The pieces were starting to fall into place, but they weren’t forming the picture I wanted. Instead, every connection I uncovered pulled me deeper into something dark and twisted.
The Prometheus Project. My father’s research. Blackstone Wellness Center. Robert Carmichael. The donors. It all felt like a spiderweb, and I was caught right in the middle.
I sat in the hospital library again, my eyes scanning through a list of donor contributions. I wasn’t supposed to be there this late, but I didn’t care. The glow of the screen lit up the empty room as I dug deeper.
There it was again—Carmichael’s name tied to multiple “special projects” that didn’t have clear explanations. And then I saw a name I didn’t expect: Dr. Malcolm Deneuve. My father.
I clicked the entry, and an old memo popped up. “Funding approved for Phase 2 trials of predictive cognition enhancements.”
Predictive cognition. My chest tightened.
“Calla, what were you working on?” I whispered to myself. My father’s research wasn’t just about genetics. It was about me.
I was heading back to the ER when I ran straight into Dr. Sinclair.
“Deneuve,” he said sharply. His piercing blue eyes locked onto mine, making me freeze. “My office. Now.”
I followed him reluctantly, my palms sweating. He hadn’t let up on me since the day I started, and now I was certain he could see right through me.
Inside his office, he closed the door and leaned against his desk, crossing his arms.
“What’s going on with you?” he asked, his tone less sharp than usual but still firm. “And don’t give me the ‘I’m fine’ excuse. I’m not buying it anymore.”
I swallowed hard. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t play dumb,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “You’ve been distracted, sneaking off, zoning out. And then there’s the ICU patient you mysteriously diagnosed last week. You knew something none of us did, and I want to know how.”
I looked away, my heart pounding. “I was just lucky,” I muttered.
“Bullshit.”
My head snapped up at his harsh tone.
“I know more about you than you think,” he said, his voice dropping to almost a whisper. “And about your father.”
My breath caught. “What do you mean?”
Sinclair sighed, running a hand through his hair. For the first time, he looked unsure of himself.
“Your father and I worked together,” he admitted. “Not directly, but I was aware of his research. He was brilliant, but he was also reckless. He was trying to push the limits of human potential, and it cost him everything.”
“What does this have to do with me?” I asked, my voice trembling.
Sinclair hesitated. “You were part of his research, Calla. You… are his research.”
The room felt like it was spinning. “What are you talking about?”
“Your ability to see things, predict outcomes—it’s not a coincidence,” he said. “It’s tied to the work your father was doing. He was studying premonitions, genetic triggers that could unlock… something extraordinary.”
“That’s insane,” I said, shaking my head. “You’re saying my father experimented on me?”
“I don’t know all the details,” Sinclair said. “But I know you weren’t the only one. There were others. And now those same people are looking for you.”
I stood there, stunned. The visions, the messages, the clinic—it was all connected.
“I have to go,” I said abruptly, turning to leave.
“Calla,” Sinclair called after me, but I didn’t stop.
Back at the apartment, I replayed Sinclair’s words in my head. You weren’t the only one.
What did that even mean? Were there others like me? People who saw things, felt things the way I did?
I opened the door and froze.
My apartment was a mess.