The address on Evelyn's notepad was in Queens, a world away from the golden isolation of Malibu. It belonged to Mrs. Clara Mendez, one of the test patients from the short-lived BioGenesis enzyme trial. Evelyn had tracked her down through old medical journals and a deep dive into Dr. Aris Thorne's archived academic papers.
Clara lived in a modest, tidy apartment building, the kind where neighbors actually knew each other. When Evelyn knocked, the door was opened by a woman in her late sixties with a kind, tired face and the slow, careful movements of someone in constant, low-grade pain.
"Mrs. Mendez? My name is Evelyn Reed, I'm a journalist. I'm investigating BioGenesis Solutions and their enzyme trial from three years ago."
Clara's eyes, wary at first, softened slightly at the mention of the trial. "The miracle shot? Yes, I was part of that. Please, come in."
The apartment was filled with framed photos of children and grandchildren, and the air smelled faintly of oregano. Clara settled onto a floral sofa, sighing softly as she adjusted a pillow behind her back.
"I was recovering from a major hip replacement," Clara explained, her voice steady. "The doctors told me six months of physical therapy, maybe a year, before I could walk without a cane. My daughter lives three states away. I needed to be independent."
She pointed to a small, laminated card on the coffee table—a faded ID badge from the trial. "Dr. Thorne's enzyme. They gave it to me right after the surgery. Within three weeks, I was walking with minimal pain. By two months? I was driving and cooking for myself again. My doctor called it 'unprecedented.'"
A genuine, bright smile touched her face for a moment, a flash of what her life had been like.
"So, what happened?" Evelyn asked gently.
The smile vanished. "It stopped. Three months into the trial, they called us all in. They said BioGenesis was being 'integrated' into Aethel, and the trial was ending. They took back the remaining doses. They gave us new medication—something from Aethel's existing line, very standard. They said the initial results were 'unreliable.'"
"And what happened when you switched?"
Clara looked down at her hands, which were now slightly gnarled with arthritis. "The pain came back. Slowly, but it came back. The inflammation returned. I can get around, but I need the cane again, and I take three different pills just to sleep through the night."
Evelyn pointed to a stack of shiny brochures on an end table. They advertised a variety of long-term pain management and physical therapy programs—all operated by Aethel Healthcare Services.
"Did anyone ever offer you anything for your silence, Mrs. Mendez?"
Clara laughed, a dry, humorless sound. "Offer me money? No. But I did get a lovely letter from Aethel's 'Patient Care Transition Team.' They offered me a lifetime discount on their suite of recovery services. Physical therapy, painkillers, everything. They didn't pay me to be quiet, Miss Reed. They just made sure they'd profit off my long-term need."
This was the chilling counterpoint to Dr. Aris Thorne's golden cage. Julian Thorne didn't just buy the silence of the creators; he was also ensuring the permanent, profitable suffering of the patients. The money didn't just speak; it orchestrated an ongoing revenue stream from the very people it had harmed.
"They took the cure and sold me the disease," Clara finished simply, tears welling in her eyes. "That's what they did."
Evelyn knew she had her story. She had the ledger data, the testimony of the silenced creator, and now, the face of the permanent victim.
She spent the next hour gathering Clara's medical records and securing her permission to use her story. As she was leaving, Clara stopped her at the door.
"Miss Reed, what can you possibly do? That company is huge. Everyone is afraid to fight them. My doctor even shrugged when I complained. He said, 'That's the market, Clara. It is what it is.'"
"The market isn't always right, Mrs. Mendez," Evelyn said, feeling the weight of the $2.3 billion 'HUSH' fund pressing down on her. "And sometimes, the only way to fight money is with truth."
She left the apartment with a renewed urgency. She had to get this story out, and she had to do it before Julian Thorne detected her movements and deployed his next tactic: the financial strike against the journalist herself.
Evelyn was driving back to the city when her phone rang. It was her editor, Mark, his voice tight with barely concealed panic.
"Evelyn, where are you? Get back to the office now. The publisher just got off the phone with the board chairman. And I think we have a problem."
"What kind of problem, Mark?"
"A major kind. Aethel just pulled their ad revenue—all of it. Two million dollars, effective immediately. And they didn't stop there. They quietly bought up nearly fifteen percent of our parent company's stock over the last two weeks. Evelyn, Julian Thorne is now one of the Chronicle's major stakeholders. He's not just buying silence; he's buying our voice."