13. Eliza
ELIZA
The library feels different now. It’s not the space itself—everything is exactly the same. The tall shelves. The worn wooden tables. The soft creak of the floorboards when someone walks across them.
But I’m different. Which means everything I see feels… sharper. More intentional.
More connected.
I sit at one of the back tables with a stack of old records spread out in front of me, my laptop open, notebook filled with scribbled notes and half-formed theories.
This is what I know how to do. This is what makes sense.
Patterns. Evidence. Truth. Even when the truth involves things that shouldn’t exist.
I flip another page in one of the older logs, scanning quickly. Missing livestock.
Unexplained animal attacks. Occasional disappearances. Most of them written off as bear activity. Some marked as “inconclusive.” But the language— The phrasing— It’s careful.
Too careful. Like whoever wrote these reports knew more than they were willing to say.
“Find something interesting?”
The voice comes from behind me. I don’t look up immediately.
“Define interesting,” I say, echoing my earlier response from a few days ago.
Footsteps move closer. Cade. Of course.
“You’ve been here for hours,” he says.
“I’m working.”
“You’re digging.”
I look at him finally.
“Yes,” I say simply. “I am.”
He studies the papers spread across the table, his gaze sharp and assessing.
“What are you looking for?”
“Connections.”
He doesn’t respond right away. So I keep going.
“These reports go back decades,” I say, tapping one of the older files. “Different authors, different time periods, but the same pattern keeps showing up.”
“Predator activity,” he says.
“Not exactly,” I reply.
I turn the paper toward him and point to a section.
“Look at the wording. ‘Unusual behavior.’ ‘Aggression beyond expected levels.’ ‘Carcasses left partially consumed.’”
His eyes flick over the lines.
“You see it,” I say.
He nods once.
“Yes.”
I sit back slightly, folding my arms.
“That’s not normal predator behavior,” I continue. “Not consistently. Not across this many years.”
“No,” he agrees.
“So either this town has had a very long-standing problem with something no one wanted to name…” I trail off, then meet his gaze. “Or this isn’t new.”
Something shifts in his expression. Subtle. Controlled. But I catch it.
“You think these things have been here longer than we realized,” he says.
“I think,” I reply carefully, “that whatever attacked me in the forest might not be the first version of it.”
Silence stretches between us. Then—
“That’s not possible,” he says.
I tilt my head.
“Why not?”
“Because we would have known.”
“Would you?” I press.
His jaw tightens.
“Yes.”
I lean forward slightly.
“Cade, I’ve spent years investigating things people should have known about,” I say. “Entire operations hidden in plain sight because no one wanted to look too closely.”
“This is different.”
“Is it?”
The question hangs between us. Because we both know the answer isn’t as simple as he wants it to be. I reach for my notebook and flip it open to a page filled with dense writing.
“I pulled up what I still had from my old investigation,” I say.
His attention sharpens immediately.
“And?”
“I didn’t have much,” I admit. “Most of it was wiped. But I kept notes. Patterns. Names.”
I tap the page.
“One name kept coming up.”
Cade’s gaze locks onto mine.
“Who?”
I hesitate for half a second. Then say it.
“Malcolm Strayer.”
The reaction is immediate. A shift in the air. A tightening in Cade’s posture.
“You’ve heard of him,” I say.
It’s not a question. Cade’s expression hardens.
“Yes.”
My pulse quickens.
“Who is he?”
“A problem,” he says.
“That’s not helpful.”
“It’s accurate.”
I exhale sharply.
“Try again.”
He studies me, like he’s deciding how much to tell me. Finally—
“He’s a researcher,” Cade says. “Or he was.”
“Genetics?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Let me guess,” I say. “Ethics weren’t really his strong point.”
“No.”
That tracks. I flip another page in my notebook, scanning quickly.
“In the files I saw, he was leading a project focused on behavioral conditioning,” I say. “Not just creating something stronger—but controlling it.”
Cade’s eyes narrow.
“Control how?”
I look up at him.
“Scent.”
The word lands heavily.
“He believed that if you could condition a subject to associate a specific scent with a target…” I continue, choosing my words carefully, “you could direct its behavior. Guide it.”
“Hunt with it,” Cade says.
“Yes.”
Silence. The pieces click into place between us. Slow. Relentless. I swallow.
“The creatures in the forest,” I say quietly. “They weren’t just attacking randomly.”
“No,” he says.
“They were tracking.”
“Yes.”
My chest tightens.
“And not just by sight,” I continue. “By recognition.”
Cade doesn’t respond. He doesn’t have to. I lower my voice.
“What if I’ve already been part of that system?”
His gaze snaps to mine.
“What?”
I force myself to stay steady.
“In my investigation,” I say, “I had access to internal documents for a short period of time. Testing logs. Subject references.”
“And?”
“I didn’t understand all of it at the time,” I admit. “Some of the labeling didn’t make sense. It felt… coded.”
I flip back a few pages in my notebook, finding a section I’d nearly forgotten about.
“There were scent profiles,” I say. “Cataloged. Indexed. Cross-referenced with behavior.”
Cade’s expression goes completely still.
“And?”
I meet his eyes.
“One of them matched me.”
The words hang in the air. Heavy. Unavoidable.
“That’s not possible,” he says.
But there’s no conviction behind it this time.
“It is,” I reply quietly. “I didn’t think much of it then. I assumed it was just a data reference. Maybe something pulled from public records, environmental exposure—anything.”
“But now,” he says.
I nod.
“Now I think it was intentional.”
Silence crashes down around us. The weight of it presses in from all sides.
“If they cataloged your scent,” Cade says slowly, “and used it in their conditioning…”
“They could train those creatures to recognize me,” I finish.
“To hunt you,” he corrects.
My stomach drops.
“Yes.”
The word barely makes it out. Neither of us speaks. The reality of it settles in piece by piece. This wasn’t coincidence. This wasn’t bad luck. This wasn’t even about me stumbling into the wrong place at the wrong time. I was always part of this. I just didn’t know it.
A cold, sick feeling coils in my chest.
“I didn’t just find this story,” I say quietly.
Cade’s jaw tightens.
“No,” he says.
“It found me.”
Another silence. Longer this time. He steps closer, his presence solid, grounding.
“This doesn’t change anything,” he says.
I let out a short, hollow laugh.
“It changes everything.”
“It changes why they’re here,” he corrects. “Not what we do about it.”
I look at him.
“And what exactly is that?”
His eyes hold mine.
“We stop them.”
Simple. Direct. Certain.
“You’re talking about taking on something that was engineered to be stronger, faster, and more aggressive than anything natural.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re just… confident you can win?”
“I’m certain we won’t lose.”
That same unwavering belief. The same certainty he had before. It should frustrate me.
Instead— It steadies something inside me. Just a little. I exhale slowly.
“Then you need to know everything I remember,” I say.
His expression sharpens.
“I do.”
I nod once.
“Okay.”
I glance down at my notes, then back up at him.
“Then we start with Malcolm Strayer.”
Because if this nightmare has a beginning— It starts with him. And if we’re going to survive what’s coming— We need to understand exactly what he created. Cade doesn’t move.
Neither do I. For a moment, it feels like the entire room is holding its breath along with us.
Then he pulls out the chair across from me and sits, his posture shifting into something more focused. Less reactive. More deliberate.
“Tell me everything,” he says.
There’s no hesitation in his voice now. No holding back. So I don’t either. I turn my notebook toward him and flip to a page I’d almost skipped over earlier—half-legible notes written quickly, the kind you take when you know you might not get a second chance.
“I didn’t have full access,” I say. “Most of what I saw was fragmented. Internal summaries. Testing logs. Cross-referenced data sets.”
Cade leans forward slightly.
“What kind of testing?”
I hesitate. Because saying it out loud makes it real in a way notes never do.
“Behavioral conditioning,” I repeat. “Response triggers. Environmental adaptation.”
His jaw tightens.
“And the subjects?”
I swallow.
“Unstable.”
The word feels inadequate.
“They weren’t just aggressive,” I continue. “They were unpredictable. The notes kept referencing ‘degradation’—like whatever they were trying to build wasn’t holding together the way they expected.”
“Physically?” he asks.
“Yes. But not just that.”
I tap the page.
“Mentally too. There were signs of cognitive breakdown. Loss of control. Erratic response patterns.”
“Which explains what we’re seeing,” Cade mutters.
“Partially,” I agree. “But there’s something else.”
His eyes flick back to mine.
“What?”
I flip forward a few pages, scanning until I find the line I remember.
“There were classifications,” I say. “Different stages of development.”
“Like ranks?” he asks.
“More like prototypes,” I reply. “Early versions. Failed iterations. Then later ones marked as ‘stabilized.’”
Cade’s expression darkens.
“And the ones we’re dealing with now?”
I meet his gaze.
“They’re not the early versions.”
Silence. Heavy.
“They move too well,” I continue. “They coordinate. They adapt. That doesn’t happen in unstable subjects—not at that level.”
“No,” he agrees quietly. “It doesn’t.”
I take a breath, steadying myself.
“There was one more designation,” I say.
His attention sharpens instantly.
“What designation?”
I hesitate again. Because this is the part that’s been sitting with me, half-formed and waiting to be acknowledged.
“The notes referenced something called a ‘prime subject,’” I say slowly.
Cade goes completely still.
“Prime,” he repeats.
“Yes.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know exactly,” I admit. “The files were incomplete. But from what I could piece together…”
I trail off, trying to find the right words.
“It wasn’t just another test subject,” I continue. “It was the focus. The one everything else was built around.”
Cade’s voice drops.
“A leader.”
The word sends a chill down my spine.
“Yes.”
Silence settles again, heavier this time.
Because we both know what that means. If the creatures in the forest are organized— If they’re moving with purpose— If they’re following something— Then that “prime subject” isn’t just a theory.
It’s out there. Somewhere in those mountains. And it’s leading them.
I lean back in my chair slowly, the weight of everything pressing in at once.
“They weren’t just trying to create stronger predators,” I say quietly.
Cade doesn’t look away from me.
“What were they trying to create?” he asks.
I hold his gaze.
“Control,” I answer.
A beat. Then—
“They wanted something that could hunt on command.”
The room feels colder somehow. Smaller. Because that changes everything. Again.
I drag a hand through my hair, my thoughts racing now.
“If that prime subject is still active,” I say, “then the others aren’t just acting on instinct.”
“No,” Cade says.
“They’re being directed.”
“Yes.”
I let out a slow breath.
“And if I was part of their conditioning…”
His expression hardens instantly.
“They’ll keep coming for you.”
Not might. Not could. Will. I nod once.
“Yeah.”
Cade leans forward slightly, his voice steady but edged with something unyielding.
“Then we make sure they don’t get close enough to try again.”
There’s no hesitation in him. No doubt. Just that same relentless certainty. Somehow, it doesn’t feel overwhelming. It feels necessary. I close my notebook slowly, my mind already shifting from questions to strategy.
“Then you’re going to need more than patrols,” I say.
Cade’s eyes narrow slightly.
“What do you mean?”
I meet his gaze.
“You’re going to need to start thinking like the person who created them.”
A pause. Then—
“That’s not how we operate,” he says.
“Then you’re going to have to adapt,” I reply.
Because whatever is coming for us— It already has.