Chapter 39: Things Left Behind
The estate had never felt so loud in its silence.
After we returned from the hidden lab, it was like the whole place shifted. Not in some visible way—but beneath the surface. Like the walls themselves had absorbed everything we brought back and were now holding their breath, waiting for something to break. Even the hallways seemed more narrow. The air felt thick, like it was resisting every breath we tried to take. Doors creaked a little louder. Footsteps echoed a little longer. Every sound felt magnified, and every silence felt like a warning.
And something would break.
We just didn’t know what yet.
\---
Ethan didn’t sleep.
Again.
He’d locked himself in the lower command center with three laptops, a bowl of trail mix, and a growing collection of empty coffee mugs that formed a small city around him. The files from the archive had proven harder to crack than expected. Some were damaged, others scrambled. Some were protected by layers of encryption that would’ve made a federal hacker cry. But he was relentless, typing like the keys owed him answers.
By day two, he looked like he was two blinks away from a coma. His shirt was wrinkled, his hair stuck up at odd angles, and the shadows under his eyes had graduated from dark to dangerous.
“You know you can nap, right?” Elena asked, leaning on the doorframe, arms crossed and a brow raised. Her tone was sharp, but there was concern beneath it.
Ethan looked up, blinking slowly as if it took effort. “If I nap, I might dream. If I dream, Gregory might invade my subconscious. If Gregory invades my subconscious, I will cry. So, no.”
Elena rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. She walked over, dropped a granola bar on his desk, and nudged it toward him with a finger. “Eat something that isn’t caffeine or regret. You’re starting to look like a conspiracy theorist in a bunker.”
He smiled faintly, peeled it open without much protest, and kept typing, crumbs collecting around his keyboard as he worked.
\---
Meanwhile, I was pacing the library.
It was the only room that felt neutral lately. No battles had been fought there. No secrets buried. Just books, quiet, and a strange sense of comfort. The scent of old paper was grounding, like a memory you could breathe in.
I walked slowly between the rows, fingers brushing the spines of worn-out books, trying to calm the storm in my head. Every step felt mechanical. My brain was still playing catch-up, still trying to make sense of all we’d learned. About the lab. About Echo. About me.
Aidan came in around noon, a folder in hand and a look in his eyes that told me whatever he brought wasn’t going to help me sleep any easier.
"Preliminary scans from the archive," he said, dropping the folder on the table with a soft thud. "Nothing on T-0 yet. But we’re getting closer."
I nodded, still distracted. The papers barely registered.
He moved around the table and stood behind me, resting his hands gently on my shoulders. His thumbs moved in small circles, finding the knots and pressing gently, like he knew where the tension lived.
"You okay?" he asked, voice low.
I hesitated, the words clinging to my throat. "I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop."
He didn’t say anything for a moment. Just kept rubbing that one spot near my collarbone where the tension refused to let go.
"Maybe," I added after a beat, softer now, "I’m tired of shoes."
Aidan chuckled under his breath, the sound warm and soft near my ear. "We should all be barefoot then."
It made me smile.
Even if just for a second.
\---
Later that afternoon, everything shifted again.
Ethan came storming into the main hall like a man who’d just found out he was adopted by aliens—or maybe by Gregory himself. His hair was even messier than before, his laptop hugged to his chest like it was a newborn.
"Okay. You guys need to see this," he blurted, practically running to the console.
He slapped a drive onto the table, plugged it in, and pulled up a file titled:
"GENESIS—T0X-Z: Supplemental Notes"
The screen flickered, and Gregory’s voice crackled to life.
“This subject deviated from the original prototype. DNA indicates partial match with Project 1A’s maternal strand. A miscalculation—or an opportunity. Emotional retention unexpectedly high. Resistance to neural overwrite. Subject is unaware of its origin.”
I felt my stomach drop.
I turned my head slowly.
Echo was frozen.
Gregory kept talking, voice cold and clinical.
“If activated, subject may seek out its source. Recommend containment or observation. Should 1A or T0Z make contact with outside bloodline, scenario Omega may be triggered.”
Elena frowned. “What does that mean?”
But I already knew.
So did Echo.
Because we were both staring at the same line in the notes.
"Secondary connection identified: Roxanne Devlin."
\---
I couldn’t breathe for a second.
Ethan turned to me slowly, confusion and realization warring on his face. “You… were part of this.”
“I didn’t know,” I whispered. It felt like the only truth I could hold onto.
Echo looked at me, her eyes narrowing—not in anger, but in stunned understanding. “You’re in the logs.”
“I know,” I said again, the words tasting wrong in my mouth.
“No, I mean—you’re part of it. Your bloodline. Your DNA. Your family wasn’t just a casualty, Roxanne. They were test subjects. You weren’t the girl who survived by accident.”
I took a step back, the walls closing in.
“No,” I said. “That’s not possible.”
But it was.
And a part of me had always wondered. Always feared.
\---
Aidan stepped forward, gently, like approaching a wounded animal. “It doesn’t change who you are.”
“It changes everything,” I said quietly. My voice didn’t tremble—but it wanted to.
He didn’t argue.
He didn’t offer promises or pretty words.
He just stayed close.
And that, somehow, helped.
\---
I stepped out for air. The estate suddenly felt too small. Too tight. Like the walls were pressing against my ribs.
The sky was clouded, heavy with a storm that hadn’t decided whether to fall. I walked aimlessly toward the west gate, my boots crunching on the gravel, my thoughts too loud.
Then I heard it.
A voice.
Not from the intercom.
Not from behind me.
But from the road.
“Roxanne!”
I stopped.
Turned slowly.
And froze.
Because standing there, mud on his boots, jacket torn, eyes too familiar to be anyone else—was a man I hadn’t seen in over a decade.
Dark hair.
Sharp jaw.
Worn leather jacket.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
“Uncle Callum?”
He looked like he’d walked through fire.
And lost a piece of himself in every step.
But he smiled. A tired, real smile.
“Still breathing, kid,” he said, voice gravelly. “Barely.”