The rain hadn't stopped.
All night it had poured like the sky was trying to wash the city clean from it's sins but only succeeded in soaking it deeper into the concrete. At the precinct, the hallways were quieter than usual — not for lack of people, but for the weight hanging in the air.
Inside the holding area, Matt sat on the bench, knees pulled up, back pressed to the wall.
The drawing still sat in his memory.
Not the physical one. He'd torn that up. But the image — the broken crane — burned into his mind like an old scar reopened.
> They weren't sending a threat.
They were sending a signal.
The organization he thought was myth… wasn't.
The silence of the holding cell was broken when the door creaked open. A figure entered — not Zuekh, not Brendon. A young officer, unfamiliar, eyes wary.
"I'm supposed to escort you," he said.
Matt didn't move. "You're lying."
The officer's jaw twitched. "You want to come peacefully, or do I need to drag you?"
Matt stood, shackled hands lowering slowly. "Fine. I will go."
He followed the man out, but his mind sharpened like a blade. Every step cautious. Every hallway memorized.
They weren't going toward the eval rooms.
They were heading underground.
---
Brendon's Search
Brendon stood in front of a dusty warehouse on the south side of the city. The storm hadn't let up, and the building looked like it hadn't seen use in years — but he had a hunch.
> The Horizon Institute's original records had listed a defunct off-site research wing.
Most of it had been scrubbed. But one shipment log — dated eleven years ago — listed this address. No recipient name. Just a crate ID, and the stamp: "T-Project: Hybrid Viability."
He pushed through the door.
The scent hit him instantly — not rot, not chemical — but old metal, like scorched wiring and oxidized blood.
Inside: darkness, broken tile, and shattered lights. But deeper in, power still hummed — barely.
He followed the sound, his flashlight catching a trail of scorched marks on the floor. Wheels. Stretchers, maybe.
Then, on the far wall — he saw them.
> Photographs.
Laminated, dusty. Names written in sharp black ink.
One image made his blood freeze.
> Isla Lancer.
Age 13.
Status: Rejected.
Disposal Recommended.
Brendon gasping clenched his jaw. "You bastards."
Behind him, something creaked.
He spun — flashlight slicing through the dark.
A monitor flickered to life on its own.
A grainy video played.
A girl's voice — hoarse, shaking.
"Please. If anyone finds this… we are alive. They kept us here. They—"
The screen snapped to static.
Then a second video auto-played.
This time, a calm voice.
Zuekh.
> "Trials are yielding inconsistent emotional data. The hybrid organ adaptation is taking better in anthros. But long-term memory retention poses a risk. Test group IL-L should be terminated by end of Q2."
Brendon backed away slowly, fists tight.
He'd seen enough.
---
Christopher Gets a Call
Christopher was walking down the hallway of the precinct when his phone buzzed.
Unknown Number.
He answered. "Hello?"
A woman's voice — distorted.
> "They're moving him. Cellblock B to lower transfer bay. That's unauthorized."
"Who is this?"
> "No time. He'll vanish if you don't stop them now. Please save Matt."
Click.
Christopher didn't hesitate.
He turned on his heel, shoved past two officers, and ran.
---
The Basement Corridor
Matt's eyes adjusted quickly. The corridor they entered was narrow, sterile — no windows, no name plates.
The officer guiding him didn't speak.
Matt spoke instead. "You know, I recognize that badge number."
The officer didn't react.
"I saw it stitched on a guard's jacket… the night they took Isla."
Still nothing.
"You're not real police," Matt said.
The man finally stopped. He looked back, pulled a small earpiece from under his collar, and smirked.
"You were always the nosy one."
Then he reached for his sidearm.
But Matt was faster — even chained.
He ducked the gun, rammed the man's stomach with his shoulder, and both of them tumbled to the ground. Matt kicked the pistol down the hall and scrambled up, still shackled.
Alarms blared.
Matt ran.
---
Intersection: Christopher Arrives
Christopher burst through the lower door at the end of the hallway and spotted Matt sprinting, arms chained, blood on his lip.
"Down!"
Christopher ducked and tackled the imposter officer who'd just retrieved the gun. It clattered again, this time sliding toward Matt.
Matt kicked it away.
"You're real?" Matt shouted over the alarm.
Christopher nodded, panting. "Come on! There's a service ladder in the old ventilation duct!"
---
Zuekh stood in his private observation room, watching the escape unfold on multiple monitors.
He didn't look surprised.
Only mildly disappointed.
A man stepped in — the same nervous scientist from the hidden lab. "Should we dispatch recovery?"
"No," Zuekh said. "Let them run. Matt's going to lead us to the real leak."
He turned the monitor off.
"The next body will fall within forty-eight hours."
---
Safehouse (Hours Later)
Brendon, Christopher, and Matt sat in an abandoned mechanic's shop — dusty, windowless, their only light from a single hanging bulb.
Matt's lip was cut. Christopher was wrapping it with gauze. Brendon stared at a stolen tablet, scrolling through medical scans and files.
"Organ trafficking," Brendon muttered. "The hybrid program wasn't just research. It was all about supply."
Matt sat upright. "The rich paid to replace failing organs. The elite. Politicians. Business giants. It didn't matter if the donors were alive."
Christopher frowned. "You think Clervaux was harvesting kids?"
"Not just her," Brendon replied. "She approved the funding, but it's deeper. Government layers. Corporate proxies. Even medical licensing boards."
He looked up. "And Zuekh wasn't just the cleanup guy. He was head recruiter."
Matt leaned forward. "Then the next body isn't just a cover-up."
Brendon nodded. "It's a message."
"But the good thing is that Brendon has evidence to back it up. Right?" Christopher says nervously.
"I think so."
---
Elsewhere (The Next Target)
A luxury high-rise, top floor.
A woman sat by her fireplace, swirling wine. She glanced nervously at the storm outside.
She had once been a legal consultant on Clervaux's internal investigations.
Now, she was off the record. Paid to keep quiet.
Until the doorbell rang.
She frowned.
Checked the hallway camera. Nothing.
She turned back—
And the glass window behind her shattered inward.
A masked figure stepped through — lean, tall, silent.
Not Matt.
Not Brendon.
Something else.
The woman screamed once.
Then silence.
---
Next Day at Christopher's Apartment
The next morning's headline:
"Former Clervaux Advisor Found Dead in Penthouse Apartment."
Posed. Peaceful. Holding a fountain pen.
Same as Clervaux.
Brendon slammed the paper down.
"They're still one step ahead."
Matt looked at him. "Then you should stop reacting. And sue that bastard in court."
Christopher added, "We have to flip the story. Make them the ones in the dark."
Brendon shakes his head. "No. Not now. We have to reach to her first."
Matt asks, "Who?"
Christopher places his hand on Matt's shoulder. "The woman who called me yesterday. She warned me about you being taken out. Brendon believes that woman is Isla."
Matt feels immense shock all of a sudden as if an arrow pierced through him. For a moment he wasn't able to react. Then he tries to ask Brendon in shaken voice, "What do you mean? Is she... alive!"
But before Brendon can even answer a sharp knocking sound comes from the front door.
"POLICE! OPEN THE DOOR!"
Three of them now stares at each other now as them without knowing, Zuekh was at opposite of the door with police force with him.