The message lingered in my mind like a storm cloud. You’ve seen too much. It’s time to come home.
I didn’t know what “home” meant to them, but I was sure of one thing—whoever sent it was playing a game, and I was the pawn. But I wasn’t going to play by their rules.
I sat in the hospital library, hunched over a computer, clicking through archived files. I was searching for anything that connected my father to this place. The memory of his death had always been a foggy blur, a tragedy my mother never wanted to talk about.
Then I found it.
Dr. Malcolm Deneuve. My father’s name stared back at me from an old photo of a research team. He was smiling, standing among a group of serious-looking men and women. Underneath the photo was a caption: The Prometheus Project—Advancing Genetics Through Experimental Research.
“What were you working on?” I muttered, scrolling further.
The next document froze me in my seat. It was a record of my father’s death, marked Unresolved—Cause Unknown.
A lump formed in my throat. I clenched my fists. “They lied. They all lied.”
When I got back to my apartment, Denny was pacing. His face lit up when he saw me, but his expression quickly darkened when he noticed my tense shoulders.
“You’ve been gone too long,” he said, his voice low. “What were you doing?”
“Research,” I said, brushing past him. “About my father.”
“Calla…” He sighed, following me into the living room. “You can’t keep doing this. You’re drawing too much attention. We need to leave the city. Now.”
I spun to face him, my frustration boiling over. “I’m not leaving, Denny. Not until I figure out what’s going on.”
“You don’t get it,” he snapped. “These people will kill you if you get too close. They don’t care who you are or what you want.”
“I know that!” I shot back. “But I can’t walk away. My father worked for this hospital. He died because of them. And now they’re coming after me. Don’t you think I deserve to know why?”
Denny’s jaw tightened, his hands clenching at his sides. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”
“Then let me,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “Because I’m not running. Not anymore.”
The fight drained out of him. He dropped onto the couch, running a hand through his hair. “You’re so damn stubborn,” he muttered.
“Yeah,” I said softly, sitting down across from him. “And you’re still here.”
He looked up, his eyes heavy with something I couldn’t name. “I shouldn’t be. But I can’t leave you like this.”
The hospital was quiet that night, the halls dim and empty. I was on my way to check a patient’s chart when it happened.
I passed by the surgical wing, and as soon as I saw Dr. Sinclair through the window, the vision hit me.
It was vivid, sharp, and overwhelming.
He was lying unconscious in a burning building, smoke curling around him. Flames licked at the walls, and I could hear the crackle of fire. He wasn’t moving.
“Calla?”
His voice snapped me out of it. He was standing in front of me now, his blue eyes narrowing in concern.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” I said quickly, stepping back.
“You don’t look fine,” he said, his tone sharp. “You’ve been out of it for days. Distracted. Unfocused. What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” I said, avoiding his gaze. “Just tired.”
“Tired doesn’t explain why you’re zoning out every five minutes,” he pressed. “If something’s wrong, you need to tell me.”
I shook my head. “I’m fine.”
He studied me for a long moment, and I could feel the weight of his scrutiny. Finally, he sighed.
“Don’t push yourself too far, Deneuve,” he said. “You’re not invincible.”
His words lingered as he walked away.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the vision. Sinclair, unconscious in the fire. What did it mean? Was it a warning? Or was it inevitable?
I sat in the ER, staring blankly at the patient files in front of me, when a nurse called my name.
“Dr. Deneuve, Room 4,” she said. “It’s the kid with the broken wrist.”
I nodded and headed into the room.
The boy couldn’t have been older than ten. His wrist was wrapped in a temporary cast, and he smiled shyly when I walked in.
“Hey there,” I said, crouching beside him. “How’s the wrist?”
“It hurts a little,” he said, his voice small.
“Let’s take a look,” I said, gently unwrapping the cast.
Our eyes met for just a second, but it was enough.
The vision hit me like a freight train.
It was me. Lying on a cold, hard floor. My chest wasn’t moving. My eyes were open, staring at nothing. Blood was pooling around me.
I jerked back, my hands trembling.
“Are you okay, Doctor?” the boy asked, his wide eyes full of concern.
“Yeah,” I lied, forcing a smile. “I’m fine.”
But I wasn’t fine.
Because for the first time, the vision wasn’t about someone else.
It was me.