Chapter 1 #2
At the center of the atrium, suspended between floors, hangs the Bellrose kinetic installation.
Thin, metal filaments and translucent panels rotate slowly around a hollow core.
It’s meant to represent emergent systems, feedback loops, and self-correcting chaos.
My dad loved it. He used to stand right here and explain it to donors with the kind of quiet pride that made his eyes light up.
I pause for half a second longer than necessary, watching the structure turn.
Then I head for the elevators.
Malcolm’s office is on the top floor. The ride up is silent except for the soft hum of ascent and the faint pressure shift in my ears.
My reflection in the mirrored wall looks the same as it always does, even though I don’t feel the same.
My straight, dirty blond hair hangs over my forehead and a little in my eyes that are the exact shade of green that my dad’s were.
While everyone else around here wears lab coats or business attire, I walk around the place in ripped jeans and a hoodie.
Being a Bellrose, I can get away with it.
When the doors slide open, Malcolm’s assistant greets me with a smile that’s polite enough to be real but distant enough to feel mechanical.
“Was Dr. Bellrose expecting you today?” she asks.
I snort softly. “I’m a Bellrose, Janet. I think Uncle Malc can make time for his nephew.”
She hesitates for half a second, as though wanting to preserve the illusion of protocol, then taps something on her tablet.
“He’s free,” she says, nodding at the double doors to the left. “Go on in.”
Malcolm’s office is all glass and light, overlooking the atrium like a watchtower disguised as transparency. The desk is positioned so he can see the entire space below. Control framed as openness. My dad used to tease him about it.
You always did like knowing where everyone is.
Then he’d laugh.
Malcolm looks up as I enter, already on his feet by the window with his tablet in his hand, glasses perched low on his nose.
If anyone were to guess, they wouldn’t assume we’re related. While I’m blond, his hair is so dark it’s nearly black. His eyes are a dark brown, and his face is a bit wider than mine. But his smile has always reminded me of my dad’s.
“Cason,” he says warmly, as though my presence is a pleasant interruption as much as a surprise. “You’re not scheduled today.”
I try not to flinch at the use of my whole name. My uncle’s the only one who still uses it even though I prefer it shortened. But after everything he’s done for me, I don’t correct him.
“I know. I needed a change of scenery.”
His gaze flicks over me. “Like North Carolina?”
I shrug. “Mom’s set on it.”
“I can’t say I blame her,” he replies, setting his tablet on his desk. “Change can be…necessary.”
There’s a pause, a small one, expectant.
“I’m staying.”
Something subtle shifts in his expression. Not relief, exactly, but confirmation, as if a variable just resolved the way he expected it would. I guess I’m predictable. It shouldn’t come as much of a surprise that I want to stick close to my father’s legacy.
“You already know you’re welcome here. And the spare room I have?”
He phrases it as a question, so I nod. “Yeah, I’ll take it. At least until I can find something of my own.”
“There’s no rush.”
“I appreciate that.”
He gestures for me to sit, and I drop into one of the chairs across from his desk.
My hands itch for something to do. I tap my fingers against my legs, then stretch them out, attempting to tame the restlessness.
I spend most of my days at a keyboard, so when I’m not typing, I tend to have the urge to fidget.
“So,” I say, leaning back and placing my hands behind my head, my ankles crossed. “What world-changing things are you up to today, dear Uncle?”
Malcolm smiles. It’s small and controlled, almost fond. “Paperwork. And prevention.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It always does, out of context.”
He moves toward the glass wall, hands in the pockets of his suit pants as he looks down into the atrium. People pass below us like data points—researchers, technicians, security. Orderly and routine.
“Sometimes…” he starts, his brows pulled down in contemplation. “Things go unmonitored that shouldn’t. It invites instability. Progress without restraint rarely ends well. It’s important to make sure people don’t hurt themselves chasing things they don’t understand.”
“You’re trying to protect people from themselves?”
Malcolm glances back at me, eyes sharp but not unkind. “Isn’t that what institutions are for?”
I think of my mom shoving memories away into boxes. Of my dad collapsing here at work after giving everything he had to this place. If Bellrose Institute was capable of miracles, my dad wouldn’t be dead and my mom wouldn’t still be grieving so hard years later.
“I guess. At least, I suppose they try.”
“That’s the goal, Cason,” my uncle says, his smile returning. “To try as hard as we can to stop chaos before it happens.”
Chaos.
It’s that one word that has a strange, irrational thought creeping in. That this moment is one of those narrowing points.
A breath held too long.
The space between one pulse and the next.
Chaos.
The word sticks with me as Malcolm walks me to the door. He drops a hand on my shoulder that’s warm and familiar, and tells me to swing by later so we can talk logistics, like dinner sometime this week after he makes a copy of his house key so we can catch up properly. I promise I will.
Janet nods at me as I pass her desk, already back to her tablet, back to being absorbed into the quiet machinery of the Institute. The elevator doors slide shut behind me, sealing me inside with my reflection again.
On the way down, I replay the conversation with my uncle out of habit.
Being in IT support, I know at least a little about nearly every project going on in this place, but I get the feeling that whatever Malcolm was referring to was a personal one of his. But also as IT support, I’ve learned to mind my own business about some things.
I’ll admit, this time, my curiosity is piqued.
The elevator doors open into the atrium, and I step out.
It’s busier now. There’s a small tour group clustered near the kinetic installation, potential interns from some of the top universities in the state. A pair of researchers pass behind me, voices low but sharp enough to cut through the ambient hum.
“…post-resuscitation neural amplification—”
“…data set isn’t clean yet, but—”
I don’t catch the rest. They disappear into a restricted corridor, swallowed by glass and keycard locks.
I shake it off and head for the exit.
The air outside is cooler, but the light is warmer after the Institute’s fluorescent glow. I tug my hoodie tighter around myself and cut across the front plaza toward the parking garage. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out without slowing down.
Mom: I’ll pick up some takeout for dinner. Unless you want mushy oranges?
I snort and type back.
Me: Mushy oranges or pizza. Idk, that’s a pretty tough decision.
Mom: Pizza it is.
I grin as I start texting her back to tell her to get Hawaiian.
I don’t notice anything’s wrong until my phone loses signal. Not the typical dead zone flicker, but a clean, sudden drop. Then the screen goes dark in my hand.
My feet stop.
Footsteps come up behind me.
Before I can turn, a hand clamps over my mouth. Another arm hooks around my chest, hard enough to squeeze all the air out of my lungs, and I’m dragged backward before I can even process what’s happening. The soles of my shoes scrape uselessly against the concrete as panic flares hot in my gut.
Something sharp presses into the side of my neck.
For half a second, my brain supplies possibilities. Needle, injector, tranq—
The world tilts violently, like someone kicked the legs out from under reality itself.
My vision blurs.
My limbs go heavy.
I try to fight it. I really do. As my attacker spins me around, I dig my fingers into the arm holding me, nails scraping fabric or skin or—
My thoughts scatter and fracture and slip out of sequence.
The last thing I see is Bellrose Institute looming ahead of me, all glass and light and order, perfectly indifferent to the sealing of my fate as I’m hauled away.
Then everything collapses.