The metal box sat between us on the floor like a sleeping animal—quiet, unassuming, but dangerous if provoked. Back in my room, the rain tapped steadily against the windowpane. Henry leaned forward, a small paperclip between his fingers, already bent into the shape of a makeshift lockpick.
"Let's be honest," he muttered, "if this thing has nothing in it, I'm going to be really disappointed."
I didn't reply. My eyes were fixed on the box, heart quietly thudding with the weight of possibility. We both knew that this wasn't just an ordinary storage container. This could be something more—a trail to the truth.
After a few twists and failed attempts, we heard the click.
Henry looked up. "You ready?"
No, I thought. But I nodded anyway.
He lifted the lid slowly, almost reverently. Inside, the papers were yellowed with age, neatly stacked and tied with a thin string. Beneath them lay a few labeled folders, a digital recorder, and a stack of old ID photos. I reached for one.
It was James Bennett—years younger, but unmistakable. Same charismatic smile. Same too-perfect eyes. Except this time, his name wasn't "James Bennett."
It was Thomas Brant.
"What the hell?" Henry whispered. "That's not… That's not the name we know."
I flipped over the photo. The back had a date written in pen: March 2009. Faculty ID Registration, East Hollow Institute.
"This isn't just identity fraud," I said slowly. "It's a whole fabricated past."
We dug deeper. The folders contained records of various students—some we recognized, others completely unfamiliar. Every document was marked with symbols and shorthand. One folder held a list of names, their school IDs, and next to them, coded notes:
Carter L. – "E7-B, recommend fall transfer"
Michael D. – "X3 – failed trial"
J. Bennett – "discontinue use – unstable behavior"
"'Failed trial'? What does that mean?" Henry asked.
I pulled out the digital recorder and switched it on.
The voice that filled the room was Bennett's—or rather, Brant's. Calm, calculated, clinical.
"Subject shows excellent initial response to behavioral influence. However, extended monitoring reveals a consistent pattern of psychological collapse under pressure. Recommendation: terminate support and initiate new case study. Candidates Carter and Lianne to be reevaluated under new parameters."
Henry's face turned pale. "He was… experimenting?"
"More like manipulating," I murmured. "Trial and error. Emotional control. He treated students like test subjects."
I felt the air shift around us. Suddenly, it wasn't just about what happened to me—or even Henry's brother. This was larger. More calculated.
Bennett—Brant—had done this before. Repeatedly.
"How many lives did he ruin?" Henry asked, voice low.
We didn't answer. The silence was answer enough.
I reached for the last folder. It was thinner than the others. My name was on it.
I opened it.
Inside was a profile—my grades, extracurricular activities, psychological evaluations. Notes in the margins detailed my "potential for accelerated success," "resilience under stress," and then, later: "decline observed. Behavioral deviation detected. Emotional responses becoming erratic."
It was like reading my life through someone else's eyes.
"He was watching me," I whispered.
"Not just watching," Henry said. "He was steering."
I sank back against the wall, folder in my lap, heart numb. James Bennett hadn't just misled me. He'd orchestrated my downfall.
Henry closed the box gently.
"We can't keep this," he said. "It's too big. Too dangerous."
I shook my head. "No. We document it. We make copies. And then…"
"And then?"
I looked up, my voice quiet but cold. "We bring him down. Not just for me. For everyone."
Henry nodded. "Then we do it right. No more sneaking around."
"But first," I said, glancing at the window where the rain still whispered against the glass, "we stay quiet. Until we know who we can trust."
For now, the box was hidden beneath my bed. Its weight lingered in the air like smoke.
But something had changed. We weren't just hunting shadows anymore.
We had found the fire.