“No. If this is what I think it might be, local law enforcement can’t help. Just get your research and get out. Drive normally, don’t run, don’t act suspicious. Just a professor heading home after a late night.”
The call ends. My hands shake as I grab backup drives—three of them, because redundancy in data storage is essential. Pattern recognition algorithms, frequency analyses, and six months of work that apparently decoded something deadly.
I stuff everything into my messenger bag, then think better of it. The go-bag in my filing cabinet—paranoid habit from my DoD days—makes more sense. Change of clothes, cash, basic supplies. I transfer the drives, adding my laptop and printed papers I can’t leave behind.
The building feels different now. Every shadow could hide someone. Every footstep in the hallway makes my heart rate spike—approximately 120 bpm if my carotid pulse is accurate. Fight or flight response, completely normal given the circumstances, but knowing the physiological mechanism doesn’t make it stop.
I lock my office and walk down the hallway like it’s any other night. The Gothic architecture that once felt romantic now feels oppressive. Stone walls, designed to last centuries, couldn’t protect Sarah, David, or Lisa.
Outside, campus life continues normally—students walking between dorms, laughter on the crisp October air. Everything proceeds as if the world hasn’t shifted beneath my feet.
A dark van sits across the street. I noticed it on Tuesday and assumed it was for construction or maintenance. The van hasn’t moved in three days.
“You’re paranoid, Eliza. It’s just a van.” But my voice shakes.
I head off campus, hands steady despite the adrenaline surge. Pedestrian and automobile traffic shows nothing unusual. Justnormal D.C. traffic. The city never sleeps, which works in my favor. Witnesses. Crowds. Safety in numbers.
Except I need to go back.
The realization hits at a red light. The physical drives have data, but the algorithm itself—the key to understanding what I found—is only on my office computer. I encrypted it, password-protected it, but didn’t copy it because it was still running. Still processing. Still finding patterns that shouldn’t exist.
Without that algorithm, the data is just noise. With it, I can prove what these communications are, maybe decode them fully.
“This is stupid,” I tell myself, already turning around. “Horror movie victim levels of stupid. The etymology of ‘stupid’ comes from Latin “stupere,” meaning stunned or amazed, which is exactly what I’ll be when someone kills me for going back. But I need that algorithm.”
Campus is quiet at night. The lights at Healy Hall are mostly off except for security lighting and a few graduate student offices. Normal. Everything looks normal.
My key card beeps softly at the side door. The elevator feels too confined, too vulnerable, so I take the stairs. Three flights, footsteps echoing despite my attempts to be quiet.
The hallway is dark except for emergency lighting. My office door is exactly as I left it—locked, undisturbed. The algorithm is still running on my computer, still finding patterns someone’s willing to kill to keep hidden. I take a seat, entranced, eager to solve this puzzle, and that’s how I lose track of time. Before I know it, it’s way past midnight, and I’m exactly where Morrison told me not to be.
I save everything to a flash drive, then delete it from the system. Scorched earth approach—if they come looking, they’ll find nothing. The drive goes into my bra because it’s the safestplace.
Paranoid? Maybe. But three colleagues thought they were safe too.
A sound in the hallway freezes me. Footsteps. Multiple sets. Moving with purpose, not the wandering gait of students or the hurried pace of a late professor.
They’re here.
My office has one door, three windows, and no other exit. Windows face a three-story drop onto concrete. The door leads to a hallway now containing multiple approaching footsteps.
I grab my go-bag and do the only thing I can think of—hide under my desk like this is an earthquake drill, like ducking and covering will save me from professional killers.
My phone vibrates. Morrison.
“James,” I whisper. “They’re here. In my building. Multiple footsteps.”
“You’re still at work? Jesus, Eliza, get out. Now.”
“I can’t. They’re in the hallway. Third floor, nowhere to?—”
“Someone is on the way.”
“Who?”
“A friend from Cerberus. Hide. Stay quiet. He’ll be there soon.”
“Who? How soon? James?—”
