Chapter 22 Chapter 22
"That's how she's framing it though," Lucy added from across the table where she was reviewing data. "As evolution. As potential. She's rebranding torture as scientific progress, and enough people are buying it that we have a credibility problem."
"We need a counter-narrative," Alex said. He'd been quiet since watching Dr. Mitchell's video, his expression hardening into something cold and calculating. "We can't just react. We need to control the conversation."
"How?" I asked.
"You go public," he said simply. "Not just your written testimony, but you on camera. Speaking directly to the supernatural community about what the research actually is. What it actually does to people. You put a human face on the horror in a way that abstract documentation can't."
My stomach twisted. "You're talking about exposure on a scale I wasn't prepared for."
"I know," Alex said, and his expression softened slightly. "Which is why it has to be your choice. We can fight this without you becoming the face of the movement. But if you're willing to do it, I think it's what we need."
I thought about Subject Seventeen in Dr. Mitchell's video—the vacant eyes, the marked body, the evidence of what their "research" actually produced. I thought about all the other subjects still trapped in facilities, still being experimented on while people debated whether it was ethical progress.
"When?" I asked.
"As soon as possible," Lucy said. "We will film tomorrow. I'll handle the technical side and editorial framing. You just need to tell your story."
That night, I couldn't sleep. I kept thinking about what it would mean to step completely out of hiding. No more anonymity. No more possibility of disappearing if things got too dangerous. Just me, on camera, telling the truth about what had been done to me.
Alex found me on the balcony again, staring at nothing.
"Having second thoughts?" he asked.
"About the video? No," I said. "About everything else? Constantly."
He pulled me close. "I know this is terrifying. But you're the only one who can tell this story in a way that truly matters. You lived it. You survived it. That means something."
"What if they don't believe me?" I asked. "What if they decide Dr. Mitchell's version is more compelling because it sounds like hope instead of horror?"
"Then we'll deal with that," he said. "But we have to try. Staying silent isn't an option anymore. You know too much. You've seen too much."
"Running would be easier," I said.
"It would," he agreed. "But you've never chosen easy. Don't start now."
The video shoot took place in a studio that Lucy had secured through underground contacts. Minimal setup—just me, a camera, and a single light. No fancy production. Just raw, unfiltered testimony.
"We're going to film this in one continuous take," Lucy explained as the technical team positioned equipment. "No stopping, no editing out emotional moments. We want the supernatural community to see everything—your strength and your vulnerability."
I sat in the chair they'd positioned. The light felt hot against my face.
"Ready?" Lucy asked.
I nodded, even though I wasn't ready. I'd never be ready for this.
The camera started rolling.
"My name is Mia Wisely," I began, my voice steadier than I felt. "I'm a Primal shapeshifter—a genetic anomaly that occurs naturally in approximately one in ten million supernatural births. I'm also proof that Dr. Mitchell's research doesn't create advancement. It creates suffering."
I told them everything. About my parents and their research. About the pack hunting me. About my five years trying to be normal in the human world. About the moment I was taken by Mr. Xiang's organization.
I described the white room in clinical detail. The testing protocols. The partial transformations forced while sensors documented every change. Dr. Mitchell's clinical detachment as she extracted tissue samples. The syringe I'd seen in Mr. Xiang's briefcase and what I suspected it contained.
Then I pulled up my sleeve and showed the needle marks. Dozens of them, covering my arm from wrist to elbow.
"Dr. Mitchell did these," I said quietly. "Every single one of these marks represents an extraction. A moment where she told me it was necessary for research while she took pieces of me."
I talked about Subject Seventeen—the vacant-eyed young woman in Dr. Mitchell's video.
"If she was created using techniques from Dr. Mitchell's research, then she's not proof of evolution," I said. "She's proof of what happens when you prioritize research over personhood. She looks empty because she probably is. The human consciousness can only take so much torture before it breaks. Dr. Mitchell created a living corpse and called it progress."
My voice broke slightly, and I let it. Let the camera capture the grief beneath the anger.
"I was engineered in utero by my parents," I continued. "They created me as an experiment. I spent my childhood as property, hidden away because I was different. I spent my teenage years running because I killed my father in self-defense during an uncontrolled transformation. I spent my twenties trying to forget who I was."
I looked directly at the camera.
"And in all of that, in all that pain and trauma and displacement, at least I had agency. At least I was a person. What Dr. Mitchell's facilities create aren't people anymore. They're specimens. Research subjects. The living embodiment of the lie that science justifies cruelty."
I described Xiang's facility in detail. The sterile rooms. The guards. The other subjects I'd seen—some transformed beyond recognition, some so broken they could barely remember their own names.
"Dr. Mitchell says there are facilities in seventeen countries," I said. "That means there are potentially hundreds of supernaturals being experimented on right now. Being tortured. Being broken in ways that some of them will never recover from."
I paused, gathering strength for the hardest part.
"He also says we can't stop progress. That even if we shut down his facilities, more will open. That the work will continue. And you know what? She might be right. There will always be people willing to justify cruelty in the name of advancement. There will always be those who see other beings as means to an end rather than as people worthy of dignity."
"But," I said, my voice rising slightly, "we don't have to accept that. The supernatural community doesn't have to choose between progress and humanity. We can demand better. We can support research that's ethical. We can create systems that protect the vulnerable instead of exploiting them. We can choose what kind of community we want to be."
"Dr. Mitchell is betting that we'll choose convenience. That we'll accept her version of progress because it's easier than fighting for something better. Don't let her win. Don't let them win."
I looked away from the camera for a moment—a real moment of vulnerability—before looking back.
"I'm putting myself out here, telling this story, because I'm tired of hiding. I'm tired of letting fear dictate what I do and who I become. The supernatural community created systems that allowed this to happen. We created councils that prioritized secrecy over safety. We created hierarchies that made some of us disposable. And we can create...