Without Vincent’s brilliant, twisted mind and Maria’s ruthless efficiency, that entire organisation would have crumbled. They were the spine of a threat that could have torn this city apart… bombings, mass casualties, chaos on a scale most people couldn’t even imagine. They knewexactlywhat they were doing.
I stand slowly, the weight of it all pressing down on the room like a shroud. “I’ll be in the kitchen,” I say quietly.
Kit flinches at the sound of my voice.
I sigh, turn, and walk out, closing the door behind me with a soft click that feels far too loud in the heavy silence.
Now he’ll know… the monster he’s been terrified of for two years isn’t the one who killed his parents. It’s the one who saved the city from them.
Chapter Eleven
~ The Truth ~
Kit
I stand frozen on the far side of the room, arms wrapped tightly around myself, staring at the coffee table like it’s a loaded gun.
The folder sits there, innocent-looking under the low lamplight. From this distance I can’t make out any details, just the vague shape of papers and photographs spread across the dark wood. It could beanything. My stomach twists with a sick, crawling dread. I already know, deep in my bones, that I’m not going to like what I see.
I take one shaky step toward it, then stop. “No,” I mutter under my breath, the word barely audible.
I turn my back on the table completely, chewing hard on the cuff of my hoodie sleeve, the fabric already damp from my teeth. My eyes drift to the window instead, staring out at the dimly lit gardens where the moonlight barely touches the hedges and stone paths. Everything outside looks peaceful; I wish I could stay out there in my head, but my gaze keeps flicking back.
Every few seconds my eyes betray me and slide toward the coffee table again. The curiosity is unbearable, like an itch I can’t scratch, but underneath it sits this heavy, crushing weight… the certainty that whatever Soren left there is going to break something inside me.
Finally, I can’t stand it anymore. I drag in a deep, trembling breath that does nothing to steady me, then force my legs to move. Each step toward the table feels like walking through wet concrete. When I’m close enough, I pause, heart hammering so loudly I can hear it in my ears.
My eyes land on the first photograph… it’s my mom. She’s standing in front of a factory I’ve never seen before, the building half-swallowed by shadows and overgrown weeds, shaking hands with a man whose face is mostly hidden by the angle and the dim lighting. The whole scene screams night-time secrecy. That’sdefinitelyher… the same dark hair, the same posture I used to see every morning when she made coffee. But the expression on her face is one I don’t recognise, cold and focused, almost businesslike. My chest squeezes painfully and my heart rate spikes so fast I feel dizzy. I bend slowly, like my body is moving through water, and pick up the photograph with shaking fingers. I stare at her face for a long time, trying to find some explanation, somereasonwhy she would be there, in a place like that, doing…whateverthis was.
Swallowing hard against the rising nausea, I lower myself onto the couch where Soren had been sitting. Theleather is still faintly warm from his body, which somehow makes everything feel worse.
I set the photograph of my mom down on the table with shaking fingers. My chest feels too tight, like something heavy is pressing on my ribs. I drag in a shaky breath and reach for the next thing… another photo, this one of pages from a notebook. My dad’s handwriting is unmistakable: tight, precise loops and slashes covering the paper in complicated equations, formulas, and diagrams. I frown so hard my forehead hurts.What is all of this?My dad was a professor. He taught advanced mathematics and chemistry at the university. These don’t look like lecture notes.
I drop the picture like it’s contaminated and snatch up something else… a typed letter on thick, official-looking paper. My eyes skim the words, heart hammering faster with every line.
“…tuition for Christopher has been paid in full for the coming academic year. As long as you continue to deliver results, we will ensure his continued safety and privacy. His existence remains known only to us.”
A horrified little laugh bubbles out of me before I can stop it.Who… who was paying for my education? My parents always told me they had savings, that they were managing.Keep him safe? Who talks like that? It sounds like a threat dressed up as a promise.
My hands are trembling so badly now that the paper rattles. I keep going anyway, picking up one piece of evidence after another, desperate and terrified at the sametime. I flip through more photos, more reports, more grainy CCTV stills. Some of them I can’t even look at for more than a second… my parents standing in places I don’t recognise, meeting people whose faces are blurred or turned away. I throw a couple onto the floor, the paper scattering like fallen leaves. My sniffles turn wet and ugly as tears start burning behind my eyes.
I reach for the last thing on the table: a thinner, smaller folder tucked underneath everything else. My breath catches. I hesitate, fingers hovering over the edge, but the sick curiosity wins. I open it with both hands, the cardboard cover feeling heavier than it should.
Inside are neatly clipped documents, printed emails, and more surveillance notes. The header on the first page makes my stomach drop.
Organisation: “Zero Hour”
Status: Active - High Priority Target
Wanted by: FBI, CIA, Homeland Security - Domestic Terrorism
My eyes race over the summary. Five states over, almost four years ago, they carried out a coordinated attack on a chemical plant… something about releasing a toxin that killed dozens and injured hundreds more. The group went dark after that, scattered and laying low. Then they found new help. A brilliant scientist who had recently become a university professor. Vincent Everly and his wife. They brought new ideas, it says. Innovative formulas; ways to make things smaller, quieter, and more lethal.
There’s a printed email tucked in the middle. I pull it out with numb fingers. The sender had approached “Professor Everly” under the guise of a research puzzle, just a hypothetical equation for a paper, nothing more. The tone is friendly, almost playful. My dad’s reply is there too, enthusiastic, the kind of excited nerd-speak I remember from dinner-table conversations about his work. Scribbled in red pen along the margin, in handwriting I don’t recognise, is a short note:
‘At the start they didn’t know what they were doing. Believed it was legitimate academic work. Recruited gradually. By the time they realised, they were too deep in and too well paid to walk away.’
Signed simply:- Sam
