I spent the night in Basia’s room again, but this time just sitting on the floor with my back against the wall, watching her dream. As soon as I dropped her off at Aegis Ironclad for the day and gave Coleman strict instructions to stand in the lobby with eyes peeled, I was at Ethan’s, digging into this supposed cult.
Ethan scrolls, then stops.
The room goes quiet in that way it only ever does when he finds something he wasn’t expecting to find, when his fingers pause mid-motion, shoulders tightening like he’s bracing for something.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “So here’s the thing. The cult was real. No question.”
My jaw tightens. “And?” I prompt.
Ethan leans back in his chair and runs a hand over his face. The glow from the monitors casts hard shadows across his cheekbones, making him look older. More tired.
“And most of the kids?” he continues. “They didn’t become anything like this.”
He starts clicking again, slower now. Deliberate. Pulling threads instead of tearing fabric.
“Some vanished into sealed adoption records. Some went overseas. A couple joined the military under different names—special forces, actually. A few NGO workers. A lot of nothing. Ghosts on paper.”
I absorb that in silence. My mind fills in the gaps: kids raised on fear and ritual, then dropped into the world with nothing but scars and bad coping mechanisms. Most of them still chose to survive.
“That doesn’t mean they’re fine,” I say.
“No,” Ethan agrees immediately. “Just… functional. Or at least not violent in a way that leaves bodies.”
He stops scrolling again and turns one screen toward me.
“But this one,” he says. “This one didn’t adapt.”
The file isn’t flashy. No red flags screaming danger at first glance. Just a name that’s been redacted, dates that don’t line up cleanly, notes written by different hands across years.
Did not integrate.
Exhibited fixation behaviors.
Persistent grievance orientation.
Non-compliant with treatment protocols.
My stomach turns as I read further.
“He stayed… stuck,” Ethan continues. “Couldn’t let go of the framework. The rules. The punishment structure. He internalized it.”
I swallow hard. “Meaning?”
“Meaning the cult didn’t break him,” Ethan says quietly. “It worked on him. At least enough that when it collapsed, he didn’t know how to exist without it.”
I scroll through the psych notes myself now. Each line isworse than the last. Rage redirected inward. Then outward. Authority fixation. Obsessive moral calculus.
A survivor who never learned how to stop being a victim—or how not to become the abuser.
“He’s alone,” Ethan adds. “No network. No contact with the others. Whatever they became later—” He gestures vaguely, meaning the unnamed, unclaimed survivors “—this guy isn’t part of it.”
“No ideology now?” I ask.
Ethan shakes his head. “None that sticks. He tried attaching himself to causes for a while. Religious groups, activist cells. Burned bridges fast. Too extreme. Too… personal.”
My finger traces the screen unconsciously.
“So what’s left?” I murmur.
