the guy with connections and real credentials. Me? I'm just trying to keep from falling through the ice again. Whatever. We’ll survive..."

  At the doorway, Evan paused and glanced back.

  "Just... stay sharp, alright? Things are starting to smell less like trouble and more like cleanup."

  "Cleanup?"

  "The kind they don’t put in reports. People vanish. Files vanish. Mistakes don’t always get written down. Sometimes they’re just... removed. Oh, and—someone’s looking for Strobe’s recorder. Have you seen it? Small, gray, he always carried it around..."

  Mark’s breath hitched for a second. His heart stopped.

  "No. Haven’t seen it. He never let it out of his hands, did he? Maybe it’s still in his office..."

  Evan gave a dry chuckle.

  "You still get nauseous just hearing his name."

  Then he left.

  Mark sat at his desk, frowning. Something about that exchange hit a nerve. The tone? Did I give myself away? I wasn’t ready for that question. Shit.

  Evan. Just a guard with clearance. But it felt like he was digging. Like he knew more than he should. Those eyes—like he could see right through you.

  Mark shivered. He forced himself to focus on the screen, but the numbers and words were just static now. Instead of the report, he pulled up an old message.

  "You know damn well I need you. Just be there." Mirran had been drunk. Or scared. Or maybe just finally honest. Mark didn’t know. But he’d never deleted it.

  A few minutes later, he reached into his pocket, took out his phone, and dialed. After a few rings, someone picked up.

  "Chris... I changed my mind. I’m in."