16. The Pattern Emerges
The Pattern Emerges
The basement light flickered.
I'd been waiting for an hour—or maybe two, or maybe just minutes, time had stopped meaning anything except the space between heartbeats.
The man was tied to the chair in the center of the room, his wrists bound with zip ties, his ankles secured to the legs.
His head was slumped forward, his breathing shallow, his skin pale in the fluorescent glow.
He'd been tracking for a week.
Name: Jackson Bahrn
Former Institute administrator.
One of the few who'd escaped the purge after Gabriel disappeared.
I'd found him through a contact in Mercy Logistics—a low-level dispatcher who'd traded information for a quick death.
He hadn't gotten the quick death.
No one did, anymore.
I'd stopped offering.
I walked around the chair, my footsteps soft on the concrete, my shadow falling across his face. He stirred. His eyes opened—bloodshot, unfocused, swimming with the drugs I'd used to bring him here.
"Where am I?"
His voice was slurred.
"Where you belong."
"Who are you?"
"Someone who needs answers."
I pulled the knife from my waistband and held it where he could see it. The blade caught the light, gleaming silver and sharp.
"I'm going to ask you some questions. If you answer honestly, this will be quick. If you lie..."
I let the sentence hang.
He understood.
They always understood.
"Gabriel Mire."
The name landed like a stone in still water.
"Is he alive?"
The man's eyes darted around the room—searching for exits, for weapons, for anything that might save him.
"I don't—"
The knife pressed against his throat.
"Is he alive?"
"Yes."
The word came out in a rush.
"Yes, he's alive. He staged his death. He went underground."
"Where?"
"I don't know—I swear—no one knows—he cut all ties—"
"Someone helped him."
"Yes—someone inside the Institute—someone with access to the systems—"
"Who?"
"I don't know their name—they used a code—a number—"
"What number?"
"47—I think—47 something—"
Batch 47.
My batch.
My number.
My designation.
Someone inside the Institute had helped Gabriel disappear.
Someone who knew my batch number.
Someone who might have been watching me all along.
"You're lying."
"I'm not—please—I'm telling you everything—"
The knife pressed deeper.
"Why would someone help him?"
"Because they were loyal—because they believed in his work—because they thought he was the only one who could continue the research—"
"What research?"
"The conditioning. The protocols. The methods for breaking and remaking human beings."
His voice cracked.
"He was the best. The only one who really understood how to do it. Without him, the program was worthless."
"So they hid him."
"Yes."
"And now?"
"I don't know—I've been out of the loop for months—I was let go after the Institute fell—I don't have any connections anymore—"
"You have enough connections to know he's alive."
"I heard things—rumors—whispers—"
"From who?"
"People. People who used to work there. People who kept in touch."
"Names."
He gave me names. I wrote them down, adding them to the wall, adding them to the web. The list was growing. The pattern was emerging.
But the most important information—the one I needed most—was still missing.
"Where is he?"
"I don't know."
"You're lying."
"I'm not—I swear—I don't know—no one knows—"
"Someone knows."
"Maybe. But it's not me. Please—please believe me—"
I believed him.
But I killed him anyway.
The memory came without warning.
I was in the pink room. Gabriel was standing in front of me, his hands on my shoulders, his eyes the color of winter storms.
"There's something I need to tell you."
"What?"
"About my family. About my brother."
"You never mentioned a brother."
"I know. I didn't want to. He's... dangerous. More dangerous than me. More dangerous than anyone you've ever met."
"What's his name?"
"Nathan."
"Why does he have a different last name?"
"Because he chose it. Because he wanted to distance himself from the family business. Because he wanted to build his own empire."
"What kind of empire?"
"The same kind our father built. Trafficking. Conditioning. Control."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because if something happens to me—if I disappear—he'll come for you."
"Why?"
"Because you're my greatest creation. Because he'll want to use you. Because he'll want to prove that he's better than me."
"What should I do?"
"Run. Hide. Don't let him find you."
"And if he does?"
"Then you kill him. Before he kills you."
I blinked.
The basement came back.
The body was cooling on the floor. The blood was drying on my hands. The knife was still in my grip, the blade wet and red.
Had Gabriel said that?
Or had I invented it?
I didn't know.
I couldn't know.
But the words felt right.
The same way the knife felt right.
The same way the kill felt right.
The shadow.
The figure in the alley.
The cigarette butt.
The note.
"Be careful."
He'd been watching me all along.
Following me.
Waiting.
For what?
I didn't know.
But I was going to find out.
The cleanup was quick.
I'd gotten efficient over the weeks—the plastic sheeting, the bleach, the drain in the floor. The body went into the tunnels, into the darkness, into the network of passages that ran beneath the city like veins. No one would find him. No one would look.
I washed my hands in the utility sink.
The water ran pink, then red, then clear.
I watched it spiral down the drain and wondered how many more bodies it would take before I found the answers I was looking for.
How many more before I found Gabriel.
How many more before I found myself.
I saw the shadow when I came up the stairs.
The bar was dark—the chairs were up, the lights were off, the door was locked—but I'd seen something through the window. A figure. Tall. Male. Standing across the street, watching.
This time, he didn't run.
I pressed my palm against the glass. The window was cold. The street was empty except for him, and he was standing under the streetlamp, his face hidden in shadow, his hands in his pockets.
The name came out as a whisper.
He didn't move. Didn't acknowledge. Just stood there, watching, waiting.
I ran to the door.
By the time I got outside, he was gone.
But he'd been there.
I'd seen him.
He'd let me see him.
Why?
What did he want?
Why was he following me?
Why had he left the note?
"Be careful."
Careful of what?
Of him?
Of Gabriel?
Of myself?
I stood in the empty street, my breath fogging in the cold air, and I stared at the place where he'd been standing.
The streetlamp flickered.
The shadows shifted.
But he was gone.
He was always gone.
"Daddy."
The whisper was soft.
"Daddy, I saw him."
"He was watching me."
"He's been watching me all along."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Why didn't you warn me?"
No answer.
There was never an answer.
"Daddy, please."
"Please tell me what to do."
"Please tell me who to trust."
"Please tell me what's real."