I sat on the floor of my apartment, the stolen file clutched in my hands. The word Deneuve was printed on the cover in bold black letters, and beneath it, cryptic notes jumped out at me: “unique genetic markers,” “premonitory ability,” and “test subject classified as sensitive.”
Sensitive. Like I was some kind of science experiment.
“What the hell is this?” I muttered, flipping through the pages. My hands were trembling, my breath coming in shallow bursts. The file detailed dates and incidents from years ago—things that no one should know. Things about me.
The first date caught my eye: the day I was hospitalized after my first vision, when I was only eight years old. I could still remember the way my mother cried as I told the doctors what I’d seen, the way they all stared at me like I was some kind of alien.
But how did this clinic know about it?
My stomach twisted as I scanned further. Names of doctors, locations of tests I didn’t even remember taking, and then, at the bottom, one line that made my blood run cold: Subject’s abilities likely hereditary. Potentially tied to classified research.
“Classified?” I whispered to myself. “What the hell were they researching?”
Before I could dig deeper, my phone buzzed. Denny.
I ignored it at first, still too shaken to deal with him. But it buzzed again. And again.
With a frustrated sigh, I snatched the phone and answered. “What?”
“Calla, what the hell are you doing?” Denny’s voice was sharp, almost panicked.
“What am I doing?” I snapped. “Maybe you should be the one answering questions, Denny. Like why the clinic you told me about has a file on me.”
There was silence on the other end of the line. Then, softly, “You found your file?”
“Yeah, I did,” I said, my voice rising. “And it’s full of things I can’t explain. So, Denny, why don’t you start explaining?”
“I didn’t know they had anything on you,” he said, his tone defensive. “I swear, Calla. I didn’t know.”
“But you knew enough to warn me off,” I shot back. “Why? What do they want from me?”
“They know about your… gift,” he said, his voice quiet now. “My employer—Carmichael—he’s been tracking people like you for years. He thinks you’re important. Special.”
I laughed bitterly. “Special? That’s what you’re calling it now? Because it feels more like being hunted.”
“Calla,” Denny said, his voice softening. “You have to believe me. I didn’t want to drag you into this. But now that they know you’re looking into them, they won’t stop.”
I swallowed hard, the weight of his words sinking in. “Why? What do they want from me?”
He hesitated. “They think people like you… could change everything. Control the future.”
The silence between us felt like it stretched forever.
“I don’t know what to do with that, Denny,” I whispered finally. “I don’t even know if I believe you.”
“You don’t have to,” he said. “But trust me when I tell you—stay away from that clinic. You don’t know what they’re capable of.”
At the hospital, I could feel Dr. Sinclair’s eyes on me all morning. He was watching me, waiting for me to slip up.
“Dr. Deneuve,” he called as I passed the nurses’ station, his tone clipped. “My office. Now.”
I followed him reluctantly, my stomach churning. Inside his office, he shut the door and turned to face me, arms crossed.
“You’ve been distracted,” he said bluntly. “Missing shifts. Leaving rounds early. Showing up late. That’s not the kind of performance I expect from someone who wants to survive this program.”
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly, trying to sound sincere. “It won’t happen again.”
His sharp blue eyes narrowed. “That’s not good enough. I need to know what’s going on, Deneuve.”
“I’m fine,” I insisted. “Just a little overwhelmed.”
He didn’t look convinced. “If there’s something going on, you’d better tell me now. Because if this keeps up, you won’t last here.”
I swallowed hard, my throat tight. “I understand. It won’t happen again.”
He studied me for a long moment, then sighed. “You’re talented, Calla. Don’t waste it.”
I nodded quickly, escaping his office before he could press me further.
That evening, I sat in the hospital library, poring over patient records. I’d been trying to piece together the connection between the unregistered clinic and the hospital’s donors. What I found chilled me.
Over the past three years, dozens of low-income patients had been transferred to Blackstone Wellness Center for “specialized care.” Every one of those patients had died, their deaths ruled as natural causes. But the timing was too clean, the records too vague.
“What are you doing to these people?” I muttered, scrolling through file after file.
Every instinct in me screamed that this wasn’t natural. Something darker was happening at that clinic.
By the time I decided to go back to Blackstone, it was late. I knew it was a risk, but I had to know more.
The clinic was as empty and cold as before, the sterile hallways eerily quiet. I moved quickly, retracing my steps to the records room. I needed more.
But as I opened a drawer, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed behind me.
“Who the hell are you?” a voice barked.
I turned, my heart hammering. Two men in dark suits stood in the doorway, their faces cold and hard.
I froze, clutching the file in my hands.
“What are you doing here?” the taller one demanded, stepping closer.
I opened my mouth to respond, but no words came out.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” the other one growled.
And just like that, I realized I was trapped.